Conscience on Stage: The Comedia as Casuistry in Early Modern Spain 9781442684218

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C ON S C IE N C E O N STA G E TH E C OM E D I A A S CA SU IS TR Y IN EARL Y M ODER N S PAIN

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HILAIRE KALLENDORF

Conscience on Stage The Comedia as Casuistry in Early Modern Spain

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

www.utppublishing.com © University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2007 Toronto Buffalo London Printed in Canada ISBN 978-0-8020-9229-8

Printed on acid-free paper

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Kallendorf, Hilaire Conscience on stage : the Comedia as casuistry in early modern Spain / Hilaire Kallendorf. (University of Toronto romance series) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8020-9229-8 1. Spanish drama (Comedy) – History and criticism. 2. Spanish drama – Classical period, 1500–1700 – History and criticism. 3. Casuistry in literature. 4. Casuistry – Spain. 5. Conscience in literature. 6. Confession in literature. 7. Confession – Catholic Church – History – 17th century. I. Title. II. Series. PQ6108.K34 2007

862c.05230903

C2006-906483-0

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

For my son, Trevor, with a prayer that he make wise moral choices as he grows up

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Contents

Acknowledgments

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Introduction: The Rise of Casuistry in Spain, the Flowering of Jesuit School Drama, and the Jesuit Education of Spanish Playwrights 3 Renaissance European Casuistry and Its Manifestations in Spain 5 Jesuit School Drama 11 Mainstream Dramatists Educated by Jesuits 22 Casuistry in Action on the Jesuit School Stage 27 1 The Vocabulary of Casuistry 38 Casos and Case Morality 42 Hypothetical Scenarios 51 ‘To Flee the Occasion of Sin’ 52 Competing Obligations 57 2 ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 64 Questions of Strategy 66 Moral Dilemmas and Conflicting Duties 70 Hierarchies of Virtue and Vice 81 Comedias and Confessional Manuals 85 The Double Bind 92 The Casuistical Dramatic Monologue and Tragedy

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3 Asking for Advice: Class, Gender, and the Supernatural Rulers and Subjects, Masters and Servants 113 Wave Imagery, Blindness, and Labyrinths 118

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Soliloquies and Supernatural Entities 123 The Gendering of Casuistry 127 Are Men or Women More Casuistical? 128 4 Constructions of Conscience 143 The Conscience, in Action and Acted Upon 147 Descriptions of Clear and Troubled Consciences 159 Conscience’s Auxiliaries 167 Synonyms and Antonyms for Conscience 172 ‘Symptoms’ or Physical Manifestations of Conscience 174 5 Casuistry and Theory 180 Genealogies of Conscience 180 The Relationship of Theatre to Casuistry 181 The Jesuit Contribution to Spanish Literary Theory and Practice 183 Poetics of the Comedia in Early Modern Spain 186 Comedia or Quaestio? 191 Dilatio, Deferral, and Différance 192 ‘The Soul of Spain’ 198 Appendix

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Notes 207 Bibliography Index 275

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Acknowledgments

This project was funded by an American Council of Learned Societies / Andrew W. Mellon Fellowship for Junior Faculty. It was also supported by various sources at Texas A&M University: the Program to Enhance Scholarly and Creative Activities and the International Research Travel Assistance Grant (Office of the Vice President for Research), the College of Liberal Arts, the (former) Department of Modern & Classical Languages, the Department of Hispanic Studies, and the Glasscock Center for Humanities Research. I am grateful for this support. I am also thankful for the generous assistance of librarians at the Hispanic Society of America, the Biblioteca Nacional (Madrid), the Biblioteca Nacional (Lisbon), and the Real Academia de la Historia (Madrid). Without their help, this book would not have been possible. Finally, certain passages from several chapters (but primarily chapter 2) were published previously in my essay ‘“¿Qué he de hacer?”: The Comedia as Casuistry’ in Romanic Review 95.3 (2004): 327–60. The article, in essence, serves as a prospectus for this book. My greatest intellectual debt connected to this project is owed to Victoria Kahn. Many years ago her graduate course ‘Conscience and Casuistry in Early Modern England’ at Princeton University first stimulated my interest in the subject. I also want to thank Meg Greer, Fred de Armas, and Ed Friedman for their expert suggestions and encouragement of this project. A very special thanks to Lauren Baird Henry, my research assistant, who generated my statistics through computer database searches. Thanks also to my colleague Brian Imhoff, who first introduced me to the wonders of the Corpus del Español database project. My sister Sarah spent this year with us and watched me write this book. Thank you, Sarah, for your inspiration and moral support. Finally,

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thanks to my husband Craig, who heard much more than he wanted to about casuistical dilemmas and sometimes chose to debate them with me. Craig, thank you for being my moral anchor through twelve years of marriage.

C ON S C IE N C E O N STA G E T H E C OM E D I A A S CA SU IS TR Y IN EARL Y M ODER N S PAIN

‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you – all the rest is commentary. Now go and study the commentary.’ – Rabbi Hillel

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Introduction: The Rise of Casuistry in Spain, the Flowering of Jesuit School Drama, and the Jesuit Education of Spanish Playwrights

The early modern Spanish comedia as a genre has proven notoriously difficult to explain fully. Since Lope de Vega first published his Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo in the early seventeenth century, scholars and critics have been trying to generate a more or less complete history and poetics of the genre.1 Scholars writing within such diverse critical frameworks as New Criticism, psychoanalysis, feminism, Marxism, and New Historicism have all attempted to answer certain fundamental questions: What was the artistic process by means of which the comedias were generated, especially in such astonishing numbers? With playwrights such as Lope de Vega producing literally hundreds of these dramas within a relatively short time, were there certain loci of tension within lived experience to which they returned continuously for inspiration? Did the playwrights themselves see their genre as essentially comic, or was comedia simply synonymous with ‘drama,’ as the numerous tragicomedias would seem to indicate? What are we to make of the riotous subplots that tend to crowd out the ‘main’ line of action? The comedia has been seen by some as merely the didactic arm of the hegemonic state that controlled its authors like puppets or pawns. It has also been seen as an inherently popular form, written for the vulgo in the corrales (open-air theatres) and defined in opposition to more erudite and lavish courtly masques and entertainments. It has been understood to be fundamentally ‘about’ honour, certainly a key concept in early modern Spanish society, but hardly all-encompassing enough to cover every comedia.2 As I shall attempt to show in this book, explanations like these fail to account fully for the genesis and development of the early modern comedia. A more complex mechanism is at work here, and it is one that is only just now beginning to be described.

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This book, coming from an area that has not been explored much by Hispanists, is intended as a contribution to that endeavour. There have been successful attempts by scholars in other fields – for example, early modern English literature – to relate casuistry to other genres such as the novel, and it is upon these studies that I would like to build.3 In this book I will argue that casuistry, or the spectacle of a conscience in action, is a fundamental process by means of which the comedia as a genre completes its artistic and social function. As far as I am aware, no one has studied the comedia as an entire genre in relation to the whole field of casuistry, except in the narrow realm of honour, and that reaching very different conclusions.4 Américo Castro assumes that in matters of honour, Spanish dramatists unproblematically reflected the views of the casuists – a conclusion I find to be dubious.5 Miguel Álvarez wrote a dissertation on probabilism (a subfield of casuistry) and early modern drama, ‘El probabilismo y el teatro español del siglo XVII,’ which – to my knowledge – remains unpublished.6 He discusses only a handful of plays in a single relevant chapter,7 fleshing out the rest of the work with a specific study of equivocation as well as an abundance of background material on religious theatre of the time period. The only two studies of specific comedias and casuistry were both done by studying exclusively the works of Calderón de la Barca.8 These two studies are useful, although Robert Pring-Mill sees the audience as impartial arbiters of casuistical dilemmas instead of vicarious participants in the same9 (a position with which I find myself obliged to disagree). He also sees the author’s function as fundamentally didactic instead of potentially subversive, viewing – as he does – each comedia as an ‘extreme’ exemplum designed to illustrate a specific moral lesson.10 In this respect my argument concurs more with that of Everett Hesse, who sees Calderón as ‘splitting the difference’ whenever possible to arrive at a solution to a moral dilemma that will please one character without offending another.11 In the nineteenth century Patricio de Escosura wrote an interesting long article comparing three of Calderón’s wife-murder plays to historical events recounted in letters between Jesuit priests, but he made no effort to relate these case histories to casuistry as such.12 Useful as Pring-Mill’s, Hesse’s, and Escosura’s studies are, they address only selected works by a single dramatist. Such is largely the case also with the magesterial two-volume study by Antonio Regalado, Calderón: Los orígenes de la modernidad en la España del Siglo de Oro,13 although he does make certain statements that might be taken to

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encompass other dramatists as well. For example, he says ‘el teatro barroco ... hace del “caso” una creación dramática original ... El caso de conciencia no estaba confinado al confesionario y al tratado de teología moral; reaparecía transformado en el tablado ante los mismos que se beneficiaban del sacramento de la penitencia’ (the baroque theatre ... makes of the ‘case’ an original dramatic creation ... The case of conscience was not confined to the confessional and the treatise of moral theology; it reappeared transformed on the stage before the same people who benefited from the sacrament of penance).14 Regalado does not, however, study any other authors besides Calderón. Scholars such as Alexander Parker have laid a foundation for my more general study of case morality on the Spanish stage by emphasizing ‘how important it is in the Spanish drama to take into account all the circumstances in which a particular act is performed.’15 More concretely, Henry Sullivan outlined three main areas of relevance for probabilism to the comedia : We may discern the presence of probabilism in the comedia in two main ways: in the mere choice of bizarre and unusual situations that give rise to problematic and doubtful cases of conscience (often referred to as casos or ejemplos), and secondly in the casuistical phrasing of certain passages, frequently when a character attempts to analyze his options in a soliloquy. These problematic situations obviously lent themselves to gripping and suspenseful treatment as drama and arguably reached their height in the hairsplitting and intangible subtleties of Calderón’s treatments, especially those cases which appear to justify uxoricide. A third connection is the appearance of the king at the end of so many plays as an absolving authority in dubious instances of moral transgression.16

Unfortunately, Sullivan did not go on to pursue this fruitful line of inquiry at greater length, but he did leave to future scholars a thoughtful and inspiring plan for further study. Renaissance European Casuistry and Its Manifestations in Spain Casuistry in the sense it is meant here may be defined as case morality17 or ‘self-conscious reasoning in the realm of morality.’18 The term ‘casuistry’ can refer both to moral reasoning contained in guide books and to the use of such books by a priest in the confessional: ‘in the history of the Church ... “casuistry” has been applied not only to the process of

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guiding conscience ... but to the confessional process by which penitents have been assessed penalties through the performance of which they could earn their pardon.’19 Edward Long sees casuistry as inescapable and says it is like liturgy: even those who reject it will create their own substitute.20 He also notes, citing John McNeill, that every parent who has ever explained the rightness or wrongness of an action to a child is, by definition, a casuist.21 Richard B. Miller identifies five components of the casuistical reasoning process: First, casuists attempt to classify the event in question, drawing upon paradigms and taxonomies ... Second, casuists identify which presumptions are relevant to the event ... Third, casuists comment on the case’s circumstances and how these might affect our overall judgment of the event in question. Fourth, casuists often reflect upon the opinions of prior authorities ... Fifth, bringing together the materials from the first four components, casuists render a verdict.22

Not all versions of casuistry followed such a rigid formula, by any means. As Camille Wells Slights explains, in the early modern period, ‘casuistry was not a particular doctrinal or political position but a particular way of looking at human experience, a way involving both the recognition of the problematical nature of human action and the attempt to discover rational solutions to moral problems.’23 This description makes it sound more like a habit of thinking, a general outlook, or even a world view. As such, its universal elements may be seen to outweigh the differences among its unique Protestant, Catholic, Anglican, or Calvinistic permutations. Seen thus in broader terms, casuistry is the practical art of applying general moral principles to concrete specific circumstances, or navigating ‘between the ultimate and proximate levels of ethical decision.’24 After all, in the words used by professional philosophers, ‘moral principles hold ceteris paribus, which is to say that they hold unless (for some good reason) they do not hold.’25 Miller sees the potential conflicts within casuistry as taking three specific forms: ‘between rival moral principles or goods; between principles and pragmatic or utilitarian concerns ... and between relative evils.’26 So we see that even when moral principles ‘hold,’ they may nonetheless be in conflict with other values. Casuistry steps in to fill the void thereby created. As such, casuistry has a long and illustrious (not to mention infamous) history. Casuistry was

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‘notorious for its complicated heuristics in the realm of moral theology, for its hair-splitting interpretations of the circumstantial evidence of a case, and for its vision of the world, and of the human mind, as a labyrinthine text.’27 In this sense, it may be seen as particularly prominent at certain historical moments such as the Reformation, when the Anglican and subsequently Protestant traditions arose to challenge widespread abuses of the Catholic Church, particularly among the clergy – among them, the excesses of casuistry. But casuistry did not originate during the Reformation or the Counter-Reformation, any more than with the medieval scholastic tradition which, arguably, reinforced its alreadyencyclopedic tendencies. The roots of casuistry may be said to extend at least as far back as Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics and Cicero’s De officiis. The art of casuistry also hearkens back to the flowering of classical rhetoric.28 It received valuable contributions from the fields of Roman jurisprudence and rabbinical disputation.29 The Christian tradition of casuistry began at least as early as the Celtic Penitential Books of the sixth century.30 The Fourth Lateran Council of 1215 published a decree on annual confession that demanded that priests inquire about the specific circumstances of their parishioners’ sins.31 The Dominican order became active in casuistry as an extension of its didactic ministry, and the Franciscans followed suit during the thirteenth century. But the Jesuits were the ones who brought casuistry to both its zenith and its nadir of international esteem. It should be noted here that the Jesuits were, in their beginnings, a predominantly Spanish order. Five of the seven original companions who took the famous vow at Montmartre in August 1534 were Spaniards. When the order was formally established by a bull of foundation signed by Pope Paul III in 1540, five of the ten official founders were Spaniards. Seven out of eight of the first group of men to join the new order were also Spanish. And all three of the first generals of the Society of Jesus were undoubtedly from Spain: Ignacio Loyola, Diego Laínez, and Francisco de Borja.32 Of the twenty-five delegates to the first General Congregation in 1558, only seven were not Spanish, and the chairs at the Collegio Romano were filled almost exclusively by Spaniards. Furthermore, the authors of the Ratio studiorum – the reason and rule of study for all of the Jesuit colleges – were almost uniformly Spanish: Diego de Ledesma, Jerónimo de Torres, Francisco de Toledo, José de Acosta, Juan de Mariana, and Juan Maldonado (incidentally, several of these were also famous casuists).33

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The Society of Jesus was a Spanish movement from its inception, and it was also a casuistical one. Saint Ignatius in his Ejercicios espirituales (Spiritual Exercises) had recommended extensive examinations of conscience.34 But this primarily inward-looking form of devotion soon turned outward both in focus and in practice. Private meditation was adapted specifically to theatrical purposes by the Jesuits in an artistic form known as the meditatio scenica.35 As John O’Malley recounts in The First Jesuits, as early as 1555 the Society of Jesus sponsored lectures on casus conscientiae to mixed audiences of clergy and laity.36 Sometimes these lectures were confined to the schools, but other times they were held in churches or cathedrals. To give us some idea of the topics which might have been covered in these lectures, Nigel Griffin lists frequent areas of concern and debate culled from Jesuit archives and letters written within the first thirty years after the order was established: One finds, to give but a few examples, enquiries about what to do with members of the order who are suspected of having venereal disease; discussion of whether it was proper for younger recruits to sleep two to a bed when building operations restricted sleeping quarters, and of what to do with a young man who was found to be a eunuch and who seemed not to understand his singularity while being in other respects ‘of comely appearance and good parts’; and enquiries about whether the canonical impediment against the entry of murderers into the order ought to be interpreted as applicable to a man who settled an affair of honour by killing his wife, or to an Italian who had fought as a mercenary in the Wars of Religion and had, a year earlier, fatally stabbed a member of a family engaged in a vendetta against his own, or, finally, to ex-magistrates who had, in the course of their professional duties, sentenced to death many of the criminals who appeared before them.37

We can only imagine what other sorts of salacious topics must have arisen. By 1556 the rector of the Collegio Romano was prescribing daily lectures on cases of conscience.38 In 1557 a Spaniard, Jerónimo Nadal, prescribed lectures on casuistry at the Collegio Romano even on days when other lectures were not being held.39 In 1563 a course on casuistry was being offered there that was open to all students; it drew 200 people. Only one year later the course had to be moved to a larger location because there were 800 people interested in taking it.40 It was primarily through the Jesuits, of course, that casuistry entered

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Spain. The Spaniard Diego de Ledesma was appointed professor of cases of conscience at the Collegio Romano in 1556.41 One of his successors was his countryman, Juan Azor (1535–1603), who had first taught moral theology at the University of Alcalá. Azor’s Institutionum moralium, purporting to treat ‘all questions of conscience,’ is an enormous folio collection of 3,800 pages. Martín de Azpilcueta, also called Navarrus (1491–1586), taught canon law at Toulouse, Cahors, and Salamanca before receiving a chair at the university in Valladolid. His collected works in five volumes, which included his Enchiridion sive manuale confessariorum et poenitentium (1573), appeared in three editions of 1590, 1601,42 and 1602. His legacy is still evident in Valladolid in 1637, when we find the Jesuit Father Valentín de Céspedes reading philosophy and ‘casos’ in the Colegio de San Ignacio.43 Another famous Spanish casuist, Francisco Suárez (1548–1617), published Disputationes metaphysicae in 1597, and it was reprinted sixteen times in the next forty years.44 Likewise, still another Spaniard, Antonio Escobar y Mendoza (1589–1669), author of Liber theologiae moralis (1644), attained unfortunate notoriety after being satirized by none other than Blaise Pascal.45 Vernacular confessors’ manuals were published almost as often as the weightier Latin tomes. For example, Felipe de la Cruz published Norte de confessores y penitentes in 1629. Some Spaniards published treatises on specific aspects of case morality, such as Diego del Castillo’s Tratado que se llama Doctrinal de confessores en casos de restitución (1552), or Benito Remigio Noydens’ Decisiones prácticas y morales para curas, confesores y capellanes de los ejércitos y armadas. We should also include compilations of specific cases, such as Antonio de Córdoba’s Tratado de casos de consciencia (1573), which contains 136 hypothetical situations focused on moral dilemmas. There were also anonymous manuals of confession and casuistry published in Spain, such as the Arte para bien confesar (ca. 1500). Sometimes confessionarios were tacked on at the back of other volumes of devotional books, such as Luis de Escobar’s Fasciculus myrrhe (1553), to the end of which was added a confessor’s manual by Cherubino de Firenze.46 Often Spanish-language confessional manuals were printed outside of Spain, as was García López de Alvarado’s Breve compendio de confessión, published in Venice in 1552. And frequently priests who were known for their work in other fields, such as the exorcist / polymath Benito Remigio Noydens (mentioned above in connection to his guide for military chaplains), would nevertheless publish a confessors’ manual from their experience in the confessional: his Práctica de cvras, y confessores, y doctrina para penitentes was published in 1653.

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The texts of casuistry in Spain thus included both confessors’ manuals and casuistical tomes intended for lay devotion. The scholastic influence on casuistry affected its organization:47 many of these books were arranged alphabetically according to topics, foremost among these being the various sins. The sins were often listed in order, perhaps starting with the Ten Commandments, moving on to the Seven Deadly Sins, and then sometimes proceeding to sins committed by various parts of the body.48 Occasionally they were listed as the opposites of positive categories, such as the fourteen Works of Mercy, the four Cardinal Virtues, etc. The sins were defined and then explicated, according to various circumstances that might render the actions more or less sinful or, in extreme cases, not sinful at all. A typical set of questions for the confessor to ask regarding the circumstances of a sin is listed by García López de Alvarado in his Breve compendio de confessión (1552): Las circunstancias son, qual, quando, por que, en que lugar, enque tiempo, con que instrumentos, quantas vezes pocas mas, ò menos, por qual, se entie[n]de la qualidad dela persona por quie[n], o contra quien peccamos, y en que por quanto, la cantidad del peccado, o daño que se haze, si fuere poco, ò mucho, notable, ò no notable ... (The circumstances are, which, when, why, in what place, in what time, with what instruments, how many times [a little more, or less], by which, is understood the quality of the person by whom, or against whom we sin, and in that by how much, the quantity of the sin, or damage which is done, whether it be little, or much, notable, or not notable ...)49

A similar set of circumstances is listed in chapter 4 of the anonymous Arte para bien confesar (ca. 1500). The original Latin terms used by the casuists to discuss the circumstances of sin were qui (who), quid (what), ubi (where), per que (why), quoties (how much), and quomodo (how).50 As Albert Jonsen and Stephen Toulmin note, these lists of questions regarding circumstance – literally, ‘what is standing around’ – ultimately derive from Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics.51 They then trace the discussion of circumstances from Artistotle through Cicero to an unknown medieval rhetorician, who composed these familiar elements into hexameter verse to be used as a mnemonic device by students.52 But we should always remember that in casuistry, ‘normative categories themselves are not so much discovered as produced and defined, according

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to what the casuists habitually described as the circumstances of time, place, and person.’53 Over time the lectures on casuistry came to reflect the organization of these manuals. A formal lecture on a specific sin would often be followed by a general discussion in which each participant had the opportunity to present a different resolution of the case.54 Soon a question period followed the lectures, with the result being that many different extenuating circumstances could be introduced. Thus even the manifestations of casuistry which were technically non-theatrical were nonetheless clearly dialogic in nature. An intermediate step between these lectures and theatrical productions incorporating casuistry was the so-called paratheatrical school exercise. There were several types of these exercises in common use, including declamationes, disputationes, and dialogi. All of these scholastic speeches and debates could contain some casuistical elements,55 as for example in a declamation delivered for the feast of Santa Catalina in Córdoba in 1555, the theme of which was King David’s choice among the three options of plague, hunger, or flight from his enemies.56 A similar instance is a performance in Murcia in 1557 of a debate over which thing was strongest: wine, the king, woman, or truth.57 Any situation involving choice among various options could invoke the principles of casuistry to prioritize levels of virtue and vice as they appeared relative to one another. But I shall argue that case morality came to its fullest flowering in the context of the theatre. Jesuit School Drama Just as casuistry formed part of the Jesuit school curriculum, so did theatre. In fact, theatrical productions are discussed immediately after cases of conscience in a 1577 version of the Ratio studiorum: 56. Qui propter aetatem provectiorem aut alias causas in facultatibus et Scholasticis studiis progressum facere non possunt, curabit, ne in illis tempus insumant, sed casibus conscientiae discendis dent operam; sintque semper aliqui ex Nostris, qui huic studio diligenter incumbant, ut Societas copiam habere possit operariorum, qui Confessionibus audiendis sint idonei. 57. In singulis Domibus et Collegiis aliquem constituat, qui in casibus conscientiae bene versatus sit, ut difficultatibus domi et foris occurentibus satisfacere possit.

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Conscience on Stage 58. Comoedias et Tragoedias rarissime agi permittat, et non nisi Latinas ac decentes, et prius aut ipse eas examinet, aut aliis examinandas committat; eas vero atque alias id genus actiones in Ecclesia fieri omnino prohibeat. (56. Let those who, on account of advanced age or for other reasons, are not able to make progress in their duly authorized ministerial functions or school exercises, not devote time to them, but expend their effort in learning about cases of conscience; and there should always be some of us who apply ourselves diligently to this effort, so that the Society might have an abundance of workers who are suitable for hearing confessions. 57. In every house and college let someone be appointed who is well versed in cases of conscience, so that he might be able to deal satisfactorily with the problems occurring within the house and in the appropriate places of authority. 58. Tragedies and comedies should be approved for performance but seldom, and not unless they are in Latin and morally upright; before [they are performed] they should be examined or entrusted to others for examination; these and other performances of this kind should be completely prohibited in church.)58

A specific section of the Jesuit De linguarum studio, ratione et ordine dealing with drama bears the title ‘De dialogis, comoediis seu tragoediis exhibendis’ (The Presentation of Dialogues, Comedies or Tragedies).59 Developing in parallel to these theoretical formulations, starting in the 1550s, plays (often including music and dance) became a staple of the Jesuit school system.60 These plays began with stories from the Bible but soon encompassed many forms of dramatic expression, subject matter, and genre, including comedy. In Bologna, the Jesuits became so synonymous with comic theatrical productions that children in the streets would point to them and shout, ‘Ecco li preti delle comedie!’ (Here come the comedy priests!).61 By the 1560s the language of the plays was beginning to shift from Latin to the vernacular, with some plays being recited entirely in the vernacular languages. These vernacular Jesuit dramas form a lynchpin of the case for finding a new basis of an alternative poetics for the comedia in the techniques of casuistry.62 There is ample architectural, historical, and literary evidence for specific theatrical productions at the Collegio Romano in Rome.63 Although it was not the first Jesuit college (the first was established in Messina, where a tragedy – now lost – was performed in 1551), the Collegio Romano soon became the flagship school and a model for all the

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others. The first reference to a drama performed at the Collegio Romano dates from 1568.64 It should be noted, however, that there are several documented productions known to have taken place at Jesuit colegios in Spain well before this date: Father Pedro Pablo de Acevedo’s dramas were being performed during the 1550s, at about the same time as some of the earliest popular dramas by Lope de Rueda. Saint Ignatius Loyola himself had been instrumental in setting up these Jesuit colegios in Spain. Specifically, he worked on establishing a colegio in Salamanca, which was thriving by the year 1551.65 Other famous Jesuits were personally involved with the foundation of colegios in Spain: Saint Francis of Borgia established the Colegio de Gandía, and the casuist Antonio de Córdoba laid the cornerstone in 1553 for the colegio in Medina del Campo. One of the first students to attend this school was a very young Saint John of the Cross.66 The following is a list of the colegios established in Spain by the year 1585 (organized by province), as reported in the Jesuit Litterae annuae which were sent back to Rome: – Provincia de Castilla: Valladolid, Ávila, Compostela, Burgos, Salamanca, Medina, Segovia, Palencia, Logroño, Monterrey, Oñate, León, Soria, Oviedo, Villagarcía, Pamplona – Provincia de Andalucía: Sevilla, Córdoba, Granada, Montilla, Baeza, Málaga, Marchena, Trigueros, Cádiz, Jerez – Provincia de Aragón: Valencia, Zaragoza, Barcelona, Gandía, Mallorca, Gerona, Calatayud – Provincia de Toledo: Alcalá, Toledo, Plasencia, Huete, Segura, Cuenca, Caravaca, Belmonte, Navalcarnero, Ocaña, Talavera, Oropesa.67 There were thirty-three extant colegios by 1570, a number that more than doubled to seventy-two by 1616. In addition to the sheer number of colegios established, this list is even more impressive considering the number of students in attendance. By 1563 the Colegio de Sevilla had enrolled 500 students.68 By the end of the sixteenth century this same Colegio de San Hermenegildo was educating over 1000 young men.69 Other Jesuit colegios flourished on a similar scale: by 1579 there were 700 students at the Colegio de Valladolid.70 At one point, the Colegio de Madrid counted 700 students as well.71 Around the year 1700 it is estimated that the Jesuits in Spain were educating somewhere between 15,000 and 25,000 students – an astounding figure, considering that the total population of Spain at this time did not reach 8 million.72

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The Spanish Jesuit school dramas continued in all the colleges until Spain expelled the Jesuits in 1767. Spanish Jesuits were especially active in the theatre. The earliest known Jesuit dramatist in Spain was Pedro Pablo de Acevedo, who wrote in Seville, beginning ca. 1551. He wrote so many plays that at least twenty-five of them still survive. His protégé Francisco Ximénez was likewise a confessor, preacher, and dramatist. Juan de Pineda, another Sevillian, served successively in the positions of Consultor, Prepósito, Rector, and Operario of the Colegio de San Hermenegildo beginning around the year 1599. He was also a confessor, preacher, and dramatist, following in the footsteps of his illustrious precursors. He co-authored several plays with a priest named Andrés Rodríguez, who was a preacher, confessor, and teacher of the humanities in the Jesuit colegios of both Granada and Seville. Juan Bonifacio is another important figure, commonly assumed to be the author of many extant plays from the colegios in Salamanca, Medina, Ávila, and Villagarcía. Other recognized Hispanic Jesuit dramatists include José de Acosta, Bartolomé Bravo, Diego Calleja, Juan de Cigorondo, Luis de la Cruz, Antonio Escobar y Mendoza, Miguel Enríquez, Pedro Fomperosa y Quintana, Salvador de León, Cristóforo Mansilla, Baltasar Menéndez, Pedro de Morales, Juan Pérez Ramírez, Alonso Román, Pedro de Salas, Luis de Valdivia, Pedro Victoria, Tomás de Villacastín, Hernando de Ávila, Pedro de Salas, Guillermo Barçalo, and Valentín de Céspedes.73 The largest known repository of Jesuit school dramas in Spain is in the Real Academia de la Historia (Royal Academy of History) in Madrid.74 Spain is fortunate to have such a fine collection of full-length plays preserved in this magnificent manuscript collection. Jesuit dramas were almost never printed, as they were considered to be ‘merely’ pedagogical tools, and printing them would be an unnecessary vanity. The most common traces surviving of many Jesuit school performances are the so-called periochae, or plot summaries, distributed in printed programs to the audience and often accompanied by a list of the actors. The plays survive in manuscript form in a series of Jesuit documents known as the Cortes Collection. This collection contains over a hundred works, most of them performed in Jesuit colegios throughout Spain in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The scholar who first brought these plays to the attention of the academic community was Justo García Soriano; his book El teatro universitario y humanístico en España remains a classic in the field.75 Recent work by Cayo González Gutiérrez, Jesús Menéndez Peláez, Melchor Bajén Español, Agustín de la Granja, V.

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Picón, and Julio Alonso Asenjo,76 however, has helped to raise awareness of these important sources of information about early modern school drama. I hope this is a scholarly trend that will continue. Most of the school dramas were written in some combination of Latin and Spanish, prose and verse. Some might be written in Latin prose, but with Spanish summaries of the acts, in addition to Spanish songs to be performed by the chorus at the end of each act. Often the precise mixture of Latin and Spanish, or even other languages such as Italian, was determined by dramatic verisimilitude: for example, a character playing an ambassador from Rome might speak Latin, while Italian soldiers would speak Tuscan dialect. A theological debate between two bishops would be performed in Latin, but an imagined conversation between Spanish women would be enacted in Spanish. Usually a figure called the interpres would mediate between the two languages (or among several), perhaps adjusting his commentary to the audience’s level of understanding. In Juan Bonifacio’s Comedia Margarita, the comic character Valencia makes a joke in the prologue that the play is a ‘salad’ of languages with all different idioms mixed together: ‘y porque segun me an dicho ay en la tragedia latin, romançe, copla, uerso y quanto mandardes he de hazer una ensalada de todo’ (and because, according to what they have told me, there is in the tragedy Latin, vernacular, couplet, verse and however much you could command, I have to make a salad of all of it).77 The interpres actually says at the end of the prologue: ‘ua compasado latín y romance, de suerte que ni dexe de ser ex[ercici]o de letras ni sea penoso para el que no fuere latino’ (Latin and vernacular go in step together, such that it does not cease to be an exercise of letters, nor is it burdensome for him who does not know Latin). As we might expect, the earlier school dramas seem more artificial and Latinate, while the later examples seem much closer to the popular ‘secular’ comedias. Occasionally the plays were written by the students themselves, but more often they were composed by teachers of grammar and rhetoric. Sometimes the plays were written simply for the instruction of the pupils, while at other times elaborate productions were staged for the visit of a monarch. For example, this type of ceremony took place on Sunday, 27 January 1585 in the Colegio de Alcalá, on the occasion of King Philip II’s passage there on his way to Monzón.78 Occasionally one finds the phrase ‘nec recitata,’ meaning that the play was never performed, usually because the king cancelled a previously scheduled visit.79 At still other times the plays were composed for student participation in literary jousts or contests; typically, the word used for this type of

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event (in both Latin and Spanish) was certamen. The works composed for competition in these matches might be full-fledged plays or merely amplified debates. Often they took the form of concertaciones, in which the students of each class would be divided into two teams, to be labelled either pragmatically (‘factio dextra’ versus ‘factio sinistra’) or creatively (‘romanos’ versus ‘cartagineses’). Each team was further divided into ranks of emperors, princes, consuls, etc. according to the students’ individual performances. The professors kept ‘score’ by using a system of a certain number of points subtracted for each error. Members of the winning team were awarded prizes such as fabric, mirrors, clothing, writing tools, books with special prize bindings, or even a silver toothpick.80 The goal of all this partisan zeal was of course to stimulate and inspire the students to further study. These types of contests continued when the students reached university, as we know from the 1538 statutes in the archive of the University of Salamanca. These statutes indicate that the students were expected to make public declamations and to present a tragicomedia or a classical comedy by Plautus or Terence on Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, Corpus Christi, and other feast days. The professors of grammar and rhetoric at the university were the ones responsible for composing and/or directing these productions.81 These professors were paid for their labours as well as reimbursed for expenses such as costumes and scenery.82 Even famous humanists such as El Brocense participated in writing tragedies for campus productions, which were often made accessible to the public as well.83 The similarities between their missions and their pedagogical methods meant that eventually the universities came to see the Jesuit colegios as their great rivals.84 But perhaps this animosity stoked the flame of dramatic production by keeping the competition between colegios and universities even more intense. Often these jousts, contests, and play performances were freely available to the public, as the Jesuit schools threw their doors open for a day and entertained ‘toda la villa’ for the purpose of recruiting more students, pleasing parents and benefactors, and building goodwill within the community. Lucette Elyane Roux emphasizes this public aspect of the Jesuit drama, noting that it was ‘ouvert aux classes sociales les plus diverses. Le monde du collège est sans cesse en communication avec la vie publique de la cité’ (open to the most diverse social classes. The world of the college is in ceaseless communication with the public life of the city).85 Alternatively, sometimes the more popular plays were repeated multiple times for different audiences.86 The plays were also

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sometimes performed in different places: while some colleges constructed their own full-fledged theatres, others relied upon settings as diverse as patios, church façades, public squares, or even cemeteries.87 It is a shame that, as William McCabe laments, knowledge of this vibrant dramatic tradition has largely been lost: ‘The English-speaking world is almost completely unaware that during two centuries and more (1550– 1773), in hundreds of European towns, the Jesuit academic theatre produced thousands of plays before eager audiences drawn from the population surrounding the Jesuit colleges.’88 But it is not too late to rediscover this tradition. García Soriano divides the dramatic productions of a single Jesuit playwright alone (Acevedo) into seven distinct genres, giving examples of each: 1. ‘Theological’: Metanea (1556), Lucifer furens (1563), Occasio (1564) 2. ‘Moral’: Philautus (1565), Charopus (1565), Athanasia (1566), Bellum virtutum et vitiorum 3. Autos sacramentales (composed for the Feast of Corpus Christi) 4. Works composed for other religious festivals 5. Adventus (presumably Advent or Nativity pageants) 6. Discourses or dialogues for the opening of a new colegio or the beginning of a new semester 7. Certámenes y concertaciones: plays composed for participation in jousts or contests.89 For other authors, García Soriano lists additional genres such as teatro pedagógico, the purpose of which is to resolve problems of methodology in academic instruction, and teatro concionatorio, which expounds an ascetic thesis. Of these genres, the one that interests us most for the purpose of this project is the moralidad. The Spanish moralidad is derived from the French moralité, in which ‘la intención moral predominaba sobre la puramente piadosa y la forma alegórica constituía su carácter más saliente’ (the moral intention predominated over the purely pious one and the allegorical form constituted its most salient feature).90 Bruce Wardropper defines the moralidad as una forma dramática alegórica ... Los problemas planteados en estos dramas eran a menudo puramente éticos. Se creaban en ellos casos de tensión moral en la que el hombre trataba de encontrar un punto de reposo,

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Conscience on Stage rodeado de las fuerzas morales en lucha. La religión dogmática ofrecía poca ayuda al hombre asediado. (an allegorical dramatic form ... The problems postulated in these dramas were frequently purely ethical. There were created in them cases of moral tension in which man tried to encounter a point of repose, surrounded by the moral forces in battle. Dogmatic religion offered little help to the besieged man.)91

García Soriano classifies almost all of Acevedo’s plays as being of this type, although Acevedo himself never used this term (he never used ‘alegoría’ either, although he did sometimes call his works ‘parábolas’ after the parables of Jesus).92 The allegorical nature of these dramas is demonstrated by the fact that the characters appeared on stage with signs on their foreheads declaring which qualities or abstract concepts they were supposed to represent.93 By association, these characters were themselves called moralidades, and their function was to comment upon the Aristotelian peripeteia and ‘moralize’ about it afterward. García Soriano, the scholar who has read more of these school dramas than anyone else, offers a plot paradigm that can be adapted to many of the moralidades, which were often formulaic variations upon a theme: El asunto de ellas suele ajustarse a una misma pauta generatriz: Un joven (Philautus, Caropus, Geophilus) desoye los buenos consejos de su padre (Megadorus), de un buen hermano (Theophilus, Heliodorus) y de fieles consejeros (Eubulus, Sophobulus, Eudochinus, Aristides, Selius), y sigue, en cambio, el camino de perdición, engañado por las seducciones y añagazas de pérfidos criados (Pseudolus, Colax, Eutrapelius), de falsos amigos (Apicius, Caripius, Cananitis) o de truhanes (Tricongius, Balbinus). Dase con ellos a una vida disoluta, y acaba por ser robado en el juego: Philautus en un viaje a Salamanca, y Caropus en Valencia ... Al verse en la ruina, Philautus se mete fraile dominico, y Caropus, como el hijo pródigo del Evangelio, vuelve arrepentido a los brazos de su padre. Geophilus, en cambio, no se arrepiente y muere de un modo desastroso, contrastando con su buen hermano Theophilus, que acaba felizmente la vida. (Their subject matter normally adjusts itself to the same generating pattern: a young man [Philautus, Caropus, Geophilus] ignores the good advice of his father [Megadorus], a good brother [Theophilus, Heliodorus], and faithful counsellors [Eubulus, Sophobulus, Eudochinus, Aristides, Selius], and

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follows, instead, the path of perdition, deceived by the seductions and enticements of perfidious servants [Pseudolus, Colax, Eutrapelius], of false friends [Apicius, Caripius, Cananitis], or of scoundrels [Tricongius, Balbinus]. He gives in with them to a dissolute life, and ends up being robbed in the game: Philautus on a trip to Salamanca, and Caropus in Valencia ... Upon seeing himself in ruin, Philautus becomes a Dominican friar, and Caropus, like the prodigal son of the Gospel, returns repentant to the arms of his father. Geophilus, in contrast, does not repent and dies in a disastrous way, contrasting with his good brother Theophilus, who ends his life happily.)94

It is easy to see how this coming-of-age, or Bildungsroman, recipe would prove attractive as a mode of pleasurable instruction for young boys, who could probably identify with these young male characters and the decisions they faced. In this vein, Ignacio Elizalde notes that even the dramas based on saints’ lives often revolved around the more ‘virile’ saints who were ‘comprometidos con la acción y la realidad histórica’ (engaged with action and historical reality).95 This pattern is in keeping with the more general trend among the Jesuits to reject the contemplative life in favour of the active one. As an order, the Jesuits omitted the monastic routine and dressed according to ‘secular’ fashion. As Nigel Griffin reminds us, ‘The distinctive character of the Jesuits is often summarized as “a unique involvement with the world.”’96 There seems to have been no place here for reclusive hermit-types. M. Scaduto affirms that this was especially true of the Jesuit drama: ‘il teatro gesuitico, più che il teatro umanista, freddo e moralizzatore, cerca il contatto col pubblico’ (the Jesuit theatre, more than the humanistic theatre, cold and moralizing, seeks contact with the public).97 This stance on the part of the Jesuits led, of course, to accusations that they were ‘exalting the human at the expense of the divine.’98 These accusations were not altogether unjustified. We know from numerous contemporaneous accounts that Jesuit theatrical productions were in fact nothing short of extravagant in their use of costumes, fullscale stages, and elaborate scenery. Lasting anywhere from two to seven hours, the plays were sometimes performed in cycles lasting for three successive days.99 The costumes routinely cost 300–400 ducados for a single festival, although the priests also went through the city scavenging for jewels and sashes to borrow for the actors to wear.100 In their desire to compete with other theatrical offerings of their day – wandering troupes of actors (especially commedia dell’arte), Protestant school theatres, and

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even Italian opera – Jesuit dramatists were on the cutting edge of theatrical technology and moveable scenery. They used real bushes instead of artificial plants, fine furniture borrowed from the court, and machines to produce sounds of wind and thunder.101 They had trap doors, flying machines, and cloud apparatuses. For example, the production of La tragedia de San Hermenegildo in Seville in 1580 (performed to celebrate the opening of the Jesuit college there) was staged with the use of a great frontispiece representing the city of Seville. There were two high towers on each side, one of which served as a jail for the titular saint, the other of which was filled with fireworks and various mechanical devices.102 The first centenary celebration of the foundation of the Jesuit order, celebrated at the Colegio Imperial de Madrid in 1640, likewise involved a production of Obrar es durar (by Father Valentín de Céspedes), for which the Jesuits called upon the Italian designer Cossimo Lotti to construct elaborate scenery. There were over twenty-five different tramoyas (special effects machines), including three liquid waterfalls of blood, water, and ink.103 The use of fire was likewise all too real in these productions: a version of the tragedy of Nabuchadnezzar performed in Plasencia called for the throwing of children into an oven. The performance was so realistic that people in the audience were afraid the children were dying.104 Finally, real animals were used, to the extent that a puppet figure of Jezabel was torn to pieces by dogs on stage in a Jesuit drama in Graz in 1640.105 Occasionally, the plays called for human bodies to be used instead of puppets, and in some northern European productions (the direct ancestors of the Passion play at Oberammergau), young boy actors were almost killed from overly realistic crucifixions and hangings on stage.106 The purpose of all of these special effects was ultimately the same as that of Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises: to use the imagination to experience God fully using all of the bodily senses.107 The lavish nature of these productions, however, did not interfere with their didactic function. Pedro de Ribadeneira wrote of the Jesuit dramatist Pedro Pablo de Acevedo that he ‘transformed the theatres into pulpits’: ‘Trocó los teatros en púlpitos, y salían los hombres muchas veces más recogidos y llorosos de sus representaciones, que de los sermones de algunos excelentes predicadores’ (he transformed the theatres into pulpits, and men left many times more sober and tearful from their performances, than from the sermons of some excellent preachers).108 Juan Bonifacio offers a similar raison d’etre for the school drama in his Comedia Margarita:

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todo, todo ua de rota ya no nos quadra el sermon que tiene reprehension ni la platica deuota ... y por esso es menester con lo sabroso enboluer lo que amarga ... (All, all is broken; Already the sermon does not fit us That contains reprehension Or devout discourse ... And for this reason it is necessary To wrap that which is bitter Into that which is delicious.)109

This familiar topos of the sugar-coated pill goes back to Horace’s command to delight and instruct. Horace’s famous dictum reads: ‘aut prodesse uolunt aut delectare poetae’ (poets want to delight or instruct).110 This topos was extremely popular in the Renaissance, appearing frequently in texts such as Castiglione’s Il cortegiano: ‘come i cauti medici, li quali spesso, volendo dar a’ fanciulli infermi e troppo delicati medicina di sapore amaro, circondano l’orificio del vaso di qualche dolce liquore.’111 Charles Singleton’s translation of this passage reads: ‘like shrewd doctors who often spread the edge of the cup with some sweet cordial when they wish to give a bitter-tasting medicine to sick and over-delicate children.’112 Bonifacio finds a humorous way to communicate the same message in the epilogue to his Actio Nepotiana, in which the interpres warns the audience that the student actors are beginners: ... por tanto los estudiantes de Jesus y de san gil traen una cosa vil y propria de principiantes ... es un sermón disfraçado Hablan burlando y de ueras entre cosas plazenteras el prouecho ira mezclado.

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Conscience on Stage ( ... And so the students Of Jesus and Saint Giles Bring a vile thing Suitable for beginners ... It is a disguised sermon, They speak joking and seriously: Among pleasurable things The benefit will go mixed in.)113

Although the actors are neophytes, the purpose of the drama is still solidly didactic. It should come as no surprise, given these adaptations of Horace and others, that the Jesuit school drama was in many ways the primary theatrical heir to the Greek and Latin classics in Spain.114 The Jesuit playwrights had produced a substantial body of work before Lope de Vega revolutionized Spanish theatre with his Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo (1609). While Lope advocated a three-act comedia, the Jesuits still wrote plays that were five acts in length. The Jesuits, unlike Lope, often made use of a Greek-style chorus who would enter at the end of each act and serve a unifying purpose by singing a song. Finally, while Lope proposed a mixture of the tragic with the comic, the Jesuits frequently preferred the purely tragic, in accordance with their classical models. In fact, the whole discussion of whether tragedy existed as a genre in the Spanish Golden Age has not taken into account sufficiently the contributions of the Jesuits. One reason for this conspicuous omission is that their works have remained largely unedited until recently.115 However, it should be noted that as time went on, the Jesuits eventually abandoned the purely tragic model in favour of the popular tragicomedia – an indication of just how closely these two dramatic traditions were intertwined. Roux refers to this development as well as the concomitant rise of the comic interlude as ‘une democratisation de cette dramaturgie’ (a democratization of this dramaturgy).116 Furthermore, it is a little-known fact that the Jesuits were the ones responsible for giving the more popular comedia its name;117 this attribution, obviously more than a token influence, bespeaks the larger legacy they bequeathed to mainstream Spanish culture. Mainstream Dramatists Educated by Jesuits How were popular Spanish playwrights exposed to casuistry, and in what setting? Alexander Parker once noted that all the great Spanish

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dramatists were good theologians.118 Many of them were also ordained priests. Spain’s most famous dramatist, Lope de Vega (1562–1635), was ordained a priest in 1614. Before this final step he had joined successively the Congregation of Slaves of the Most Holy Sacrament of the Oratory of the Caballero de Gracia (in 1609), a second Congregación del Oratorio (in 1610), and the third order of the Franciscans (in 1611). His contemporary Mira de Amescua (1574?–1644) was a priest who took his vows even more seriously towards the end of his life, when he wrote many plays on supernatural themes.119 Tirso de Molina (1584?–1648), who lived at about the same time, was a fraile mercedario (Mercedarian friar), and Henry Sullivan has demonstrated with direct citations from his plays that Tirso possessed a specific knowledge of casuistry in the form of probabilism.120 Likewise, later playwrights continued this trend. One relatively late example of a priest/dramatist was Agustín Moreto (1618– 69).121 The most important dramatist of his generation, Calderón de la Barca (1600–81), studied canon law and theology at Alcalá and Salamanca before becoming a priest in 1651.122 Sullivan believes that Calderón read the work of the Jesuit Francisco Suárez, who was one of the leading Spanish – indeed, European – casuists of his time.123 We know from his last will and testament that Calderón owned a set of books by Antonino Diana, whose Resolutiones morales contained 20,000 doubtful cases of conscience. The document reads: ‘Item es mi voluntad que los libros del Padre Diana se den y entreguen a Geronimo de Peñarroxa; y los demas de diferentes facultades, asi de lo moral y buenas letras, se den y entreguen al dicho Don Antonio de Padilla, mi sobrino’ (Likewise it is my will that the books of Father Diana be given and delivered to Geronimo de Peñarroxa; and the others of different faculties, such as morality and good letters, be given and delivered to the said Don Antonio de Padilla, my nephew).124 Antonio Regalado confirms that Calderón read and used the works of Diana: ‘Calderón también se sirvió de las obras del “buen Diana,” aprovechando el inmenso archivo de opiniones, casos y argumentos amontonados por el consultor del Santo Oficio’ (Calderón also made use of the works of the ‘good Diana,’ taking advantage of the immense archive of opinions, cases, and arguments amassed by the consultor of the Holy Office).125 In fact, given Calderón’s demonstrated interest in casuistry, Julio Caro Baroja calls him ‘un casuista metido a dramaturgo’ (a casuist turned dramatist).126 Furthermore, many of Spain’s most famous playwrights during the early modern period, both those who later became priests and those who did not, are known to have been educated as young boys in Jesuit

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colegios. Five different groups of students attended the Jesuit colegios: Jesuit students destined to join the order (interns or ‘scholastici nostri’); ‘alumni,’ who were non-paying externs but nonetheless lived on the premises; ‘convictores’ or ‘commensales,’ who came from rich and noble families and paid for their room and board at the colegio; ‘stipendiati’ or ‘pauperes,’ who were the live-in charity cases; and ‘externi,’ who lived ‘off-campus,’ as it were, usually with their families in town.127 Lope de Vega was a student at the Jesuit Colegio Imperial in Madrid (currently the Insituto de San Isidro on the Calle de Toledo)128 for two years, from 1572 to 1574, and may have studied rhetoric with Pedro Pablo de Acevedo himself.129 Other teachers believed to have influenced him were Juan Ruiz and Pedro Vásquez.130 Although Jesuit instruction was free, Rafael Hornedo believes that Lope de Vega owed his opportunity to study at the Jesuit colegio to the intervention of a patron, Jerónimo Manrique de Lara.131 There has been some confusion as to whether Lope studied under the Jesuits or the Theatines, but Millé y Giménez has demonstrated persuasively that in the archival document in question – as in the broader context of early modern society – the Jesuits were sometimes called Theatines, usually as a form of insult.132 He further notes that Lope de Vega could not possibly have studied under the Theatines, as the Theatine order was not established in Spain until 1630.133 Calderón de la Barca studied at the same colegio as Lope de Vega before him, although Calderón stayed there from 1608 to 1614, under the instruction of Father Marcos López in grammar.134 Another early modern luminary, Francisco de Quevedo (1580–1645), attended this same school in Madrid from 1592 to 1596,135 and Tirso de Molina may have done likewise.136 Quevedo, though not known for his accomplishments in the dramatic genres, did write some theatrical works;137 he apparently had fond memories of his time spent at the Colegio Imperial. He wrote to one of the professors there, Juan de Pineda,138 concerning the Company of Jesus: la Compañía de Jesús, cuya reverencia y respeto creció conmigo desde los primeros años, a quien debo, desde la gramática, los estudios, y pudiera deber mucha virtud y grandes progresos, si a sus diligencias no se hubiera opuesto mi incapacidad y distraimientos ... la Compañía está en mí, en mi corazón. (the Company of Jesus, whose reverence and respect grew with me from my earliest years, to whom I owe, beginning with grammar, my studies, and

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could have owed much virtue and great progress, if my incapacity and distractions had not opposed themselves to their diligence ... the Company is in me, in my heart.)139

We can imagine that Quevedo’s picaresque hero, the buscón Pablos, relives the experience of his creator when he enacts a scene from the Jesuit drama El peregrino en su patria o San Alejo.140 Finally, there are more speculative cases that are nevertheless fun to ponder. Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616), the most famous Spanish author of all time, probably studied grammar as a boy in the Jesuit Colegio de San Hermenegildo in Seville in the years 1564 and 1565.141 We know from dated manuscripts at the Royal Academy of History in Madrid that during these seasons he would have seen performances of at least three school comedias by Acevedo: Occasio (1564), Philautus (1565), and Charopus (1565).142 Additionally, we know from the same records that one of the student actors for the Dialogus feriis solemnibus corporis Christi (1564) was named Miguel.143 It is tantalizing to speculate that this young boy might have been Cervantes himself.144 In his Coloquio de los perros, Cervantes praises his former schoolmasters through the mouth of his wise canine, Berganza. Berganza says of the Compañía de Jesús: luego recibí gusto de ver el amor, el término, la solicitud y la industria con que aquellos benditos padres y maestros enseñaban a aquellos niños, enderezando las tiernas varas de su juventud, por que no torciesen ni tomasen mal siniestro en el camino de la virtud, que justamente con las letras les mostraban. Consideraba como los reñían con suavidad, los castigaban con misericordia, los animaban con ejemplos, los incitaban con premios y los sobrellevaban con cordura, y, finalmente, como les pintaban la fealdad y horror de los vicios y les dibujaban la hermosura de las virtudes, para que, aborrecidos ellos y amadas ellas, consiguiesen el fin para que fueron criados ... (then I received pleasure from seeing the love, the manner, the solicitude and the industry with which those blessed fathers and teachers taught those little boys, rectifying the tender stalks of their youth, so that they would not become twisted nor choose the sinister evil on the path of virtue, which they showed them precisely by the use of letters. I considered how they scolded them with softness, they punished them with mercy, they animated them with examples, they incited them with prizes, and they carried

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Conscience on Stage them along with prudence, and, finally, how they painted for them the ugliness and horror of the vices and drew for them the beauty of the virtues, so that, hating the one and loving the other, they might obtain the end for which they were nurtured ...)145

Berganza’s friend Cipión replies with a similar panegyric: ‘Para guiadores y adalides del camino del cielo, pocos les llegan. Son espejos donde se mira la honestidad, la católica do[c]trina, la singular prudencia, y, finalmente, la humildad profunda’ (For guides and commanders of the pathway to heaven, few attain their stature. They are mirrors in which is seen honesty, Catholic doctrine, singular prudence, and, finally, profound humility).146 There is nothing to prevent us from thinking that Cervantes speaks here from personal experience. In the same way, later in life Lope de Vega would return to celebrate the inauguration of the Reales Estudios de la Compañía at his old school by composing and reading aloud a poem titled Isagoge a los Reales Estudios de la Compañía de Jesús.147 In it he praises the Colegio Imperial (‘Este mejor que Atenas estudioso / Moderno Aristotelico Liceo ... Teologico Museo / De sagrados Platones’ [This more studious than Athens / Modern Aristotelian Lyceum ... Theological Musuem / Of sacred Platos])148 as well as specific Jesuit professors there: Francisco de Mazedo, Juan de Pineda, Agustín de Castro, Juan Perlín, Juan Antonio Usón, Juan Bautista Poza, Eusebio Nieremberg, and Francisco Ruiz.149 The monarchs were present at this festival, which of course included the performance of an allegorical drama. Lope de Vega also wrote other poetry in praise of the Jesuits, notably the romance ‘A San Ignacio de Loyola cuando colgó la espada en Monserrate’ (1609), written on the occasion of the poetic jousts held in honour of the beatification of Saint Ignatius Loyola.150 Even brand-name early modern poets and playwrights whose presence we cannot ascertain in the classrooms of the Jesuits nonetheless participated in Jesuit-sponsored literary festivals and contests: for example, poems by Juan de Jáuregui and Luis Vélez de Guevara appeared upon shields or escudos during the celebration of the canonization of Saints Ignatius Loyola, Francis Xavier, Philip Neri, and Teresa of Jesus in June of 1622.151 During this same festival the students of the Colegio Imperial in Madrid performed a dialogue composed for the occasion by Lope de Vega.152 Also as part of the celebration, Lope de Vega served as official secretary of a literary contest whose participants included Guillén de Castro, Juan Pérez de Montalbán, Pellicer de Salas, Juan de Jáuregui, Sebastián Francisco Medrano, and the dramatist Mira de

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Amescua, who won first prize.153 For this occasion Tirso de Molina wrote some octavas titled ‘A San Isidro Labrador,’ but he did not win a prize.154 In this same contest, however, the young Calderón de la Barca won two prizes, a gold-plated silver pommel (handle of a sword) and a set of four silver spoons with four silver forks, in recognition of his poetry honouring Saints Ignatius Loyola and Francis Xavier.155 Later in his life, Calderón would choose to honour St Ignatius again in a comedia titled El gran príncipe de Fez, where he makes the protagonist enter the Jesuit order with much fanfare in praise of St Ignatius.156 Two famous works of early modern literature are also thought to have been inspired by Jesuit sources: Tirso de Molina’s El burlador de Sevilla (1630) may have been influenced by a Jesuit play performed fifteen years earlier in Ingolstadt,157 while it has been noticed that the anonymous Jesuit play Tanisdorus bears a striking resemblance to Calderón’s La vida es sueño.158 Tirso de Molina’s drama La mujer que manda en casa may also enjoy a less than casual relationship to the anonymous Jesuit Tragaedia Jezabelis.159 Whether or not we choose to accept these attributions of influence upon specific works, it is beyond question that these playwrights in general received their first theatrical formation at the hands of the Jesuits. Finally, several early modern poets and playwrights are known to have chosen Jesuits as their personal confessors or spiritual advisors. Lope de Vega asked for Father Juan Bautista Ávila to confess him on his deathbed, and at one point even went so far as to whip himself with a ‘sangrienta disciplina’ (bloody whip) to castigate his unruly flesh.160 It should therefore come as no surprise that the influence of the Jesuits would be felt deeply in his dramas and those of his illustrious contemporaries. Casuistry in Action on the Jesuit School Stage Given the enormous formative influence of Jesuit school theatre upon these famous playwrights, it is worth spending a few moments on the specific contents of the school dramas to ascertain which casuistical elements were present and therefore ripe for appropriation. Moral reasoning was crucial to the poetics of school dramas from their very inception. As García Soriano notes, their true function was to express the intimate voice of conscience.161 Even the titles of some of the Jesuit school dramas sound casuistical. For example, Acevedo wrote a play called Occasio (1564) and another one bearing the title Metanea, meaning ‘Penitence’ (1556).

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Furthermore, the school dramas are rife with references to sacramental confession. In act 1, scene 2 of Francisco Ximénez’s Diálogo hecho en Sevilla, Dolus says to two adolescent students that he always confesses during Lent: ‘Confieso las cuaresmas / como los buenos cristianos’ (I confess during Lent / like all good Christians).162 That is the bare minimum required in terms of frequency for sacramental confession. Another character in Bonifacio’s Triumphus Eucharistiae boasts that he goes to confession every eight days, the same frequency with which he washes his shirt: leucosirus: Confesseme oy, y comulgue si a Dios plugo. palinodus: Que ¿tan amenudo hazeis esso? leucosirus: Cada ocho señor como camisa labada. (leucosirus: I confessed today and took communion, God willing. palinodus: What! You do that so often? leucosirus: Every eight days, sir, like a washed shirt.)163

Many school dramas would seem to encourage more frequent confession. In Bonifacio’s Triumphus Circuncisionis, Circuncisio proclaims: ‘Pareçe me amí que era neçessario aun maestro guardar grauedad paternal, dando buenos consejos alos disçipulos haziendolos confessar amenudo’ (It appears to me that it was necessary for a teacher to maintain paternal gravity, giving good advice to his disciples, making them confess frequently).164 There are also poignant scenes of confession and absolution in the school drama as well as Derridian lacunae where the absence of confession bespeaks its presence. These scenes occur most often when a character is near death. For example, Nabal’s wife in Bonifacio’s Tragicomedia Nabalis begs him on his deathbed to discharge his conscience before dying. He refuses, with consequences that are predictably disastrous.165 So does Paradoxos in the same author’s Triumphus Eucharistiae, even after Suasor (note here the casuistically relevant names) tries to persuade him to confess and the priest Melampelo attends to his bedside. The chorus comes in to urge the sinners in the audience to repent and confess while there is still time.166 Father Guillermo Barçalo includes a similar admonition to the audience in the prologue to his Tragedia de divite epulone: Pido que la Tragedia no sea oyda, por iuego, fiesta, o entretenimiento, sino para de hoy mas mudar la vida.

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(I ask that the tragedy not be heard, As a game, festival, or entertainment, But to change one’s life from this day forward.)167

The explicit goal of the drama is to convince the spectators to ‘change their lives.’ There are, in fact, numerous accounts suggesting that after witnessing a performance of one of these plays, the audience members did just that. The dramatist Acevedo reported that after a performance of Euripus in Córdoba, many members of the audience swarmed to the confessional: ‘no faltó quien tocado del desastrado fin de Euripo ... acudiese á la confession’ (there were not lacking those who, touched by the disastrous end of Euripus ... had recourse to confession).168 Likewise, after a performance of his play Metanea (or De penitentia) in the same colegio on 1 September 1561, Acevedo wrote a letter reporting both that the actors performed better as a result of having gone to confession and that the audience, in turn, was inspired to confess: Oyóse con grande attención, moçión y lágrimas, que con sus affectos verdaderos sacauan los representantes porque el argumento de la comedia fué de penitencia. Vuo en el proceso della pasos que causauan grande advertençia, y dauan grande aviso. Rematóse con vn alma de los impenitentes en el infierno, y otra en el cielo pasando primero por el purgatorio. Los actores se confesaron y comulgaron, los de edad, aquel día, y ansí lo recitauan muj de ueras. Hízose en munchas [sic] almas fruto, porque después se uinieron algunos a confesar, a quien el Señor allí tocó. (It was heard with great attention, emotion and tears, which the actors provoked with their true feelings, because the argument of the comedia was about penitence. There were in the process of it moments that caused great attention, and gave great warning. It ended with a soul of one of the impenitent [sinners] in hell, and another one in heaven passing first through purgatory. The actors confessed and took communion, those who were old enough, that day, and thus they performed very truly. It produced fruit in many souls, because afterward some came to confess, whom the Lord had touched there.)169

As we might expect, the word caso appears with some frequency in the school dramas (as in the ‘secular’ ones – see chapter 1, below), as ‘ental caso menos mal es el silençio’ (in such a case silence is less bad)170 or ‘Jocundo se angustia y llora / en tan infelice caso’ (Jocundo is

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anguished and cries / in such an unhappy case).171 The word caso takes on particular resonance when the school dramas appropriate famous biblical cases or moral dilemmas such as Solomon’s judgment between the two women about which one was the true mother of a newborn baby (1 Kings 3:16–28). In this example, from Bonifacio’s Comoedia Solomonia, King Solomon declares: ‘es caso dudoso, dificil, y raro / mas dios me lo puede mostrar, y hazer claro’ (it is a doubtful, difficult, and rare case / but God can show it to me, and make it clear).172 Later King Solomon pronounces: ‘El caso lo pide ansí / presto saldremos de duda’ (The case demands it thus; / soon we will emerge from doubt).173 A more important appearance of casos in the school drama is the effort to root out the evils to which different professions and social classes are especially prone. This effort is personified by the figure of Circumcision, in Bonifacio’s Triumphus Circuncisionis, who comes out onstage with an enormous pair of scissors, ready to ‘circumcize’ various people of their vices. The stated mission of this character sounds like that of every confessor, for almost all confessors’ manuals included sections on the various social classes and professions and their favourite vices. This play contains several discussions of sacramental confession and how often it should be performed. There are many direct references to casuists and their methods in the school dramas, and some of them can be quite humorous. Some refer to casuists and grammarians by name, as in the phrase ‘cargados del catholicon, y los cinco libros menores, y el arte de pastrana’ (weighed down by the Catholicon and the five minor books and the art of Pastrana),174 obviously a reference to Juan de Pastrana’s Grammatica latina. Some are less specific, preferring recourse instead to popular stereotypes, as in the generalization that ‘essos theologos nunca medran ... todo su subir es asacristanes’ (those theologians never improve ... All their rising is to [the level of] sextons).175 Some are off-the-cuff, as with Bernabé’s allusion to ‘capilludos frailecillos’ (cowled little monks) in Rodríguez’s De methodo studendi. Some are more descriptive or valueneutral, such as this exchange between Infausto and Bernabé in the same ‘Entreacto’: infausto: [¿]preguntais porlas escuelas dela comp.a de Ihs ...[?] bernabé: entiendan ellos lo q[ue] les dice la presona [sic][:] q[ue] no digo sino alos padres teatinos176 q[ue] aveçan alos muchachos a ser predicadores y curas delas animas. infausto: alo menos sonlo ellos delas nuestras.

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(infausto: Do you ask about the schools of the Society of Jesus? bernabé: Let them understand what the person tells them: that I do not say [it] except to the Theatine fathers who train the boys to be preachers and healers of souls. infausto: At least they are healers of our souls.)177

We can only imagine that this type of self-consciously topical referentiality must have been disarming in performance. The most humorous references to casuistry in the school dramas make fun of it openly and unapologetically. This may surprise us until we realize that the Jesuits were confident enough in their mission to be able to laugh at themselves. In Rodríguez’s De methodo studendi, 2.4, Solercio asks Falacio for advice about the best method for study. Falacio replies with a burlesque flood of Latin quotations in a spoof of the scholastic method, concluding that his single most important recommendation is to eat breakfast every morning while pondering half a dozen sophistical syllogisms. Significantly, he also advises Solercio to keep on hand the ‘mat.as [materias] sumulísticas’178 – a clear reference to the popular summas for confessors. He ends by promising that if he follows this advice, he will be a famous casuist, for he will know all the sins in syllogistical form: ‘Sereis famoso casuista, porq[ue] conocereis los pecados dela mat.a y dela forma silogistica’ (you will be a famous casuist, because you will know the sins by the syllogistical material and formula).179 Here we see both that the school drama was full of references to casuistry, and that the Jesuits were in no sense trying to conceal this aspect of their creation. As we shall see in chapter 2 of this book, the appearance of casuistical dialogue in the more mainstream comedias is often signalled by certain key phrases. Among these, the most often-repeated is ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ (What should I do?). It turns out that the ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ question, along with the ensuing casuistical dialogue which normally accompanies it, may be found in the Jesuit school drama as well. Although school drama is not the primary focus of our study, a few examples will be helpful to show how the Jesuit drama established a pattern of casuistical reasoning which would be picked up later by mainstream dramatists and incorporated into the very foundation of their poetics for the comedia. In the last scene of act 3 of Salvador de León’s Diálogo de la Fortuna, Tomitano asks: ‘[¿]Que hare[?] Do estas ventura, / que asi te vas escondiendo[?]’ (What shall I do? Where are you, fortune, / that you go thus hiding yourself?).180 He later expresses remorse for his sin: ‘[¡]O si

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admitiese ya Dios / de mi ofensa la disculpa[!]’ (Oh, if only God would already accept / the excuse for my offence!).181 Similarly, in Bonifacio’s Comedia Margarita, the Mercader asks: ‘¡O Dios! [¿]que hare?, grandes buelcos me da el coraçon’ (‘Oh, God! What shall I do? My heart is pounding).182 He then proceeds to renounce his sin and distribute his riches to the poor. Not all characters in the school dramas experience this fortunate conversion; thus Sotela in Juan Bonifacio’s Actio Nepotiana laments her husband’s death as an unrepentant sinner: ‘[¿]que hare sin ti[?], [¿]Donde ire[?], [¡]O desastrada muerte sin confession[!]’ (What shall I do without you? Where shall I go? Oh, disastrous death without confession!).183 Here again we see a reference to sacramental confession and the painful consequences following its neglect. In Iudithis tragoedia (1578) by a certain Padre Ioseph, the chorus comments on the second act with a song that rings with our signature phrase: [¡]Peccamos (Dios) peccamos[!] Si a tu bondad hezimos graue ofensa [¿]q[ué] quieres q[ue] hagamos[?] (We sinned, God, we sinned! If we committed a grave offence against your goodness, What do you want us to do?)184

Likewise King Solomon in Juan Bonifacio’s Comoedia quae inscribitur Solomonia pronounces his verdict after the two women come to him to arbitrate their dispute over which one is the mother of the baby: ‘ya se que tengo de hazer’ (I already know what I have to do).185 In a more comic version of the same formula, the titular character of the ‘Entreacto de rebentón’ in Ximénez’s Diálogo hecho en Sevilla asks: ‘¿Y al fin, qué tengo de h[ac]er?’ (And at the end, what do I have to do?).186 As we shall see, that is the question repeated time and time again by characters in the mainstream comedias. Also in the school dramas – as in the mainstream comedias – often the characters, asking what they should do, express anguish over what course of action they should take. Thus the chorus of Rodríguez’s De methodo studendi sings to Solercio of his ‘duda congojosa’ (anguished doubt).187 Likewise, the chorus says of El Sabio in Salvador de León’s Triumpho del Sabio: ‘Descanso pide y consuelo / con lagrimas y suspiros’ (he asks for rest and comfort / with tears and sighs).188 El Sabio himself speaks of this anguish in act 2, scene 2:

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un mar de lagrimas hecho que escondido en este estrecho de aflicçiones me baldona el dolor, y me aprisiona ojos, coraçon y pecho. (Made an ocean of tears, That hidden in this strait Of afflictions, sorrow Reproaches me, and Eyes, heart, and breast Imprison me.)189

The chorus in Rodríguez’s De methodo studendi describes the character Jocundo (normally jocund, as his name would suggest) in similar terms: el infeliçe Jocundo tristes acentos formando con mil ansias y suspiros del cielo se esta quejando. (The unhappy Jocundo Forming sad accents, With a thousand anxious sighs Is complaining about heaven.)190

Sometimes characters in the school drama appear to offer rather facile answers in response to their fellow characters’ requests for advice; thus Apollo in Pineda’s and Rodríguez’s Dialogo de prestantissima scienciarum elligenda uses the language of sacramental confession to address the appropriately named Dubitancio, telling him not to doubt: ‘Dubitancio no dudeis / ... / da ala duda absolucion’ (Dubitancio, doubt not / ... / give absolution to doubt).191 This scene of advice- giving foreshadows the exchanges we shall encounter in the comedias in chapter 3. But the cure for an anguished conscience is usually not so simple. In fact, the entity of conscience is depicted specifically in the school drama as ‘barking’ inside a person to reproach him for doing wrong: ‘la misma conciencia os ladra alla dentro’ (conscience itself is barking there inside you).192 We shall see many more fully developed depictions of the tormented conscience in the ‘secular’ dramas in chapter 4.

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It may be useful to note at this stage, as we begin to see further points of convergence between the Jesuits and the popular drama, that the Jesuits were not a particularly elite order.193 Instead, they drew their recruits (at least during the first thirty years of the order’s existence) from the lower nobility and from the professional classes: they were notaries, lawyers, teachers, and officials.194 Maybe as a result of their social background, the Jesuits were uniquely self-reliant when it came to making moral and other types of decisions. As Griffin notes, ‘Recruits like these were men brought up in a tradition of self-reliance, and they expected to make decisions for themselves and to rely on their own judgement and experience.’195 It is perhaps indicative of the Jesuit emphasis placed upon individual reasoning that a proverb about this process appears independently in at least two different school dramas. The proverb says that it is characteristic of a prudent man to know how to change his mind. In the anonymous Colloquio que se represento en Seuj.a delante del Ill.mo Cardenal Don R.o de Castro (1587), this proverb occurs in a conversation of Moisés with the allegorical figures Palacio and Rusticidad: palacio: [¿]Q[ue] apalaçio quieres ir? Luego podemos dezir q[ue] as mudado tu opinion? moisés: [H]auiendo nueba razon forçoso es nuebo sentir. rusticidad: Mira q[ue] es inconueniente si quieres atras boluer de lo q[ue] sentiste ayer moisés: antes es de hombe prudente saber mudar paresçer. (palacio: So you want to go the palace? So then we can say That you have changed your opinion? moisés: Having new reason, A new sentiment is necessary. rusticidad: Look, it is inconvenient If you want to go back on What you felt yesterday. moisés: On the contrary, it is characteristic of a prudent man To know how to change his mind.)196

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The same proverb appears in the anonymous Historia Filerini after Filerino changes his ways and decides to follow the good advice of Time and Experience, who have counselled him to renounce the seduction of the World. When the World (‘el Mundo’) reproaches him for his inconsistency, Filerino answers with this same proverb: mundo: Mira q[ue] es inconveniente Si quieres atras volver De lo q[ue] sentiste aier. filerino: Antes es de hombe prudente Saver mudar paresçer. (mundo: Look, it is inconvenient, If you want to go back upon What you felt yesterday. filerino: On the contrary, it is characteristic of a prudent man To know how to change his mind.)197

The play ends with a rather violent scene of penance in which Experience beats Filerino with a sword. Filerino accepts the pain willingly, hoping thereby to atone for his former sin. Implied in this proverb and its various instantiations in the school dramas is a perverse optimism about the redemptive power of education – and, by extension, the perfectibility of human action. The human will is strong enough to choose the good, say the Jesuits, if only the rational faculty is educated well enough to know how to sort through good vs. evil (even if that education involves fierce discipline, including beatings). As Bonifacio writes in his Epilogue to Comoedia Salomonia, Son las letras atauio de reyes y de señores, son guia de pecadores son reglas del aluedrio. (Letters are the adornment Of kings and great ones, They are the guide of sinners, They are the rule of will.)198

This ‘rule of the will’ receives another accolade in the anonymous Reg-

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num Dei’s ode to reason, which appears in the context of describing man as a rational animal: Que como no es animal bruto sino racional, natura le quiso hazer para saber y entender y este es su fin natural. (Since he is not a brute animal, But rational, Nature wanted to make him To know and understand, And this is his natural end.)199

While this opinion may not necessarily be shared by all of the characters in the play, its message could be extrapolated to imply that (casuistical) reasoning is the end or purpose of man. This allowance for reasoning and its capacity to change the mind of an individual on a given issue may be seen in the larger context of the Jesuits’ attempts to ‘deal realistically with all the human passions’200 and to foster ‘personality development’ among their students.201 Instead of supressing carnal desires or ignoring the existence of fleshly inclinations, the Jesuits advocated instead a reasoning process that would train the will of the individual to choose the good over evil (and thereby accomplish more lasting results). As Henri Gouhier notes, ‘la casuistique du XVIIe siècle signifie que la religion chrétienne est dans le monde, et dans un monde qui change’ (the casuistry of the seventeenth century signifies that the Christian religion is in the world, and in a world that changes).202 This approach led critics of the Jesuits to accuse them of abusing casuistry203 and making ‘ever new concessions to worldliness.’204 René Fülöp-Miller mentions such specific ‘concessions’ as comic elements, risqué jokes in the interludes, coarse allusions, ‘secular’ subject matter, love tangles, and even ‘matchmaker’ characters.205 She also notes that although the first Jesuit dramatists avoided all mention of sexual love, it was not long before male students dressed as women (usually female saints) began to appear on the stage. She concludes, ‘The prescriptions of the Ratio studiorum concerning the Jesuit theatre were, in the end, broken in almost every respect.’206 We can only assume that the Jesuits

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used casuistry to justify these departures from the norms laid out by their founders. A further interesting note in this respect is that comic performances were often relegated by the Jesuit instructors to the secundani, or members of the lower school classes, while the tragedies were reserved for the higher classes.207 Perhaps morality here was being assigned by social class; or perhaps these scurrilous elements were seen as juvenile, the assumption being that students would grow out of their taste for comic themes and move on to more noble endeavours. In the face of these accusations against them, the Jesuits nonetheless persevered in their optimism that through education, human nature could be improved. It was this legacy that they bequeathed to their students, among whom were the greatest playwrights of early modern Spain. Let us now turn to the so-called secular comedias, first to look for casuistical words and phrases, and then to find entire scenes which play out casuistical dilemmas. Finally, we shall look at constructions of conscience in the popular, mainstream theatrical drama. We shall conclude by relating casuistry to both contemporaneous and contemporary literary theory. In the process, we shall discover numberless ‘traces’ of casuistry in the comedia.

1 The Vocabulary of Casuistry

How does the Jesuit background of Spanish playwrights, amply demonstrated above, carry over into their works? Early modern Spanish comedias are permeated by the linguistic register of casuistry, but we must be attuned to this linguistic register in order to hear it. Unfortunately, this vocabulary is largely unfamiliar to audiences of the twenty-first century. The language of casuistry is a highly specific (even technical) vocabulary that, today, may seem utterly foreign to all but the most theologically inclined reader. It was not always so: early modern audiences were well versed in casuistry by virtue of their private experiences of receiving advice from a priest in the confessional. As Albert Jonsen and Stephen Toulmin explain, The summists’ incorporation of these concepts into their books of practical advice made it possible for confessors to learn and to teach ordinary people how to examine their own moral lives and how to communicate about them with another person – namely, their confessor or spiritual director. These distinctions introduced into the appreciation of common people a refinement about the morally relevant features of actions and about imputability that had hitherto been appreciated only by scholars. The common people could now be shown the relative importance of intentions, dispositions, consequences, and circumstances to the moral evaluation of their acts.1

But how can we recover this lost discourse, these words and phrases used so commonly then but so infrequently now? How can we eavesdrop on conversations that transpired in the secrecy of the confessional? All we have left are elusive ‘traces’ of this discourse to be found in

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 39

stage plays and the confessional manuals that influenced them. The Derridian notion of ‘trace’ is, by its very nature, difficult to explicate. Jacques Derrida says in Of Grammatology that ‘writing is one of the representatives of the trace in general, it is not the trace itself. The trace itself does not exist.’2 In Positions, he states that ‘each “element” ... [is] constituted on the basis of the trace within it of the other elements of the chain or system.’3 The French word la trace can be translated variously as ‘footprint,’ ‘mark,’ ‘trail,’ or ‘clue.’ Ajay Heble relates it both to Ferdinand de Saussure’s concept of the sign and Sigmund Freud’s theory of memory, but attributes the term primarily to Derridian deconstruction: ‘it is the name Derrida gives to the absences, the relations of difference, that are involved in the production of the sign.’4 Heble’s preferred analogy for the trace is that of a footprint, which ‘serves as a physical reminder of something which is no longer there: as a trace it mediates between presence and absence, between that which remains and that which is no longer present.’5 It is just such a footprint that I believe the discourse of casuistry has left upon the genre of the comedia. As Ned Lukacher remarks, ‘it is through this path, opening, trace, or signifier that the voice of conscience makes itself felt.’6 Early modern playwrights return over and over again to some of the same casuistical words, phrases, and concepts that we find in contemporaneous treatises of conscience and confessors’ manuals. By learning only a few of these, as with beginning to learn a new language, we can ‘train our ears’ to hear resonances that might have meant nothing to us before. In the course of this chapter, we shall immerse ourselves in the language of casuistry as it is spoken on stage in the discourse of the comedias. The Spanish word caso comes from the Latin casus, meaning ‘a possible situation or event, contigency’ and stemming from the verb cadere (to happen or take place).7 Various Latin treatises were written on this topic in the Renaissance, especially in the pagan context of its relation to fortuna, including Coluccio Salutati’s De fato, fortuna et caso (1396–9) and the Spanish Dominican friar Lope de Barrientos’s Tratado de caso y fortuna (1434–7). The Latin term lent its name both to specific works of literature, such as Giovanni Boccaccio’s De casibus virorum illustrium,8 and to an entire literary genre, known as the Kasus in German, defined by Alban Forcione as ‘a traditional popular form of literature that plays off against one another two compelling norms, moral claims, or systems of value, forcing the reader to ponder the ambiguities of their irresolvable conflict.’9 The most important early modern Spanish lexicographer,

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Sebastián de Covarrubias Orozco, defines caso as ‘todo lo que sucede sin prevención de temor o esperanza dello ... Vale suceso que haya acontecido’ (everything that happens without warning of fear or hope of the same ... It means an event that may have happened).10 As we learned in the introduction, casos were written about by Jesuit casuists, debated in Jesuit colegios, and even enacted on the Jesuit school stage. It should come as no surprise, therefore, that casos also appear on the ‘secular’ stage, given the high proportion of popular dramatists who were trained in Jesuit colegios and eventually went on to become priests. This word appears repeatedly in the comedias; a computer search of the Teatro Español del Siglo de Oro database reveals 4,508 occurrences in 728 plays (out of 800). Granted, these instances are not all as obviously pertinent as the example, ‘¡Lindos frailes capuchinos / Para un caso de conciencia!’ (Pretty Capuchin friars / For a case of conscience!),11 or the question, ‘¿qué caso de conciencia / le venís a preguntar?’ (what case of conscience / do you come to ask him?).12 But even allowing for the possibility that some of the occurrences might not be relevant, there is an overwhelming amount of evidence to indicate that casuistry, or the science of deciding casos, was an occupation – approaching an obsession, even – of early modern dramatists. As Miguel Álvarez explains in his unpublished dissertation ‘El probabilismo y el teatro español del siglo XVII ’: La palabra ‘caso’ y sus derivados se encuentra ampliamente difundida en los textos españoles del siglo XVII. Su significado no es el de simple sinónimo de ‘suceso,’ ‘historia,’ ‘episodio’ o ‘cuento’; lo relatado en el caso implica siempre una situación conflictiva, en la que el personaje duda qué decisión tomar. La obra de teatro, especialmente el drama, aparece montada en torno a un ‘caso’ central en el que se ven envueltos los personajes principales. Con frecuencia, al lado del caso central y relacionado de una u otra manera con él, aparecen otros casos secundarios, situaciones igualmente conflictivas, en los que se ven envueltos el resto de los personajes. (The word ‘case’ and its derivatives is encountered amply diffused in Spanish texts of the seventeenth century. Its meaning is not that of a simple synonym for ‘occurrence,’ ‘history,’ ‘episode,’ or ‘story’; what is related in the case always implies a conflictive situation, in which the character doubts which decision to make. The theatrical work, especially the drama, appears staged around a central ‘case’ in which all the principal characters see

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 41 themselves involved. Frequently, beside the central case and related to it in one way or another, there appear secondary cases, equally conflictive situations, in which the rest of the characters see themselves involved.)13

Unfortunately, promising as this analysis sounds, Álvarez offers little substance to support these generalizations. He seems to contradict himself when he claims at one point that ‘el caso de conciencia raramente se encuentra en el teatro, fuera de las obras de contenido religioso o directamente relacionado con él’ (the case of conscience is rarely encountered in the theatre, apart from works of religious content or directly related to religion).14 As we shall see, this statement is far from accurate; in fact, casuistry permeates the entire genre of the comedia. At one point Álvarez even states rather wistfully that a more detailed study of this topic would be desirable: ‘El estudio comparativo, tema por tema, situación por situación, entre la casuística y el teatro resultaría altamente luminoso para la comprensión y, sobre todo, interpretación de muchas obras literarias’ (The comparative study, theme by theme, situation by situation, between casuistry and the theatre would be highly illuminating for the comprehension and, above all, the interpretation of many literary works).15 He makes clear, however, that his study is not the one to offer this kind of critical interpretation. My study is, and I accept the challenge issued by this prescient precursor. My findings are further corroborated by the work of Álvarez’s teacher Antonio Regalado, who has recognized some plays within the subgenre of ‘revenge tragedies,’ at least those written by Calderón de la Barca (the author to which his study is confined), to be ‘casos de conciencia’ enacted upon the stage: Los dramas de venganza representan casos de conciencia que corresponden al caso judicial y desarrollan dialécticamente la rígida, brutal y absurda interrelación entre el fuero externo y el fuero interno ... Calderón perfeccionó el caso judicial y el caso de conciencia en combinación como fundamento estructural de una nueva forma dramática. (The revenge dramas represent cases of conscience that correspond to the judicial case and develop dialectically the rigid, brutal, and absurd interrelation between the external tribunal and the internal tribunal ... Calderón perfected the judicial case and the case of conscience in combination as the structural basis of a new dramatic form.)16

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Here Regalado claims that Calderón combines the form of the case of conscience with that of the legal case to produce some of his most powerful dramas. But I would argue that not just revenge tragedies, and not just plays by Calderón, but the majority of early modern Spanish comedias could be accounted for according to this model. To begin testing this thesis, let us see in what contexts the word ‘caso’ appears and how it is used in the comedia. Casos and Case Morality Often a case is described by characters in both early and late comedias as sad or lamentable, as in Agustín Moreto’s La fuerza de la ley, when Nise pronounces her opinion at the end: ‘Ni en dolor ni amor hay ojos / Para ver tan triste caso’ (There are no eyes either in pain or in love / To see such a sad case).17 In extreme instances a case may be ‘atrocious’ (casos tan atroces),18 dismal (funesto caso),19 or ‘miserable,’ as in Cervantes’s earlier El laberinto de amor, when Manfredo pronounces: ‘¡Válame Dios, qué miserable caso! / ¿Dónde fabricas, mundo, estos vaivenes?’ (Aid me, God! What a miserable case! / Where do you fabricate, world, these inconstancies?).20 At other times a case will be described as astonishing, as when the ambassador says (in the same play), ‘¡Oh, caso no creíble!’ (Oh, unbelievable case!)21 or when Enrique says in Moreto’s later La misma conciencia acusa, ‘Justo es que el caso me asombre’ (It is only right that the case astonish me).22 Often there are claims made for a case’s uniqueness or even supernatural tenor, as with ‘el caso astroso’ (a starry case), ‘Sale del curso ordinario / el caso’ (The case / departs from the ordinary course)23 or ‘este caso / Sin duda es algún prodigio’ (this case / Without doubt is some prodigy).24 At other times a case is described as simply ‘ugly’ (¡caso feo!),25 ‘repugnant’ (caso es repugnante)26 or confusing: Confuso voy, atónito y perplejo, entre el sí y entre el no mal satisfecho. Adiós, señor, porque este extraño caso, junto con el dolor, acucia el paso. (I go confused, astonished and perplexed, Between the yes and the no ill-satisfied. Goodbye, sir, because this strange case, Together with the pain, speeds the step.)27

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 43

Some cases are specifically permitted by God or heaven (‘el cielo / Dió permiso al triste caso’ [heaven / Gave permission to the sad case]), while others require special diligence (‘pide este caso / Diligencia’ [this case / requires diligence]).28 There are numerous other adjectives used to describe casos in the comedia, most of them pertaining to how well known the particular case in question happens to be; for example, ‘el relatado caso’ (the narrated case), ‘el caso manifiesto’ (the evident case), ‘el caso inaudito’ (the unheard-of case),29 or ‘el caso tan ajeno y tan remoto’ (the case so foreign and so remote).30 Many times a character will ask a variation of the question: ‘¿Ha visto caso semejante el suelo?’ (Has earth seen a similar case?).31 At other times the character will express a more personal reaction to the case, as in ‘Yo, del caso espantado’ (I, frightened by the case),32 ‘retraido / Está por el caso agora’ (he is a fugitive / Now because of this case),33 or ‘Confuso, padre mío, y asombrado / el caso me ha dejado’ (Confused, my father, and astonished / the case has left me).34 There are also various things a case might be thought to require, usually prudence or wisdom: ‘Digno es el caso de prudencia mucha’ (The case is worthy of much prudence).35 Frequently in the comedia there arises the need to ‘verify the case’ or ‘verify the cause’; for example, ‘Darme á conocer no quiero / Hasta averiguar el caso’ (I do not want to make myself known / Before verifying the case).36 In this same vein Blanca commands in Juan Ruiz de Alarcón’s La industria y la suerte : ‘Averiguad la verdad / Y castigad los culpados’ (Verify the truth / And punish the guilty).37 Sometimes this verification process is so difficult that a character does not know where to start: El cielo me dé prudencia. Cuando anegan la paciencia Tempestades del honor, Ni discurre el pensamiento, Ni sé por dónde comience La averiguación; que vence Al discurso el sentimiento. (May heaven give me prudence. When tempests of honour Inundate patience, Thought does not ramble,

44

Conscience on Stage Nor do I know where verification Begins; for feeling Conquers discourse.)38

One synonym for ‘verification’ is ‘substantiation,’ as in: Que entre los dos brevemente La causa aquí sustanciada, O la perdone culpada, O la disculpe inocente. (For between the two briefly The cause here substantiated, Either pardon her, being guilty, Or exculpate her, being innocent.)39

An extreme instance of this verification process may also occur by way of the sword. This custom hearkens back to a medieval tradition of jousting to decide interpersonal disputes. The reasoning behind this custom was that God would favour the righteous party in the dispute, allowing him to win, and punish the offender, permitting him to die. Thus Dagoberto in Cervantes’s El laberinto de amor claims that his valour in jousting will prove the adulterous guilt of his beloved Rosamira: Y esta prueba remítola a mi espada, que ha de ser el testigo más perfecto que se halle en la causa averiguada. (And this test I remit to my sword, Which has to be the most perfect witness That will be found in the verified cause.)40

Sometimes, in place of verification or jousting, a casuistical dialogue occurs in the comedias between characters in the form of a debate. Thus the estranged lovers Sol and Don Juan in Alarcón’s La industria y la suerte argue about which one of them should bear the blame for how their relationship has degenerated: sol: Y así no es razon que arguyas De livianas mis porfías

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 45 Ni que finjas culpas mias Para disculpar las tuyas. don juan: Sol, en injustas razones Estriba tu sentimiento, Y en un vano fundamento La obligacion que me pones. (sol: And thus it is not reasonable that you argue My disputes to be libidinous Nor that you pretend my faults To excuse yours. don juan: Sol, your sentiment is founded Upon unjust reasons, And on a vain foundation [Is laid] the obligation you place upon me.)41

Here the characters speak plainly the language of fault and blame, addressing each other directly in the second person, as each one tries to incriminate the other. Comedia characters may also admit to casuistical behaviour in an aside to the audience, as when Doña Flor acknowledges in a stage whisper: ‘Esta falsa culpa / Le imputo por disculparme’ (This false blame / I impute to him to excuse myself).42 Or they may accuse each other of using casuistry to foster misinterpretation: ‘No: de mi palabra es esa / Muy larga interpretacion’ (No: that is a very long interpretation / Of my word);43 ‘En vano para conmigo / Falsas disculpas maquinas’ (In vain do you fabricate / False excuses with me); or ‘Para disculpar las tuyas / ¿Finges, falsa, culpas mias?’ (To excuse your own [faults] / Do you pretend, false one, some of mine?).44 Occasionally we even have the opportunity to witness onstage a caso being debated in the third person by various characters who argue opposing viewpoints. This is especially frequent with a dramatist like Cervantes, who was really a novelist at heart and could not resist the temptation of telling a good story. In his El laberinto de amor, we come upon two unnamed citizens debating the case of the duchess Rosamira, locked up in prison by her father after being accused of adultery by her own lover Dagoberto. Manfredo introduces the scene, allowing us to eavesdrop with him on the conversation between these two citizens: ‘Fuy escuchando / dos que iban razonando / deste caso sucedido’ (I was listening / to two who went reasoning / about this case which had happened).45 This scene is such a remarkable example

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of casuistry in action upon the comedia stage that it is worth reproducing a longer section: ciudadano 1: Por mil conjeturas hallo que ella habrá de peligrar. ciudadano 2: En fin: que no se disculpa. ciudadano 1: ¡Ésa es una cosa extraña! ciudadano 2: El pensamiento me engaña, o ella no tiene culpa. manfredo: Mis señores, ¿qué se suena del caso de la duquesa? ciudadano 1: Que se está todavía presa, y el silencio la condena. manfredo: ¿Quién la acusa? ciudadano 2: Dagoberto. manfredo: ¿Da testigos? ciudadano 1: Ni aun indicios. manfredo: Cierto que no es ése oficio de caballero. ciudadano 1: No, cierto. manfredo: ¿Y su padre? ciudadano 1: ¿Qué ha de hacer? (citizen 1: By a thousand conjectures I find That she will have to be in danger. citizen 2: In the end: that she is not excused. citizen 1: That is a strange thing! citizen 2: Either thought deceives me, Or she is not guilty. manfredo: My lords, what is heard of the case of the duchess? citizen 1: That she is still a prisoner, And that silence condemns her. manfredo: Who accuses her? citizen 2: Dagoberto. manfredo: Does he give witnesses? citizen 1: Not even tokens. manfredo: Surely that is not the office of a knight. citizen 1: No, certainly not. manfredo: And her father? citizen 1: What should he do?)46

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 47

Later in the play these and other characters are still debating onstage what the correct outcome should be: anastasio: Tampoco no sé yo a qué se entremete A defender un hecho un estudiante Donde tan grande pecado se comete. ciudadano 2: Señores, no paséis más adelante: Que si es verdad que el duqe hizo tal hecho, Aquel que lo defienda es ignorante. (anastasio: Neither do I know why a student gets involved To defend a deed Where so great a sin is committed. citizen 2: Sirs, proceed no further: For if it is true that the duke committed such a deed, He who defends him is ignorant.)47

Here the specific language of sin and consequence is evoked to claim that a mere student is not qualified to decide such a difficult case. The argument becomes so heated that the citizen calls anyone who defends the duke ‘ignorant.’ Here we catch a fascinating glimpse of characters arguing back and forth concerning the various facets of a moral dilemma. Probably the most salient example of a caso from the confessional played out upon the stage in a comedia occurs in the third act of Lope de Vega’s El animal profeta y dichoso parricida San Julián. This supernatural scene, replete with visions of hell, purgatory, and heaven, along with appearances by a demon and the baby Jesus, becomes a sort of unearthly tribunal in which Julián’s caso is debated by the demon on one side and Jesus on the other. The demon declares that this case has become famous after much debate by doctors of theology in the (presumably Jesuit) school classrooms: En muchas aulas, a donde muchos doctores asisten, de ciencias varias, se ha consultado este caso, y todos juntos declaran que es imposible salvarse.

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Conscience on Stage (In many classrooms, Where many doctors congregate, Experts in various sciences, This case has been consulted, And all together declare That salvation is impossible.)48

The basic question is whether it is possible for Julián to escape eternal damnation. His sin, as the title suggests, is parricide, though in his case it was unintentional. Fulfilling a prophecy spoken to him long before in the woods by a talking deer, he unwittingly stabs his long-lost parents upon returning home to find them sleeping in his own bed. Assuming the couple are his wife and her lover, he murders them without pausing to verify their identity. In the tribunal scene at the end, Julián tries to argue his own innocence (in the third person) through the excuse of ignorance: ‘¿Propusieron la ignorancia / que tuvo en aquel delito?’ (Did they propose the ignorance / he had in that crime?).49 The demon responds, contradicting Aquinas’s doctrine of invincible ignorance,50 that ignorance is no excuse for sin: No hay abono que le valga; que la ignorancia en el hombre no quita el pecado. (There is no indemnity available to him; For ignorance in a man Does not remove sin.)51

He adds that the crime is made even more heinous by the fact that Julián’s parents did not die in a state of grace and therefore went straight to hell: ‘E hizo el pecado más grave / en no matarlos en gracia’ (And he made the sin graver / by not killing them in a state of grace).52 Julián responds by calling this ‘un caso riguroso’ (a rigorous case) and asking God why He is not merciful.53 The child Jesus in turn responds by showing Julián a vision of his parents in purgatory, where their time will be shorter because of their son’s pious works on earth: Si Julián me ha ofendido, por eso alcanzó discurso para hacer la penitencia,

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 49 pues en ella excedió a muchos. Yo le perdono, y por él el tiempo a sus padres suplo que habían de estar penando. (If Julián has offended me, For this reason he attained the discourse To do penance, For in that he has exceeded many. I pardon him, and because of him I overlook the time that his parents Were supposed to be suffering [in purgatory].)54

Thus this ‘caso tan arduo y acerbo’ (case so arduous and acerbic)55 is decided in the sinner’s favour, by none other than Christ Himself. Evidently, in this casuistical economy, it is permissible to murder one’s parents, as long as it was unintentional, and as long as one establishes a hospital afterwards to care for poor people and thereby ends one’s days ascetically. It also seems to have helped Julián that he made a pilgrimage to Rome to ask the pope’s absolution for his mortal sin: convencido del delito y de la justicia sacra, temeroso a Roma fue porque le absolviese el Papa. Absolvióle al fin, y luego, descalzo, a la Casa Santa fue ... (Convinced of the crime And of sacred justice, Fearfully he went to Rome For the pope to absolve him. He absolved him, at the end, and then, Barefoot, he went to the Holy House ...)56

A theology of grace is upheld here, as well as the authority of the church. But if we read carefully, it appears that Lope de Vega also seems to be pushing the proverbial envelope to determine under what circumstances it would be permissible to commit murder.

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Tied up in this casuistical dilemma is the whole free will vs. determinism debate,57 as Julián actually fled his native country in response to the prophecy spoken by the deer. Trying to avoid fulfilling the prophecy, he unconsciously created the conditions necessary for its fruition. But these are not the only theological issues Lope is trying to explore. Note that in the title, Julián receives the appellation San, or ‘Saint.’ Not only is it possible to kill one’s parents and escape eternal punishment; evidently it is even possible to ascend to sainthood afterwards. Lope would here seem to be offering carte blanche for murder, as long as the right circumstances can be summoned afterwards as an excuse through casuistry. Now he does go to great lengths to insist that a case like this one has never been seen before or since: ‘no hay de este caso otro ejemplo’ (there is no other example of this case).58 But Lope also seems to imply early on through the words of Julián that the right ‘cause’ could ‘obligate’ a son to kill his parents: ‘que ellos puedan causa darme / tan fuerte, que ha de obligarme / a matarlos’ (that they can give me a cause / so strong, as to obligate me / to kill them).59 Lope de Vega is not the only dramatist to offer moral loopholes for otherwise unacceptable actions: Miguel de Cervantes, in the closing scene of El laberinto de amor, holds out not just the possibility, but indeed the probability, of a papal dispensation in a case of cousins marrying each other (in early modern society, this would technically count as incest): anastasio: Y Porcia es mía, si no lo impide y desvía ser mi prima. duque: Fácil cosa es haber dispensación en caso tan importante. (anastasio: And Porcia is mine, If not impeded and derailed By the fact that she Is my cousin. duque: It is an easy thing To obtain a dispensation In such an important case.)60

Evidently the ‘importance’ of the case or the social status of the people involved is enough to justify a suspension of the normal rules.

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 51

Hypothetical Scenarios A variation on the word caso is acaso, but this word has a different meaning and appears in quite different contexts. It is technically an adverb derived from the Latin ‘casu’; Sebastián de Covarrubias defines it as ‘lo que sucede sin pensar, ni estar prevenido, decimos haber sido acaso y de improviso’ (what happens without thinking, nor being prevented, we say that it has been by chance and improvized).61 David Castillejo notes that Calderón in particular uses this word frequently: ‘“Acaso” es una palabra que Calderón usa a menudo; significa “casualidad,” “coincidencia,” una “ocasión casual”’ (‘Acaso’ is a word Calderón uses frequently; it signifies ‘chance,’ ‘coincidence,’ a ‘casual occasion’).62 Acaso is used for hypothetical situations in which guilt is postulated but not proven. Thus Manfredo postulates to Porcia in Cervantes’s El laberinto de amor: ‘si acaso estáis culpada’ (if perhaps you are guilty).63 It is also often used as an excuse by the gracioso or buffoon in a play, such as Pantoja in Mira de Amescua’s La mesonera del cielo. In a moment of culinary scarcity, he promises not to eat all the food instead of sharing it – unless, of course, hunger ‘forces’ him to do so: Yo le prometo de no comer una rama, si no es que acaso la hambre me hace quebrar la palabra. (I promise him Not to eat a leaf, If by chance hunger Does not make me break my word.)64

This ‘acaso’ or hypothetical situation is encountered with some frequency in the comedias. When there is a mitigating circumstance present that might excuse an otherwise sinful action, the comedia characters often refer to it as a ‘remedy’ or ‘excuse.’ This elusive quotient is perhaps more often lamented in its absence (here we are once again reminded of Derrida’s ‘play’ between presence and absence):65 ¡Ay de mí, que de la culpa de nuestro justo deseo por ninguna suerte veo ni remedio ni disculpa!

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Conscience on Stage (Ay me, that of the blame For our just desire In no way do I see Either remedy or excuse!)66

The casuistical word ‘acaso’ even appears in the titles of several comedias, such as Calderón’s El acaso y el error67 and Los empeños de un acaso. This pattern has been noticed by Antonio Regalado, who comments: Tras el autor de comedias se emboscan el teólogo y el pensador con el ojo puesto en la contingencia y el azar, en el lance y el acaso, términos que inspiran los títulos de algunas comedias, como El acaso y el error, De una causa dos efectos, Los empeños de un acaso o Lances de amor y fortuna. (Behind the author of comedias is hidden the theologian and the thinker with an eye placed on contigency and hazard, on chance and accident, terms that inspire the titles of some comedias, such as The Chance and the Error, Of One Cause Two Effects, The Obligations of an Accident, and Chances of Love and Fortune.)68

In all, a database search reveals that the word ‘acaso’ appears 2,034 times in 515 plays.69 Surely the fact that this and other casuistical words appear with such frequency cannot fail to be significant. Here we have the Derridian ‘trace’ of hypothetical scenarios being debated in early modern homes and taverns, if not in the actual confessional (the latter would of course be used to discuss non-hypothetical, or real, instances of sin). Now let us look at another key word for casuistry: the crucial moral concept of ocasión. ‘To Flee the Occasion of Sin’ Lope de Vega introduces this casuistical concept in the discourse of Julián in the play discussed at length above, El animal profeta, when he decides to leave his country in order to ‘flee the occasion’ of sin. He asks a signature question in the monologue where he tries to decide what to do: ¡Fuerte y riguroso trance! Que haya yo de dar la muerte A dos tan queridos padres, Y sabiéndolo no huya

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 53 De ocasión tan fiera y grave! Cruel soy; mas ¿qué he de hacer ... ? (Strong and rigorous peril! That I have to give death To two parents, so beloved, And knowing it do not flee Such a fierce and grave occasion! I am cruel; but what should I do ... ?)70

He later decides definitively, ‘quiero huir de la ocasión’ (I want to flee the occasion).71 Even this diligence, however, as we have seen, does not protect him from unintentionally committing the very sin he had worked so hard to avoid. Another character striving to avoid sin by fleeing the occasion is Abrahán in Mira de Amescua’s La mesonera del cielo. He literally flees to the mountains to avoid marrying his betrothed, fearing that her beauty will ignite the flames of his lust and he will succumb to a life of lasciviousness. Declaring that ‘Amor y ocasión son fuego,’ his philosophy is that el huir de ocasiones amorosas es la mayor valentía y el vencerse gran vitoria. (Fleeing From amorous occasions Is the greatest valour And conquering oneself a great victory.)72

A synonym for the concept of fleeing the occasion appears in the words of Manfredo in Cervantes’s El laberinto de amor: ‘será cordura / huir del daño mayor’ (it will be prudence / to flee the greater harm).73 Here we catch a glimpse of another idea which is important for casuistry, that of degrees of damage or evil when placed in relation to one another. Here, presumably, Manfredo considers it wise to flee the greater damage but will have to learn to live with a lesser one. ‘Occasion’ may also be understood to imply ‘fault,’ as when one character gives another occasion to sin. This is the sense in Mira de Amescua’s La mesonera del cielo, where María laments that her life of

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whoredom has led many men into the clutches of the devil, and ultimately, into eternal damnation: tantos por mi ocasión, llevados de su apetito, fueron a ser moradores del eterno precipicio. (So many by my occasion, Carried by their appetite, Went to be dwellers Of the eternal precipice [hell]).74

Here she acknowledges that these men were led by their own appetites but also admits her role in giving them opportunity to satisfy those appetites. In the carefully calibrated calculus of casuistry, not even the smallest degree of blame goes unnoticed. What is the connection between case and occasion? The Marqués in Alarcón’s Ganar amigos mentions both words in the same breath when he asks Don Fernando ‘cuál / Fué la ocasión deste caso’ (what / Was the occasion of this case).75 The lexicographer Covarrubias notes that ‘los juristas llaman caso la ocasión o proposición sobre que se funda la determinación de la ley o decreto’ (the jurists call a case the occasion or proposition upon which is founded the determination of the law or decree).76 The relationship between the concepts of caso and ocasión may best be explicated by a line from Alarcón’s La industria y la suerte. In it Celia says to Sol, ‘El caso vino á ponerte / En la mano la ocasión’ (The case came to place / In your hand the occasion).77 Here we see that the confluence of circumstances – the caso – confronts a person with an occasion (ocasión) upon which he or she may choose whether to act or not act and how. This string of casuistical phrases and concepts may be seen as steps on the path leading to sin or rungs on the ladder leading out of punishment; but either way, they bear with them a set of culturally specific connotations that we must listen to carefully in order to hear. Guillén de Castro invokes the exculpatory sense of ‘occasion’ in Las mocedades del Cid, when Urraca tries to excuse Rodrigo’s murder of Ximena’s father, saying ‘El Conde le dió ocasión’ (The Count gave him occasion). Ximena does not deny that her father gave him just cause,

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 55

but persists in claiming that the Cid did not have to take this opportunity: ‘¡Él la pudiera escusar!’ (He could have declined it!).78 Here we see that occasions do not always have to be acted upon, thereby leaving ample room in this moral economy for volition or free will. Indeed, as Fernando Plata explains, in contemporary iconographies, the figure of Occasion was pictured as an otherwise-bald woman with a prominent forelock that must be siezed in order to take advantage of the opportunity she represents.79 If the forelock is not siezed, then the Occasion is lost, as in the title of Lope de Vega’s play La ocasión perdida.80 In a slightly different sense of the word, sometimes an ocasión is seen to mitigate the law or conventionally agreed-upon morality.81 For example, in Cervantes’s El laberinto de amor, the devious Dagoberto declares at the outset: Forzosa es la ocasión, forzoso el lance ... Impide una ocasión lo que el derecho Pide, y así, es forzoso el ocultallo. (Forceful is the occasion, forceful is the intrigue ... An occasion impedes what the law Demands, and thus, it is necessary to hide it.)82

Here he claims that the ocasión is so forceful that it impedes the fulfilment of the normal requirements of the law. He is so convinced of this mitigating circumstance that he bases his moral judgment upon it. Juan does the same thing in Alarcón’s Don Domingo de Don Blas: ‘Ya tengo más ocasión / que a la vengaza me obligue’ (I already have more occasion / that obligates me to revenge).83 Here the occasion is seen to obligate or move a person to action, as in ‘la ocasión que me ha movido’ (the occasion that has moved me).84 Occasion may also be seen to ‘squeeze’ or pressure a person into action: ‘ésta es mayor confusión, / que aprieta más la ocasión’ (this is greater confusion, / that the occasion squeezes more).85 In a variation on this theme, the occasion or ‘intrigue’ may be seen as ‘tight’ (‘¿Qué hará el Marqués / En lance tan apretado?’) (What will the Marquis do / In such a tight intrigue?)86 or, alternatively, the ‘contradiction’ described as ‘strong’ (‘¿Qué he de hacer? / ¡Oh fuerte contradicion!’) (What should I do? / Oh strong contradiction!).87 Sometimes a ‘strong’ occasion is contrasted to a merely ‘apparent’ (i.e., falsified) one, as in this speech, where Don Luis first speaks of ‘una

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ocasión tan fuerte’ and then opposes ‘ocasión verdadera’ to ‘ocasión aparente’: luis: ... ¿qué debo hacer en una ocasión tan fuerte, pues cuando el honor me quita me da la vida y me vence? Yo he de buscar ocasión verdadera o aparente, para que pueda en tal duda pensar lo que debe hacerse. (luis: ... What should I do In such a fierce occasion, For when it takes away my honour It gives me life and conquers me? I have to seek occasion, True or apparent, So that I can in such doubt Think what should be done.)88

Here occasion is seen as giving rise to a dilemma but also potentially providing a means for finding the way out of that dilemma. The concept of occasion as mitigating circumstance appears again in the very title of Agustín Moreto’s La ocasión hace el ladrón. Here even the title of the play makes a claim that the person is really innocent – it is only the occasion or circumstance that made him a thief! Presumably, if occasion can thus be ‘sought’ in a positive sense, then it must be understood not merely in the context of ‘occasion for sin’ but also in the context of ‘occasion for innocence.’ The best line in the comedia corpus about fleeing the occasion of sin – out of 7,382 instances of the word encountered in 751 early modern Spanish plays89 – is probably to be found in Mira de Amescua’s La mesonera del cielo. At one point Abrahán says, ‘el huir la ocasión es piedra dura / para quebrar los ojos al demonio’ (fleeing the occasion / is a hard stone / for breaking the eyes of the demon).90 This harsh image of throwing a stone at a tempting demon, thereby breaking his eyes, is a stark reminder of just how passionately spiritual temptation could be felt by early modern people91 and the stage characters representing them.

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 57

Competing Obligations Another word that appears with overwhelming frequency in the comedias in casuistical contexts is obligación. This is perhaps the casuistical term most frequently remarked upon by older critics, such as in the statement: ‘Time and again Calderón’s characters are confronted with conflicting obligations and they are made to weigh them against each other in monologues or asides.’92 Some variant of this word appears in several titles of comedias, such as Obligar contra su sangre.93 A partial synonym for this word is empeño, as in the title of Calderón’s Los empeños de un acaso or Sor Juana’s Los empeños de una casa, which purposefully puns on the title of Calderón’s earlier work.94 Sometimes there is an adjective either before or after the word, indicating the type of obligation involved. Thus Dagoberto says, in Miguel de Cervantes’s El laberinto de amor, ‘imposible es parar hasta que diga / lo que una justa obligación me obliga’ (it is impossible to stop until saying / what a just obligation obliges me [to say]).95 Here the obligation is characterized as ‘just,’ and thus rightfully destined to influence the outcome of a casuistical dilemma. Alarcón offers us more detailed information about this concept of obligation in Don Domingo de Don Blas, the subtitle of which is vaguely casuistical (No hay mal que por bien no venga). In the first act, Juan states: ‘si sólo el peligro / es medio para obligar, / más obliga el daño mismo’ (if danger alone / is a means to obligate, / harm itself obligates [even] more).96 Here we see that merely the danger of harm may oblige a person to act in a certain way, but actual harm may obligate even further. Another entity that may obligate one to sin is a rather ambiguous ‘necessity’: ‘¿Qué delito no se espera / de la vil necesidad?’ (What crime is not expected / out of vile necessity?).97 Obligations are not permanent, however, and may be removed by the appropriate authority (a papal dispensation, the dictum of a monarch, or the judgment of a confessor). In Mira de Amescua’s La mesonera del cielo, God appears as the ultimate casuist in a speech by the protagonist Abrahán, who claims that the Divine Judge has heard his case and absolved him of the responsibility to marry his betrothed: el soberano Juez este pleito fulminó, y así ha dado por sentencia que a cumplir no está obligado la palabra que te ha dado.

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Conscience on Stage (The sovereign Judge Fulminated this lawsuit, And thus has given as a sentence That he is not obligated to comply With the promise that he gave you.)98

Commandments may be broken in the same way, as when Don Juan transposes the language of sin and transgression into the realm of romantic love to say that he has ‘broken’ his lover’s ‘commandment.’ Listen as he tries to exculpate himself: Perdonad si he quebrantado, Blanca, vuestro mandamiento; Que bien estoy disculpado, Si advertís que me ha obligado La fuerza del sentimiento. (Pardon me if I have broken, Blanca, your commandment; For I am well excused, If you note that the force of sentiment Has obliged me.)99

Not just anything, however, gives one licence to break obligations. One character makes the categorical statement, ‘No á romper obligaciones / Dan licencia los agravios’ (Not to break obligations / Do grievances give licence).100 In addition to ‘obligations,’ there are other circumstances or issues that arise in the comedias which have the power to influence the outcome of a given moral dilemma. One of these is undoubtedly ‘necessity,’ particularly used in the plural in the sense of competing necessities: ‘Dos necesidades son / las que apellidan a gritos / mi valor’ (Two necessities are they / that call shouting / to my valour).101 Two other recognizable quotients in this moral arithmetic are ‘inconveniences’ and ‘means.’ These are opposites in the sense that inconveniences are obstacles, while means are ways of getting something accomplished. Inconveniences are usually wished away or in fact transformed into means within the casuistical mindset, as in Sol’s admonishment to Celia:

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 59 No mira en inconvenientes; Pues mas increíbles casos Solicitan mis cautelas, Que tú habrás imaginado. (Do not look at inconveniences; For more incredible cases Solicit my precautions, Than you have probably imagined.)102

Illustrating the conjunction of ‘inconveniences’ and ‘means,’ Porcia mentions both of these concepts in the same breath in Cervantes’s El laberinto de amor : Aunque tuviera el caso inconvenientes mayores, con mi industria los venciera y buscara los medios suficientes. (Even if the case had greater inconveniences, I would conquer them with my industry And would seek sufficient means.)103

Sometimes ‘means’ are contrasted with ‘ends,’ as in Don Juan’s statement that devious means seldom lead to good ends: ‘Pocas veces alcanzaron / Buen fin engañosos medios’ (Few times did devious means / Attain a good end).104 Often there is a perceived disjunction between means and ends, as in Celia’s complaint: Que estoy Confusa cómo no alcanzo Los fines de tus intentos Y de medios tan extraños. (I am confused How I do not understand The ends of your intentions And of such strange means.)105

Speaking of intentions, even a good action can be spoiled by questionable or dubious intentions: ‘in casuistry ... even the most virtuous

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act was subject to adulteration by the insinuation of a less than virtuous intention or purpose.’106 On the flip side, good intentions can negate the potential treachery of an action: ‘One was always bound to follow the dictates of one’s conscience, even when doing so led one into an act considered by moral theologians to be “objectively evil.”’107 This casuistical concept is invoked explicitly in the comedias when the Marqués in Alarcón’s Ganar amigos asserts confidently that ‘Dios ... ayuda liberal / La bien fundada intención’ (God ... helps liberally / The well-founded intention).108 He reiterates this notion along with the belief that his innocence will eventually come to light and he will at that time be released from prison: ‘estoy confiado / De que al fin ha de librarme / Mi inocencia’ (I am confident / That at the end my innocence / Must liberate me).109 Another casuistical concept appearing with some frequency in the comedias is that of ‘accommodation.’ Beltrán in Alarcón’s Don Domingo de Don Blas mentions this verb in the context of an actual caso, ‘porque el caso se acomoda’ (because the case accomodates itself).110 Related to this concept are the terms ‘excuse,’ ‘discharge,’ and ‘seek reparation.’ Don Fernando wraps all of these discursive elements into one short speech as he posts a disclaimer that he is not about to engage in casuistical reasoning: No penseis Que el temor busca reparos, Que inventa el respeto excusas, O la obligacion descargos ... (Do not think That fear seeks reparations, That respect invents excuses, Or obligation, acquittals ...)111

As with any discursive situation where the speaker protests too much, the audience is of course alerted to the probability that casuistical reasoning is in fact about to follow. Finally, a clearly casuistical construct appearing often enough in the comedias to warrant mention is ‘reason of state.’112 This concept appears even in the titles of some comedias and autos sacramentales, such as Calderón’s A Dios por razón de estado, which ends with the clearly casuistical lines:

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 61 que debe el ingenio humano llegarlo a amar y creer por razón de Estado cuando faltara la de la fe. (That human ingenuity Should come to love and believe Him [God] For reason of State when Reason of faith falters.)113

In other words, casuistry provides a justification for doing the right thing, even if it is for the wrong reasons (or vice versa). Although this is an auto sacramental, the casuistical principle herein articulated resembles those found in many comedias. The characters may be ‘flat,’ allegorical, or fragmented in the autos (just as they are clearly parodic in the burlesque entremés), but the same underlying casuistical principles often still hold. In the hegemonic society fostered by the Spanish absolute monarchy, reason of state was often used as a trump card to decide moral questions definitively. A good example occurs when the rigour of justice is tempered by a consideration for reason of state: bien mirado, Alguna vez el rigor De la justicia, señor, Cede á la razon de estado. (well examined, Sometimes the rigour Of justice, sir, Cedes to reason of state.)114

The general tenor of this argument, when it is employed, is that private considerations should give way to the greater public good: Juzgad agora si quiero Con razon y causa urgente Castigar un delincuente Y quietar un reino entero.

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Here, according to the logic of ‘reason of state,’ the punishment of one delinquent holds the potential for pacifying an entire realm. But powerful as this casuistical weapon is, reason of state can occasionally be surmounted by a powerful passion such as love: ‘Tan ciego estado de amor / No mira razon de estado’ (Such a blind state of love / Does not look at reason of state).116 This is only, of course, when love is not subsumed under reason of state, as in the title of Tirso de Molina’s Amar por razón de estado. Such apparent contortions of logic aside, there is a place for the passions in casuistry too, as when a character must strike a balance between competing desires. Thus in Tirso de Molina’s Amar por señas, Don Gabriel asks in an aside: ‘¿Qué he de hacer, cuando causais / Deseo contra deseo, / Sino enloquecer confuso?’ (What should I do, when you cause / Desire against desire, / But go crazy, being confused?).117 He may not find an immediate answer, but it is the project of casuistry at least to explore the question. The role of the passions is also acknowledged, at least by implication, in the contrast between the titles of two plays by Agustín Moreto, La fuerza de la ley and La fuerza del natural. Here we catch a glimmer of the suggestion that nature or appetite can arise to challenge the law, presenting a force which can equal it in intensity. In summary, caso, acaso, obligación, empeño, necesidad, fines, medios, intento, acomodarse, ocasión, razón de estado: these are some of the terms within the casuistical idiom with which we must become familiar if we are to hear this layer of resonance in the comedias. In learning to identify the sounds of this new language, we are in fact recovering the elusive Derridian trace, the ‘footprint’ of casuistical discourse preserved in stage plays from the period. Derrida defines the concept of ‘trace’ in negative terms: ‘The trace is not only the disappearance of origin – within the discourse that we sustain and according to the path that we follow it means that the origin did not even disappear, that it was never constituted except reciprocally by a nonorigin, the trace, which thus becomes the origin of the origin.’118 Derrida at one point seems to differentiate, however, between the ‘trace’ and the ‘arche-trace’: ‘to wrench the concept of the trace from the classical scheme, which would derive it from a presence or from an

The Vocabulary of Casuistry 63

originary nontrace and which would make of it an empirical mark, one must indeed speak of an originary trace or arche-trace.’119 Yet even that distinction remains too teleological: ‘Yet we know that that concept destroys its name and that, if all begins with the trace, there is above all no originary trace.’120 Perhaps it may be useful to look at the trace as the play of absence and presence: ‘generally speaking, a trace represents a present mark of an absent (presence).’121 In this vein, we might see words like caso, intento, or ocasión as present marks of an absent confessor, the phantasm who hovers over the comedia text. Let us move on now from simply identifying casuistical words and phrases to actually reconstructing whole speeches of casuistical reasoning. The same research tools, such as computer database searches, when used judiciously and in combination with a close reading of plays in their entirety, can still aid us in this endeavour; for many of the casuistical speeches in the comedias are introduced by a single hallmark question: ‘What should I do?’

2 ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’

The most common pivotal question, or ‘catch phrase,’ signalling to the audience that casuistry underlies any given speech or interchange in the comedia is the oft-repeated ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ (What should I do?). This question echoes the query of penitents seeking advice from a priest in the confessional and sets the wheels in motion for the casuistical reasoning process to begin. The temporal orientation of this question towards future action signals another important feature of casuistry – namely, that it can be simultaneously both prospective as well as retrospective. Richard B. Miller explains this apparent paradox of casuistical temporality: Casuists have developed an elaborate set of distinctions to clarify whether or to what degree moral responsibility is to be imputed to an individual. (Casuistical distinctions are also meant to guide practical judgments in the future, assuming that casuistry can be prospective as well as retrospective.) Equipped with the vocabulary of blame and praise, casuists (or the individuals they advise) articulate a poetics for conscientious action and practical deliberation.1

This double, simultaneous temporal orientation is reminiscent of the Derridian trace: ‘this double movement is precisely that which Derrida has expressed ... in his usage and subsequent discrediting of the term “past” to describe the relation of “trace” to the present.’2 Jacques Derrida himself expresses this ‘double movement’ thus: ‘Différance is therefore ... the being-imprinted of the imprint.’3 He goes on to explain this double movement specifically in terms of a sort of double temporality:

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 65 It is in the specific zone of this imprint and this trace, in the temporalization of a lived experience which is neither in the world nor in ‘another world’ ... that differences appear among the elements or rather produce them, make them emerge as such and constitute the texts, the chains, and the systems of traces. These chains and systems cannot be outlined except in the fabric of this trace or imprint.4

Like the Derridian trace or the Janus of classical antiquity, casuistry looks both backwards and forwards at the same time. However, in order to simplify, we shall examine only the prospective or future-oriented side of the casuistry equation in this chapter. It may be objected that, at times, the signature question ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ seems to be ‘merely’ tactical or strategic. But even these examples, while not themselves casuistical, may nonetheless be seen to lead to casuistry, since Albert Jonsen and Stephen Toulmin emphasize again and again that casuistry is a supremely practical (not theoretical) discipline – a position they trace back to Aristotle’s distinction between phronesis (practical wisdom) and episteme (general scientific understanding).5 This definition is in fact upheld by the evidence of Spanish casuistical manuals such as Antonio de Córdoba’s Tratado de casos de consciencia (1573), in which specific cases of conscience are analysed for the purpose of telling the reader, in practical terms, what to do. The shorter confessors’ manuals, likewise (as opposed to encyclopedic reference works), were designed for the practical purpose of instructing priests as they told penitents what to do when they came to confession. Juan de Dueñas’ Remedio de peccadores (1545) specifically states that the penitent must be ready to do as the confessor commands: ‘que el q[ue] co[n]fiessa a de estar aparejado p[ar]a hazer lo q[ue] le ma[n]dare el co[n]fessor’ (that he who confesses has to be ready to do what the confessor commands him to do).6 The signal question ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ may also be asked as ‘¿Qué haré?,’‘¿Qué debo hacer?,’ or even implied in the phrase, ‘lo que debe hacerse.’ It is often coupled with some version of the exclamation ‘Válgame Dios’ or ‘Valedme, cielos, valedme,’ a specific prayer to heaven for aid in resolving the dilemma. Out of 116 comedias searched through the Comedia Textlist online computer database sponsored by the Association for Hispanic Classical Theater and distributed by the University of Arizona, 75 per cent of the plays contained a version of this phrase (see the appendix, pp. 203–5). These titles include works by Miguel de Cer-

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vantes, Lope de Vega, Guillén de Castro, Mira de Amescua, Tirso de Molina, Ana Caro, Calderón de la Barca, and Agustín Moreto. The breakdown of plays containing this phrase out of the total number of plays searched, divided by author, is as follows: Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616): 4/8 Lope de Vega (1562–1635): 10/15 Guillén de Castro (1569–1631): 4/4 Mira de Amescua (1574?–1644): 8/16 Tirso de Molina (1584?–1648): 39/47 Ana Caro (1600s; life dates unknown): 2/2 Calderón de la Barca (1600–81): 19/23 Agustín Moreto (1618–69): 1/1.

Although an exhaustive discussion of all of these occurrences would be neither possible nor desirable, we shall attempt to examine some representative instances to see what we can learn about the ‘traces’ of casuistical discourse left behind in the comedia. Questions of Strategy Let us begin with a few summary examples. These instances, while not yet pertaining to the moral realm, nonetheless partake of the same linguistic structure we are studying. The fact that casuistical language is used even in non-casuistical situations simply demonstrates the pervasiveness of this linguistic register. In Derridian terms, in the interstices between presence and absence, these are the cases where the casuistical ‘trace’ is more absent than present. Catalinón asks himself ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ when he thinks his master may have drowned in Tirso de Molina’s El burlador de Sevilla.7 Doña Inés asks Doña Juana (disguised as Elvira) for advice using this question in the same author’s Don Gil de las calzas verdes,8 as does Aurora of the Marqués in Lope’s El castigo sin venganza.9 Don Enrique asks it again in Calderón’s El médico de su honra, as do his former lover Doña Mencía and his king, faced with how to resolve the tragic end.10 Usually the question only occurs once in a given speech, but sometimes it is repeated for emphasis: ¿Qué he de hacer? Solo callar; ¿Qué he de hacer? Solo sentir;

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 67 ¿Qué he de hacer? Solo morir. (What should I do? Only be silent; What should I do? Only be sorry; What should I do? Only die.)11

Blanca repeats the same question twice upon discovering that the man to whom she just sent a love letter may have proven to be false: ¿Qué he de hacer, ya declarada, Si ve el papel? Qué he de hacer Sino morir ó vencer, Celosa y enamorada? (What should I do, already declared, If he sees the paper? What should I do But die or conquer, Jealous and enamoured?)12

This question is usually accompanied in the comedias by an exclamation – frequently a lament about how difficult the situation is or an appeal to heaven or some other source for aid. Although the norm is to find one question accompanied by one exclamation, occasionally this pattern is also repeated for greater emphasis: Ya, Señora, Contra mí ... (¡El cielo me valga!) Mi amor ... (¡Sin vida respiro!) Os perdió. (¡Estoy sin alma!) Mas ¿qué he de hacer ...? (Already, Madam, Against myself ... [Heaven help me!] My love ... [I breathe without life!] Lost you. [I am without soul!] But what should I do?)13

Sometimes this question and its accompanying exclamations occur in the context of logistics, as in Luis Vélez de Guevara’s Reinar después de morir, when Brito informs Doña Inés that the Infanta is approaching in

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the course of her day of hunting. Inés debates about where to go, as she must make a quick decision: inés: Válgame Dios, ¿qué he de hacer? Quiero retirarme, quiero que no me vea; mas no, sin duda es mejor acuerdo esperarla y ver si pueden cortesanos cumplimientos obligarla. (inés: So help me God, what should I do? I want to retire, I want Her not to see me; but no, Without doubt it is a better plan To wait for her and see if Courteous compliments can Oblige her.)14

Perhaps the most frequently encountered context for this type of strategical manoeuvering is that of romantic love. In Calderón’s Eco y Narciso, Eco asks this telling question in reference to whether she should use deception as a ruse for luring Narciso.15 When Narciso sees her and starts running away yet again, she rationalizes casuistically in her monologue that deception is permissible if it helps her win his love ‘even just once.’ Following the example of her unsuccessful suitors Febo and Silvio, she pretends not to take much notice of Narciso and thus awakens his curiosity: eco: Mas ¿qué? ¿Lo que he de hacer dudo yo? ¿Aquí a sentir no llegué Que se fuesen sin hablarme Los dos que aborrecí? Pues Lo que fue veneno en ellos Será medicina en él. Esfuérzate, corazón. Vence siquiera una vez. ¡Narciso!

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 69 (eco: But what? Do I doubt what I should do? Did I not arrive here to perceive that The two whom I hated Left without speaking to me? Well, What was poison in them Will be medicine in him. Take courage, my heart. Win, if only just once. Narciso!)16

The squire Fisberto asks the more usual form of this question with double force (repeating it twice) after falling in love with the bride he was sent to bring back for his master: Ya mi balor es pequeño, Para recistir mi mal, ¿qué he de hazer?, que soy leal. ¿qué he de hazer?, que amando muero. Vno huyo, y otro quiero. Y así es mi pena inmortal, ardo y lloro sin sosiego, y mi graue mal es tanto, que ni el fuego enjuga el llanto, ni el llanto consume el fuego. (Already my valour is small, To resist my ill, What should I do? for I am loyal. What should I do? for I die loving. I flee one and love the other. And thus is my pain immortal, I burn and weep without consolation, And my grave ill is so much, That neither fire dries up the weeping, Nor do tears consume the flame.)17

Beyond this servant’s melodramatic sighs we can nevertheless catch the glimpse of a real dilemma: the choice between pursuit of romantic love

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and loyalty to his master. His plight continues in the second act with the lines, ‘en confusos pensamientos / tengo el injenio turbado. / ¿Qué he de hacer?’ (In confused thoughts / I have my mind perturbed. / What should I do?) and ‘¡Qué abismos de confusión! / No sé qué tengo de hacer’ (What abysses of confusion! / I do not know what I have to do).18 The object of his love, Porcia, is equally distraught: Profeta fue el coraçón, bien a boses lo decía mi muda melancolía; perdida soy, ¿qué he de hacer? (A prophet was my heart, My mute melancholy Spoke it out loud; I am lost, what should I do?)19

But although this question is frequently encountered on issues of strategy (especially regarding the tactics of amorous assault), it is found even more frequently in the context of morality and ethical conduct. It is here that we actually have the opportunity to witness casuistry in action on the stage. Here the ‘trace’ becomes stronger and easier to discern. It is to this realm that we shall turn our attention now. Moral Dilemmas and Conflicting Duties In his essay ‘Moral Conflict and Its Structure,’ modern philosopher David Brink gives the following ‘Recipe for Moral Dilemmas’: 1. One has a prima facie obligation to do A. 2. One has a prima facie obligation to do B. 3. One is under an all-things-considered obligation to x just in case one is under a prima facie obligation to do x, and there is no greater, simple or complex, competing prima facie obligation one is under. 4. One’s prima facie obligation to do A is no greater than one’s prima facie obligation to do B, and vice versa. 5. One is under no other prima facie obligation, simple or complex, that competes with A or B and that is as great an obligation. 6. Hence one has an all-things-considered obligation to do A. 7. Hence one has an all-things-considered obligation to do B.

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 71 8. It is possible for one to do A. 9. It is possible for one to do B. 10. It is not possible for one to do A and B.20

We find abundant examples of this type of moral dilemma in the comedia. Usually the dilemma may be traced back to a conflict between one or more duties a character is seen to face. Let us see how this works with reference to the plays themselves. In the appropriately designated ‘tragedy’ La estrella de Sevilla, moral dilemmas abound as an evil king conspires to marry Estrella by ordering her betrothed to kill her brother, thus doing away with both obstacles to his dishonourable happiness. The king himself asks what to do at each juncture as he spirals downward into a pit of moral depravity. He exclaims ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ once Busto catches him sneaking into his house to seduce his sister21 and again as he ponders whether to sentence Sancho Ortiz to death for killing Busto,22 knowing all the while that Sancho was only following the king’s own orders. At the end of the play, he asks his privado, Don Arias, two more times for advice: ‘Don Arias, / ¿Qué he de hacer? ¿Qué me aconsejas / Entre confusiones tantas?’ (Don Arias, / What should I do? What do you counsel me / Amidst so many confusions?) and then ‘¿Qué haré, / Que me apura y acobarda / Esta gente?’ (What shall I do, / That these people / Pressure and frighten me?).23 In the next chapter we shall explore more examples of scenes of advice-giving between masters and servants which are similar to this one. Finally, in a spectacular confession scene, the king admits to the citizens of Seville that he ordered Sancho Ortiz to kill Busto. In doing so, he does not follow the advice of his crooked privado but instead (for the first time) acts upon his own sense of shame for his previous wrongdoing. In this same play, the murderer Sancho Ortiz faces an even more difficult moral dilemma. Should he follow the king’s orders to kill his future brother-in-law? He reasons to himself in the following casuistical monologue: ¡Perdido soy! ¿Qué he de hacer? Que al Rey la palabra he dado ... Y á su hermana he de perder ... Sancho Ortiz, no puede ser. Viva Busto. – Mas no es justo Que al honor contraste el gusto:

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Conscience on Stage Muera Busto, Busto muera. – Mas détente, mano fiera; Viva Busto, viva Busto. – Mas no puedo con mi honor Cumplir, si á mi amor acudo; Mas ¿quién resistirse pudo A la fuerza del amor? Morir me será mejor, O ausentarme, de manera Que sirva al Rey, y él no muera. Mas quiero al Rey agradar ... Mas soy caballero, Y no he de hacer lo que quiero, Sino lo que debo hacer. Pues ¿qué debo obedecer? La ley que fuere primero. Mas no hay ley que á aquesto obligue Mas si hay; que aunque injusto el Rey ... A él después Dios le castigue ... ¿Qué he de hacer? ¿Puedo otra cosa? (I am lost! What should I do? For I have given my word to the king ... And I must lose his sister ... Sancho Ortiz, it cannot be. Let Busto live. – But it is not just That pleasure conflicts with honour: Let Busto die, let Busto die. – But stay thyself, fierce hand; Let Busto live, let Busto live. – But I cannot uphold my honour, If I succour my love; But who could resist The force of love? It will be better for me to die, Or absent myself, in such a way That I serve the king, and he not die. But I want to please the king ... But I am a knight,

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 73 And I should not do what I want, But instead what I should do. Well, what should I obey? The law which comes first. But there is no law which obliges me to [do] this But yes, there is; for although the king is unjust ... God will punish him afterward ... What should I do? Can I do anything else?)24

Here Sancho Ortiz weighs various options, first deciding to let Busto live and then – changing his mind – deciding to kill him. Casuistically, he sorts through competing loyalties (to king, betrothed, and future brother-in-law) and conflicting values (amor vs. honor) and finally concludes that he must not do what he wants to do but instead what he should do. A noble thought, in principle; but which law should he then obey? The problem is to determine ‘la ley que fuere primero’ (the law which comes first). While noting that no law would oblige him to murder, he alludes to the fact (stated elsewhere in the play) that every word pronounced by the king does, in effect, become law: ‘un rey / Le hace entre sus labios ley’ (a king / Makes the law between his lips).25 He concludes that it is his duty to obey the king, even if the king orders him to commit a crime. He also expresses his hope that God will punish the king for his sin. He concludes his monologue with the haunting questions: ‘What should I do? Can I do otherwise?’ This problem of whether to obey a king even when the king gives a command to commit a crime is resolved subversively in the same play when the city fathers of Seville refuse to go along with the king’s perverse wishes. They disobey him directly by refusing to produce the sentence for a criminal which he had specified earlier.26 In doing so, they shame him into confessing his own crime – subornation to murder – and thereby contribute to the justice of the outcome at the end. Here Lope de Vega (or whoever the true author of this play might be)27 presents an unflattering portrait of a monarch in a tragedy where noble subjects are the victims of an evil king whose inability to control his passions brings them to ruin. The scenario of a king ordering his subject to commit a crime or injustice appears frequently as a hallmark casuistical dilemma in the comedias. In Tirso de Molina’s Cómo han de ser los amigos, the king of Navarra orders Don Manrique to take advantage of the fact that his

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friend Don Gastón is in prison, thereby confiscating his inheritance. Don Manrique debates within himself whether to obey the king or instead remain loyal to his friend: ¡Qué notable tentación ha combatido mi pecho! La honra con el provecho grandes enemigos son. Si ha de morir don Gastón sin que le dé libertad de Aymerico la crueldad con que mis ruegos resiste, porque su Estado conquiste, ¿en qué agravio su amistad? Mas ¡oh civil pensamiento! ¿Tal comunicas conmigo? Preso don Gastón, mi amigo, ¿su hacienda usuparla intento? Quimeras sin fundamento son; mas si en prisión cruel muere, ¿qué he de hacer? Ser fiel y, a pesar de armas y miedo, libertalle, y si no puedo, morir en prisión con él. ¿Mandólo el Rey de Aragón? Cuando el amigo es de ley atropella vida y Rey: ¿qué importa si entrambos son amigos? La obligación que tengo al Rey y su amor no ha de manchar mi valor para que su intento siga, que no es amigo el que obliga a su amigo a ser traidor. (What a notable temptation Has attacked my breast! Honour and profit Are great enemies. If Don Gastón has to die

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 75 Without receiving liberty From Aymerico, who with cruelty Resists my pleas, Because he conquers his state, In what do I offend his friendship? But oh, lowly thought! Do you communicate thus to me? Don Gastón a prisoner, my friend, Do I attempt to usurp his estate? They are chimeras without foundation; But if he dies in cruel prison, What should I do? Be loyal And, in spite of weapons and fear, Liberate him, and if I cannot, Die in prison with him. Did the king of Aragon command it? When it is a lawful friend, It [friendship] trounces life and king: But what happens when both [of them] Are [my] friends? The obligation I have toward the king and his love Does not have to stain my valour So that I follow his intention, For he is no friend who obliges His friend to be a traitor.)28

He tries to rationalize his intended treachery by reasoning that his friend is in prison and will die there anyway. But then he changes his mind and decides that the law of friendship is a higher law even than the precept of obedience to the king. This same decision is reached by Don Fernando in Alarcón’s aptly titled Ganar amigos. He delivers an eloquent defence of friendship as a priority higher than any other: ¿Qué hemos de hacer, corazon, En un tan confuso estado? El que la vida me ha dado, Por mi culpa está en prision. A Flora perdí por él; Mas él ¿en qué me ofendió, Si mi aficion ignoró?

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Conscience on Stage Palabra de amigo fiel Le dí y me dió, y ha cumplido Él la suya; pues mi vida Será primero perdida Que yo en amistad vencido. (What should we do, heart, In such a confused state? He who has given me life, Is in prison for my fault. Because of him I lost Flora; But in what has he offended me, If he did not know my affection? I gave him my word as faithful friend And he gave [the same] to me, And he has kept his promise; Thus I will sooner lose my life Than be vanquished in friendship.)29

Here he places a higher value upon friendship even than upon life itself. If loyalty to a friend supersedes loyalty to the king or even the instinct of self-preservation, is there anything that supersedes loyalty to a friend? The same play would suggest – at least from what we might term the voice of a ‘subaltern’ (a woman) – that there is. We shall explore gender issues further in the next chapter, but for now this example will suffice. As usual in the comedias, there is a love interest in Tirso’s Cómo han de ser los amigos, and it turns out that the woman who loves Don Manrique sees the central question quite differently. Armesinda delivers a passionate speech defending the priority of romantic love even over the ties of friendship: ... no ama el que su amor no antepone a su amistad. Ordena Naturaleza que de su patria se aleje el hombre, y sus padres deje por la conyugal belleza; ¿y oblígate tu nobleza por un amigo a quebrar

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 77 aquesta ley? Por amar bien pudieras ser traidor, que los yerros por amor son dignos de perdonar. ¿Qué he de hacer, Violante mía? (... He who does not place His love before friendship Does not love. Nature orders That man should leave his country And his parents for conjugal beauty; And does your nobility Oblige you to break this law For a friend? For love You could well be a traitor, For errors committed for love Are worthy of pardon. What should I do, my Violante?)30

Here she quotes a popular refrain to the effect that crimes committed for the sake of love ought to be forgiven. If friendship trumps citizenship, and romantic love trumps friendship, then is there any value high enough to supersede amorous affection? After all, we must not forget that ‘moral dilemmas arise at the intersection of overlapping spheres of responsibility.’31 Titles from the period such as Cervantes’s La fuerza de la sangre suggest how strongly the ties of kinship were thought to bind. We might, then, expect the duty to family to form a higher layer of moral obligation than any other, as it does in some other periods and works of world drama such as Sophocles’ Antigone. In the classical play, for example, Antigone’s sisterly love for her brother wins out over any other ethical consideration.32 In this case, however, the comedias subvert our expectations, for personal honour instead seems to be valued over and above family loyalty, piety, or affection. The choice between personal honour and protecting one’s family emerges clearly in Calderón de la Barca’s Con quien vengo, vengo when a father must decide whether to deliver to his son a letter which he knows is a challenge to a duel: Ponderar conviene pues, Qué he de hacer en este caso;

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Conscience on Stage Que perder el juicio temo, Si de un extremo á otro extremo, Y de una duda á otro paso. Si doy á mi hijo el papel, Cierto su riesgo será: Si no, Don Sancho dirá Que es cobarde. ¡Qué cruel Duda padezco! (Thus it is suitable to ponder, What I should do in this case; For I fear losing my mind, If I pass from one extreme to the other, And from one doubt to the other. If I give my son the paper, It will certainly be his risk: If I do not, Don Sancho will say That he is a coward. What a cruel Doubt I suffer!)33

His dilemma becomes even worse when he realizes that he himself will have to participate in this duel, but on the side opposite his own son’s. At one point in this play, Don Sancho expresses succinctly the essence of any casuistical dilemma: ‘Que dos se pueden errar / Aunque dos tengan razón’ (That two people can err / Even though both are right).34 When the fatal moment arrives, the father chooses personal honour over familial loyalty, stating casuistically: ‘Yo no soy mio este instante’ (I am not my own in this instant).35 The same choice is made by Diego Laínez, father of the Cid, after he has been offended by the father of Ximena. In a partial parallel to Abraham in the Old Testament, he chooses (at least potentially) to sacrifice one of his own sons rather than to leave his wounded honour unavenged: ¡Cielos! Peno, muero, rabio! ... ya mi fuerça desfallece, ya caygo, ya me parece que tiene a la punta el pomo. Pues ¿qué he de hazer? ¿Cómo, cómo, con qué, con qué confiança

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 79 daré paso a mi esperança quando funda el pensamiento sobre tan flaco cimiento tan importante vengança? ¡Oh, caduca edad cansada! Estoy por pasarme el pecho. ¡Ah, Tiempo ingrato! ¿qué has hecho? ... Mis hijos quiero llamar; que aunque es desdicha tomar vengança con mano agena, el no tomalla condena con más veras al honrado ... ¿Qué haré? (Heavens! I suffer, I die, I rage! ... Already my strength fails me, Already I fall, already it seems That the sword is unsheathed. For what should I do? How, how, With what, with what confidence Shall I give way to my hope When reflection grounds Such important revenge Upon such a flimsy foundation? Oh, exhausted, expired age! I am about to stab myself. Ah, ungrateful Time! What have you done? ... I want to call my sons; For although it is unfortunate to take Revenge with alien hand, Not taking it condemns The honourable man more truly ... What shall I do?)36

Not only does he choose to sacrifice one of his sons, but his main concern here seems to be either that (in their inexperience) they will fail him, or that people will think less of him for not having avenged the wrong himself. The same struggle over honour versus allegiance to family is repeated in many other comedias. Most comedia characters who ‘think out loud’ in a casuistical mono-

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logue or soliloquy begin confused but end up determined. There is a consistent pattern of characters who begin their monologues with the signature question ‘What should I do?’ and end their speeches with something like, ‘Now I know what I must do.’ A perfect example is a speech by the prince in Alarcón’s Los favores del mundo: Confuso estoy. ¿Qué he de hacer? ¿Al que tanto agora honré Tengo al punto de prender? Pues dejar de obedecer A Anarda, ¿cómo podré? ¡Oh fuero de amor injusto! ¿A tan heróico varon Hacer tal agravio es justo, Por solo el liviano gusto De una mujer sin razón? Pero prendello, ¿qué importa, Si luego le he de soltar, Y a mí me viene á librar Su prision liviana y corta De un largo enojo y pesar? Pero tengo por mejor, Por mostrarme poco amante Sufrir de Anarda el rigor, Que dar nota de inconstante A un hombre de tal valor. Mas si la causa le digo, Bien disculpará el efeto ... Mas ya sé lo que he de hacer. (I am confused. What should I do? The one whom I just honoured so much Am I now about to arrest? But to neglect to obey Anarda, how will I be able to? Oh statute of an unjust love! Against such a heroic man Is it right to commit such an offence, For only the lustful pleasure Of a woman without reason?

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 81 But to arrest him, what does it matter, If later I plan to release him, And his small, short imprisonment Comes to free me From a long annoyance and burden? But I think it is better, To show myself to be but little a lover To suffer the rigour of Anarda, Than to give notice of inconstancy To a man of such valour. But if I tell him the cause, Surely he will excuse the effect ... But already I know what I should do.)37

Towards the end of this speech he uses a casuistical equation of cause and effect both to rationalize his actions to himself and to plan how he will justify them to the innocent man he imprisons unjustly. After going through an extended casuistical reasoning process, he determines a course of action and answers his own question with which he began the monologue. Hierarchies of Virtue and Vice There are, of course, monologues in the comedias that do not happen to be introduced by the ‘Qué he de hacer?’ lead-in, but that nevertheless contain Derridian ‘traces’ of the casuistical reasoning process. In these instances, a character will often elaborate aloud a system of values in which some virtues appear higher on the moral totem pole than others, just as we have seen them do when the lead-in question is articulated explicitly. In Calderón’s La estatua de Prometeo, for example, Epimeteo debates with himself as to whether he should obey Palas’s command to break into pieces the statue Prometeo has created: epimeteo: ¿Cómo, çielos, (si al mirar tan hermosa, tan perfecta estampa, con el dolor de que alma y vida no tenga, la ofreçí mi vida y alma por si vibiese con ellas) podré obedeçer a Palas?

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Conscience on Stage Pues en ygual conferençia, si la obedezco, peligran vna y otra en la obedienzia, y en la amenaza, si no la obedezco; de manera que expuesto a vn sagrado çeño o a vna dominante estrella, obedeçerla es el mismo riesgo que no obedezerla. ¿O no vbiera vn medio en que, partida la diferençia, complazer supiera a Palas, sin ofender a Minerba? Mas ¿qué dudo? q[ue] sí abrá, si no me miente la ydea de vna ymaginada yndustria: Yo e de fingir ... epimeteo: (How, heavens, [if upon seeing Such a lovely, such a perfect Stamp, with the sorrow That it does not have soul and life, I offered her my life and soul In case she could live with them] Will I be able to obey Pallas? For in equal conference, If I obey her, the one and the other Are endangered by the obedience, And in the threat, if I do not Obey her; so that Exposed to a sacred frown Or a dominant star, To obey her is the same Risk as it is not to obey her. Or might not there be some way that, Splitting the difference, I could know how to please Pallas, Without offending Minerva? But what do I doubt? For there will be one, If the idea of an imagined industry

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 83 Does not lie to me: I must pretend ...)38

Thus he reasons his way through the steps of making a moral decision and chooses (to his later regret) the path of obfuscation. He justifies this moral choice to Merlín later, in words that sound very similar to those of the king resisting the murder of Inés in Reinar después de morir. Epimeteo concludes that ‘... no es posible que aya / obediencia a vn cruel preçepto / en que me van vida y alma’ (it is not possible that there be / obedience to a cruel precept / in which go my life and my soul).39 In contrast to his brother, Prometeo invokes a higher morality, ‘... moralidad embuelta / en fabulosa enseñanza’ (... morality wrapped / in fabulous teaching).40 But in doing so, he calls upon a goddess who must herself resort to casuistry. Minerba, the goddess of wisdom and the fount of Prometeo’s learning and morality, uses casuistical distinctions to hierarchize different levels of vice and blame: minerba: Tonante Dios, ¿cómo permites q[ue] enmiende a vna culpa otra mayor? ¿Es menos delito que la Discordia hurte tu voz, que el que hurte Prometheo vn pequeño rayo al sol? ¿Qué traición como falsear tus decretos, ni qué horror como que tenga más pena vn robo que vna traición? (minerba: Thundering God, How do you permit a greater fault To mend a lesser one? Is it less a crime that Discord steals your voice, Than that Prometheus steals A little ray from the sun? What treason like falsifying Your decrees, nor what horror Than that a theft should have Greater punishment than treason?)41

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She here tries to draw fine distinctions among several different wrongs, ultimately eliding their categories until they become one and the same. In this casuistical process falsification becomes treason, while theft is equated with betrayal. She is not the only character to redefine moral categories. Don Fernando in Alarcón’s Ganar amigos speaks of another character, Don Diego, as ‘Haciendo en esta ocasion / Virtud la necesidad’ (Making on this occasion / Virtue of necessity). Don Diego himself echoes this idea with ‘La fuerza haré voluntad’ (I will make what I am forced to do, my will).42 Likewise in Moreto’s La fuerza de la ley, the prince Demetrio creatively constructs his own moral categories according to personal definitions: ‘¿Hice yo mi inclinación? / Pues ¿qué culpa me condena?’ (Did I follow my inclination? / Well then, what fault condemns me?).43 He orders his behaviour on a sliding scale of moral relativism, saying to his father the king: ‘Si el decíroslo es delito, / El de matarme es más fiero’ (If telling it to you is a crime, / The [crime of] killing me is even more fierce).44 Other characters in the same play show a similar propensity towards casuistry; for example, at one point Aurora states matter-offactly, ‘erré sin culpa’ (I erred without fault),45 an echo of Alarcón’s ‘delitos dudosos’ (doubtful crimes).46 In Moreto’s La misma conciencia acusa, the Duke rationalizes the killing of innocent people as what we might call today a form of ‘collateral damage’: Margarita, los delitos De tan grave empeño hacen Por consecuencia dél mismo, Cómplices los inocentes. (Margarita, the crimes Of such a grave obligation make, By consequence of the obligation itself, Innocent people into accomplices.)47

Margarita retorts that in this twisted reason of state, there is no piety: ‘No hay en la razón de estado / Piedad’ (There is no piety / In reason of state).48 Here piety and reason of state are set in opposition to each other as two competing values or goods. Often these and other values are seen to compete, counterbalance, and win out over one another as comedia characters strive to sort through which set of values is more important to them. Thus in a single speech it is possible to find passion, honour, friendship, love, pleasure,

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 85

and interest all poised in a delicate game of counterbalancing that threatens to collapse at any moment as each one ‘cedes’ to the next: Ceda pues Mi pasion á vuestro honour, A vuestra amistad mi amor, Mi gusto á vuestro interés. (Then may My passion cede to your honour, My love to your friendship, My pleasure to your interest.)49

Sometimes comedia characters appeal to different forms of law to defend their actions, while at other times they conflate them to prove someone’s guilt or innocence. For example, in Alarcón’s Don Domingo de Don Blas, the titular character asks: ‘¿Por qué la ley humana y la divina / quiere violar ...?’ (Why does he want to violate / human and divine law ...?).50 The obvious implication is that some crimes or sins are bad enough to violate both human and divine law at the same time. Comedias and Confessional Manuals The specific moral dilemmas in which comedia characters find themselves are often the same ones addressed explicitly by the casuists. The caso of whether to inform the king when a family member has committed a crime, for instance, is one that Spanish casuists addressed specifically in the confessors’ manuals. Benito Remigio Noydens in his Práctica de curas addresses the issue of partiality to family under the heading ‘Aceptacion de personas’ (Exception of persons) and concludes ‘[q]ue pecado sea no guardar la igualdad, y reservar a los parientes’ (that it is a sin not to maintain equality, and to set apart relatives).51 To illustrate this case, we shall turn to a well-known episode of the most famous play of the early modern period, Calderón’s La vida es sueño. In a moment of anagnorisis or recognition, Clotaldo delivers a desperate aside after seeing the intruder Rosaura carrying his sword, at which point he begins to realize that the disguised Rosaura might be his own child: clotaldo: Pues ¿qué he de hacer, ¡ay de mí!, en confusión semejante,

86

Conscience on Stage si quien la trae por favor, para su muerte la trae, pues que sentenciado a muerte llega a mis pies? ¡Qué notable confusión! ¡Qué triste hado! ¿Qué he de hacer? ¡Valedme, cielos! ¿Qué he de hacer? Porque llevarle al Rey, es llevarle, ¡ay, triste!, a morir. Pues ocultarle al rey no puedo, conforme a la ley del homenaje. De una parte, el amor propio, y la lealtad de otra parte me rinden. Pero ¿qué dudo? La lealtad al rey ¿no es antes que la vida y que el honor? [Y] así, entre una y otra duda, el medio más importante es irme al Rey y decirle que es mi hijo y que le mate. (clotaldo: Well, what should I do? Ay me! In such confusion, If he who brings her as a favour, Brings her for her death, Since she arrives at my feet Sentenced to death? What notable Confusion! What sad fate! What should I do? Aid me, heavens! What should I do? Because to take her To the king, is to take her (oh, sad one!), To die. For I cannot hide her From the king, according To the law of homage. On one side, self-love, And on the other side, loyalty Tear me apart. But what do I doubt?

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 87 Loyalty to the king, does it not come before Life and honour? And thus, between one doubt and another, The most important middle road Is to go to the king and tell him That she is my child and that he should kill her.)52

Here Clotaldo seems to conclude that fealty to the king should supersede any private or familial obligations – obviously the ‘correct answer’ to this dilemma in the eyes of the Spanish state. Telling the king what crimes have been committed is the highest priority, even if that means getting his daughter killed in the process. Benito Remigio Noydens, in his Práctica de curas, confronts this issue directly under his treatment of alguaciles or constables, who were charged with keeping law and order in a given town. He writes that the alguaciles ‘[p]ecan mortalmente en dexar de denunciar los delitos que se cometen en la Republica’ (sin mortally in neglecting to denounce the crimes that are committed in the Republic).53 Ironically, loyalty to the king must be upheld even when it is the king himself who has committed a crime. Don García in Rojas Zorrilla’s appropriately titled Del rey abajo, ninguno has to decide what to do after catching the king in his house, attempting to seduce his wife. He decides that his duty as a loyal subject produces a double standard as to how he will respond to his wife versus how he should treat the monarch: Y aunque noble, fué forzosa Obligación de la ley, Ser piadoso con el Rey, Y tirano con mi esposa. (And although noble, it was a necessary Obligation of the law, To be merciful with the king, And a tyrant with my wife.)54

Essentially the same conclusion is reached independently by both Don Arias and Don Félix in Calderón’s Amigo, amante y leal, the title of which corresponds to three conflicting obligations in the hierarchy of duty. Don Félix summarizes effectively a subject’s overarching responsibility

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towards his sovereign with the words ‘Muera yo leal y amante, / Triunfe el Príncipe dichoso’ (Let me die, loyal and a lover, / Let the fortunate prince triumph).55 Antonio Regalado describes Félix at this moment as ‘un extraño personaje encarcelado en escrúpulos que le impiden decidirse entre absolutos’ (a strange character imprisoned in scruples which prevent him from choosing among absolutes).56 Various critics have expressed surprise at this trend of giving the monarch carte blanche morally, one which is repeated frequently enough to become an identifiable pattern in the comedias: ‘Es sorprendente que los caballeros permanezcan inertes ... ante los actos infamantes de la realeza’ (It is surprising that noblemen remain inert ... before the infamous deeds of royalty).57 Américo Castro explains these exceptions made for rulers in terms of the honour code, according to which the king must be protected at all costs because he is the foundation upon which the whole system of honour depends: ‘el noble se negaría a sí mismo si tomase una actitud superior a la del rey, como lo haría si le castigase’ (the nobleman would deny himself if he took an attitude superior to that of the king, as he would do if he punished him).58 This casuistical dilemma of competing loyalties to king versus family or loved ones was played out on the macrocosmic level of Spanish society: the king as sovereign ruler was the ‘boss’ over the entire nation. This same dilemma, however, could also play itself out on the microcosmic level of individual households with relationships between masters and servants, as we shall explore further in the next chapter. In Sor Juana’s Los empeños de una casa, for example, Celia mulls over her options in the midst of a tense exchange with her hostage and potential future mistress, Doña Leonor: celia: ¿Qué haré? Pues si no la dejo ir, y a ser señora llega de casa ¿quién duda que la tengo de pagar ésta? Y si la dejo salir, con mi amo habrá la mesma dificultad. Ahora bien, mejor es entretenerla, y avisar a mi señor de lo que su dama intenta, que sabiéndolo es preciso que salga él a detenerla,

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 89 y yo quede bien con ambos, pues con esta estratagema ella no queda ofendida y él obligado me queda. (celia: What shall I do? For if I do not let her Go, and she becomes lady Of the house, who doubts that I will have to pay for this? And if I let her leave, There will be the same difficulty With my master. So now, It is better to entertain her, And warn my master Of what his lady intends, For knowing it, it is necessary That he go out to detain her, And I will stay well with both, For with this strategy She is not offended And he is obliged to me.)59

This distinction between the current duties of a servant towards her present master and her potential duty towards a possible future mistress is another example of the dilemma between conflicting societal obligations. These issues were often addressed in a manual of casuistry like Benito Remigio Noydens’s under the heading, ‘Quando pecan los criados en no obedecer a sus señores’ (When servants sin by not obeying their masters).60 This heading of course implies that there are occasions when it would be acceptable for a servant not to obey his or her master. This dramaturgical technique of the casuistical monologue or aside appears to be a favourite of Sor Juana’s, for she uses it again when Don Pedro debates within himself about what to say in the middle of a conversation (or confrontation) with Don Juan and Don Rodrigo: pedro: ¡Válgame Dios! ¿Qué puedo en tan grande empeño responder a don Rodrigo? Pues si que la tengo niego, es fácil que él lo averigüe,

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Conscience on Stage y si la verdad confieso de que la sacó don Carlos, se la dará a él y yo pierdo, si pierdo a Leonor, la vida. Pues si el casarme concedo puede ser que me desaire Leonor. ¡Quién hallara un medio con que poder dilatarlo! (pedro: God save me! How can I, in such great obligation, Respond to Don Rodrigo? For if I deny that I have her, It is easy for him to verify it, And if I confess the truth That Don Carlos took her, He will give her to him and I will lose, If I lose Leonor, my life. But if I agree to marry Leonor might rebuff me. Who could find a means With which to be able to delay it!)61

His dilemma rests in the choice between telling a lie and losing his chance to marry the woman he loves. This moral dilemma, again, is addressed specifically by the casuists. Noydens, in his Práctica de curas, appears to denounce all lying as a mortal sin as he declares that ‘[e]l que levanta falso testimonio ... peca mortalmente’ (he who bears false witness ... sins mortally).62 In fact, every confessor’s manual organized around the Ten Commandments63 would have hit this offence head on, since the Eighth Commandment forbids ‘bearing false witness’ (in Spanish, ‘levantar falso testimonio’). A similar dilemma afflicts Don Juan in Ana Caro’s Valor, agravio y mujer, but he does not yet realize the extent either of his current quandary or of his past mistakes. His conscience flounders in inchoate confusion as he tries to decide what his surface actions should accomplish instead of asking how their long-term consequences will unfold. He desperately struggles to salvage his illegitimate courtship of a woman other than his betrothed: juan: El corazón da golpes en el pecho

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 91 por dejar la prisión en que se halla, la vida muere en la civil batalla de sus propios deseos. Al alma afligen locos devaneos, y en un confuso caos está dudando; la culpa desto tiene don Fernando. ¿Qué haré, Estela ingrata? Mas, ¿cómo desconfío? ¿Dónde está mi valor? ¿Dónde mi brío? Yo he de seguir esta amorosa empresa, yo he de amar la Condesa, yo he de oponerme firme a todo el mundo, yo he de hacer que mi afecto sin segundo conquiste sus desdenes; yo he de adorar sus males por mis bienes. Confiéranse en mi daño ira, enojo, tibieza, desengaño, odio, aborrecimiento; apóquese la vida en el tormento de mi pena importuna, que si ayuda fortuna al que osado se atreve, sea la vida breve y el tormento crecido, osado y atrevido, con firmeza resuelta, de su inconstancia me opondré a la vuelta. (juan: The heart gives blows to the chest To leave the prison in which it finds itself, Life dies in the lowly battle Of its own desires. Crazy deliriums afflict the soul, And it is doubting in a confused chaos; Fernando bears the fault for this. What shall I do, ungrateful Estela? But, how do I despair? Where is my valour? Where is my courage?

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Conscience on Stage I must follow this amorous enterprise, I must love the countess, I must oppose myself firmly to all the world, I must make my peerless affection Conquer her disdains; I must adore her evils as my goods. Let them conspire to my detriment: Anger, annoyance, frigidity, disillusionment, Hatred, abhorrence; Let life extinguish itself in the torment Of my importunate pain, For if fortune Aids the brave, Let life be short And torment increased, Brave and daring, With firm resolve, I will oppose myself to its inconstancy upon my return.)64

In this spectacle of a monologue, the playwright asks the audience to identify for a moment with the shameful abandoner of one woman as he strives to convince himself that he can win the love of another (and that his desire for her is appropriate; to believe this he must displace the blame for his failed venture). The casuists would not have agreed with Don Juan in this particular situation: Noydens villifies adultery in his confessor’s manual as a mortal sin against chastity and justice65 (adultery here is defined even as the consummation of a marriage without the wedding rites).66 We can only speculate from this negative portrayal of a male character that the female playwright condemns his action as well. We shall look at some similar situations in the gender section of the next chapter. The Double Bind In some cases, as we have seen, such as lying or adultery, there is little ambiguity as to the morally right course of action, regardless of how hard a character may work to rationalize a wrong one. But sometimes in the comedia the dilemma is a less obvious choice between two irreconcilable options, both of which may be argued to present the conscientious character with an inappropriate moral course of action. Alexander

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 93

Parker demonstrates successfully the limitations of various possible courses of action available to the comedia characters: ‘Is honour to one’s pledged word absolute, so that one must proudly choose death rather than dishonour? Or does the preservation of one’s life annul this obligation? Can one really break a solemn promise?’67 The character faced with this sort of dilemma then becomes what Jonsen and Toulmin call a ‘perplexed person,’ one who ‘cannot help doing wrong whatever course is followed.’ The reason for this is that ‘a single human action may be subject to moral claims ... of more than one kind.’ Jonsen and Toulmin trace this notion of ‘perplexity’ back to Pope Gregory I (540–604), noting: ‘the temptations of the Devil ... are such as to cause “perplexity” to good people, since the devil can make it appear that whatever a person does to resolve a moral difficulty will itself be immoral.’68 As Tobin Siebers describes this kind of situation in Morals and Stories: ‘If a choice could be made, there would be no need for a decision, a decidere, a cutting. Decision involves the impossible and necessary task of cutting one thing that we want into one thing that we can want and another thing that we cannot want. We end by choosing between one thing, as if it were two things.’69 The situation described here is the classic ‘double bind.’ The phrase ‘double bind’ has appeared in recent critical discourse in contexts as varied as the Holocaust, courtship rituals, feminism and Afro-Hispanism, infertility, rock music, Irish manhood, and Latin American women’s prison narratives.70 It is normally used to describe someone who is caught in a virtually unsolveable dilemma. This type of moral ambiguity lies at the heart of the casuistical project; at the same time, the premise that circumstances could alter moral decisions produces the sort of dramatic tension that results in a great work of art. There is an element of voyeurism in the audience’s vicarious participation in this internal struggle. In El médico de su honra, Doña Mencía makes this type of choice, one which leads to her ultimate destruction: ‘pues considero, / y no con necio engaño, / que es de dos daños éste el menor daño, / si hay menor en los daños que recibo’ (for I consider, / and not with foolish illusion, / that this is the lesser of two evils, / if there is a lesser one in the evils I receive).71 Here she finds herself in the familiar predicament of choosing the lesser of two evils, a paradox (as we have seen) going back in the history of moral reasoning at least as far as Pope Gregory. Likewise, the dilemma of conflicting obligations towards his host on the one hand and a damsel in distress on the other prompts Don Manuel in Calderón’s La dama duende to ask:

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Conscience on Stage ¿Qué haré, cielos, con que quede desengañado, y saber de una vez si esta mujer de don Luis dama ha sido, o cómo mano ha tenido y cautela, para hacer tantos engaños? (What shall I do, heavens, to remove So many illusions, and to know Once and for all if this woman Has been the mistress of Don Luis, And how she has had a hand And such cunning, to create So many deceits?)72

He uses the exact phrase we would expect him to as his confusion grows: Ya es mi duda más crüel, si no es su dama ni vive en su casa, ¿cómo así escribe y responde? Aquí muere un engaño, y concibe otro engaño. ¿Qué he de hacer[?] que soy en mis opiniones confusión de confusiones. (Already my doubt is more cruel, If she is not his mistress nor lives In his house, how thus Does she write and respond? Here One illusion dies, and conceives Another illusion. What should I do? For I am in my opinions A confusion of confusions.)73

His doubt as to her status in the household – whether she has been Don Luis’s mistress or not – contributes to his casuistical wavering. To make a good judgment of case morality, it is necessary to know all the facts of the case.

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 95

Manuel is certainly not the only character in this play to feel confusion or anxiety. Others use casuistical monologues to sort through their feelings in much the same way: isabel: ¿Qué he de hacer? ¡Cielos! Si no acertase a salir, y me hallasen aquí dentro, dábamos con todo el caso al traste. Gran temor tengo, y más ahora, que abrir la puerta del cuarto siento, y trae luz el que la abre. Aquí dio fin el suceso; que ya ni puedo esconderme, ni volver a salir puedo. (isabel: What should I do? Heavens! If I did not dare to go out, And they found me here inside, We would fail with this whole case. I have great fear, And more now, that I hear The opening of the door to the room, And the person who opens it brings a light. Here the adventure ends; For at this point I can neither hide myself, Nor go out again.)74

Here Isabel finds herself in a double bind: she can neither hide nor come out into the open. Her internal debate is the familiar one in the comedia over whether to stay hidden (and risk being discovered) or come out boldly into the open. Without pressing the analogy too far and turning the scene into an allegory, we might even say that Isabel’s fearful hiding is paradigmatic of the doubting conscience in general: wondering whether to keep hiding or rather to ‘come clean.’ In the same play, as he tries to decide what to do, Don Luis speaks two different versions of the signal phrase we have been looking for: luis: ... ¿qué debo hacer en una ocasión tan fuerte,

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Conscience on Stage pues cuando el honor me quita me da la vida y me vence? Yo he de buscar ocasión verdadera o aparente, para que pueda en tal duda pensar lo que debe hacerse. (luis: ... What should I do In such a fierce occasion, For when it takes away my honour It gives me life and conquers me? I have to seek occasion, True or apparent, So that I can in such doubt Think what should be done.)75

The play ends in a climactic decision-making moment for Don Manuel, who renounces whatever former plans he might have had to marry the woman of the portrait in order to satisfy the demands of honour and gratitude for hospitality. He chooses to place a premium on these values instead of his heart’s desire, a mysterious quotient left unrevealed to the audience. Perhaps this mystery remains a secret because, in a sense, it lacks relevance for the casuistical process. All the audience needs to know is that Manuel’s secret love is subordinated to higher duties in his resolution of this moral dilemma:76 manuel: ¿Qué haré en tan ciego abismo, humano laberinto de mí mismo? Hermana es de don Luis, cuando creía que era dama. Si tanto ¡ay Dios! sentía ofendelle en el gusto, ¿qué será en el honor? ¡Tormento justo! Su hermana es; si pretendo librarla, y con mi sangre la defiendo remitiendo a mi acero su disculpa, es ya mayor mi culpa, pues es decir que he sido traidor, y que a su casa he ofendido pues en ella me halla; pues querer disculparme con culpalla,

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 97 es decir que ella tiene la culpa, y a mi honor no le conviene. Pues ¿qué es lo que pretendo? si es hacerme traidor si la defiendo; si la dejo, villano; si la guardo, mal huésped; inhumano, si a su hermano la entrego; y mal amigo si a guardarle llego; ingrato, si la libro, a un noble trato; y si la dejo, a un noble amor ingrato. Pues de cualquier manera mal puesto he de quedar, matando muera. (manuel: What shall I do in such a blind abyss, A human labyrinth within myself? She is the sister of Don Luis, when I believed She was his mistress. If I was so sorry [oh God!] To offend him with displeasure, What will it be to offend his honour! Just torment! She is his sister; if I try To liberate her, and with my blood I defend her Remitting her exculpation to my sword, Already my fault is greater, For it is to say that I have been A traitor, and that I have offended his house For I am a guest in it; For wanting to excuse myself by blaming her, Is to say that she has The blame, and that is not appropriate to my honour. Well, what do I try to do? If it is to make myself a traitor if I defend her; If I leave her, a villain; If I keep her, a bad guest; inhuman, If I deliver her to her brother; And a bad friend if I arrive to guard her; Ungrateful, if I free her, toward a noble conduct; And if I leave her, ungrateful to a noble love. So since whichever way I must remain in a bad position, let me die, killing.)77

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He has discovered that the mysterious lady is Don Luis’s sister, not his mistress. If he liberates her with his sword, thus aiding a damsel in distress, he will not only offend against the law of hospitality (he is a guest in the house where she is trapped), but also wound both her feelings and her honour, since the attack would be directed against her family. It would be ‘inhuman,’ he says, not to liberate her from her brother, but it would also be ‘ungrateful’ to his host to do so. Don Manuel truly finds himself in a double bind. The Cid Rodrigo in Guillén de Castro’s Las mocedades del Cid finds himself in a similar double bind when he must choose whether to avenge his father’s honour, thereby losing the woman he loves. In his lamentation, he finds himself trapped between Scylla and Charybdis, lodged between the proverbial rock and a hard place: Suspenso, de afligido, Estoy ... Fortuna, ¿es cierto lo que veo? ¡Tan en mi daño ha sido tu mudança, y no la creo! ... ¿Qué haré, suerte atrevida, si él es el alma que me dió la vida? ¿Qué haré (¡terrible calma!), si ella es la vida que me tiene el alma? ... (I am suspenseful, from being Afflicted ... Fortune, is it true what I see? Your inconstancy has been so much To my harm, and I do not believe it! ... What shall I do, brave luck, If he is the soul who gave me life? What shall I do [terrible calm!], If she is the life that has my soul? ...)78

He states the dilemma succinctly in the couplet ‘El amor allí me abrasa, / y aquí me yela el afrenta’ (Love scorches me there / and here the affront freezes me).79 He uses the specific metaphor of a scale to describe how both obligations weigh upon him equally: ‘En dos balanças he puesto / ser honrado, y ser amante’ (In two scales I have placed / being honourable, and being a lover).80 Ultimately he decides in favour of his honour, against the pleas of his lover. He rationalizes his decision to kill her father as follows:

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 99 Mas ya ofende esta duda al santo honor que mi opinión sustenta. Razón es que sacuda de amor el yugo y, la cerviz esenta, acuda a lo que soy; que haviendo sido mi padre ofendido, poco importa que fuese ¡amarga pena! el ofensor el padre de Ximena. (But already this doubt offends The saintly honour which sustains my opinion. It is reasonable that I shake off The yoke of love and, my neck free, Have recourse to who I am; for My father having been offended, It matters little that the offender was [oh bitter pain!] The father of Ximena.)81

He declares that the weight of the offence against his father has tipped the balance: ‘¡que cayó la una balança / con el peso del agravio!’ (that the one scale tipped / with the weight of the offence!).82 He later affirms the primacy of honour over personal happiness or romantic love, a familiar prioritization which we have seen before: ‘Todo es poco, todo es nada / en descuento de un agravio’ (All is little, all is nothing / to mitigate an offence).83 A similar choice is made by the equally torn Alejandro in Moreto’s La fuerza de la ley. Discovering that his cousin has persisted in pursuing his own wife with amorous intentions, he debates between following the call of love (thereby sparing his marriage) or following the call of honour (thereby avenging this treachery): Mas ¿qué he de hacer, si vinieron Sobre el incendio de honor, Que estaba en el alma ardiendo, Las llamas de amor; y juntas Dos causas para un efecto, Me quitó el fuego el valor, Y el humo el entendimiento? ¡Mi primo (¡ay de mí!), de Aurora Amante, atrevido y ciego;

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Pues ahora reconozco Que este amor era su empeño! ¡Yo al mío desesperado! ¿Qué es esto, piadosos cielos? A un corazón afligido, ¿Qué le dejais por consuelo, Si era mi esposa su alivio, Y está el alivio en un riesgo? (But what should I do, if over and above The fire of honour, Which was already burning in the soul, There came the flames of love; and together Two causes for one effect, Valour took away my fire And understanding removed the smoke? My cousin [ay me!], lover of Aurora, Audacious and blind, For now I recognize That this love was his obligation! I despairing of mine! What is this, pious heavens? To an afflicted heart, What do you leave as comfort, If my wife was his consolation, And that consolation lies in a risk?)84

An added twist, however, in this case, is that the offender is also the prince to whom he owes allegiance as a subject. Alejandro describes the double bind in which this situation places him as having the effect of making him ‘twice blind’: A dudar lo que haré llego, Que sin luz y con la ofensa Que dudosa el alma piensa, Vengo á estar dos veces ciego. (I come to doubt what I shall do, For without light and with the offense Which the soul thinks is doubtful, I become twice blind.)85

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 101

He describes his mental struggle in vivid terms as a trial at which Reason presides as judge, and eyes and ears are the witnesses; Doubt and Love are the two defence lawyers, and Truth is the prosecuting attorney: Ya, honor, tu causa se ha visto En la sala del agravio, Donde la Razón preside; Ya la Verdad hizo el cargo Por el fiscal, y el delito, Contestemente probado Por mí (pues ojos y oídos En la probanza juraron), Callaron Duda y Amor, Que eran los dos abogados; Y no hallando la disculpa, Echó la Razón el fallo. Que yo ejecute el castigo Manda la ley de honor sacro, Y ya para la venganza Toma el acero en la mano. (Already, honour, your cause has been seen In the courtroom of offence, Where Reason presides; And Truth fulfilled the duty Of the prosecutor, and the crime, Contestedly proven By me [for eyes and ears Swore in the demonstration of evidence], Doubt and Love stayed silent, For they were the two lawyers; And not finding excuse, Reason pronounced the judgment. The law of sacred honour commands, That I execute the punishment And that already for revenge I take up the sword in my hand.)86

Here he invokes the law of honour to explain that Reason has decided his case in favour of punishing his adulterous wife and cousin. When

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given the chance at the end of the play to avenge his honour by killing the prince, however, Alejandro declines to do so, citing reason of state. The king intervenes on his behalf, first ordering his son’s eyes to be plucked out and then (when the people protest that the prince should be above the law) settling on a strange compromise: the prince will lose only one eye, while the king himself will lose the other. This is an unusual resolution (to say the least) to the dilemma of the double bind. One final example of a character faced with a choice between two viable but mutually exclusive options is the Duke of Ferrara in El castigo sin venganza. He must decide whether to punish incest with death or instead to save the lives of his guilty wife and son. As in the last passage, here again we find courtroom imagery. Honour presides in the hall of Reason, with Love and Blood acting as lawyers for the defence (but to no avail) against the prosecuting attorneys of Infamy and Shame: duque: Esto aun pudiera, ofendida, sufrir la piedad humana, pero dar la muerte a un hijo, ¿qué corazón no desmaya? Sólo de pensarlo ¡ay triste! tiembla el cuerpo, expira el alma, lloran los ojos, la sangre muere en las venas heladas, el pecho se desalienta, el entendimiento falta, la memoria está corrida y la voluntad turbada; como arroyo que detiene el hielo de noche larga, del corazón a la boca prende el dolor las palabras. ¿Qué quieres, amor? ¿No ves que Dios a los hijos manda honrar los padres, y el conde su mandamiento quebranta? Perdona, amor; no deshagas el derecho del castigo, cuando el honor, en la sala

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 103 de la razón presidiendo, quiere sentenciar la causa; amor y sangre, abogados, le defienden, mas no basta, que la infamia y la vergüenza son de la parte contraria. La ley de Dios, cuando menos, es quien la culpa relata, su conciencia quien la escribe. (duque: Even this could human pity suffer, Being offended, But to kill a son, What heart does not dismay? Merely from the thought of it [oh sad one!] The body trembles, the soul expires, The eyes weep, the blood Dies in the frozen veins, The chest loses breath, Understanding falters, Memory is ashamed And the will perturbed; Like a river detained By the ice of a long night, So sorrow arrests the words From the heart to the mouth. What do you want, love? Do you not see That God commands his children To honour their parents, and the count Breaks his commandment? Pardon, love; do not undo The right of punishment, When honour, presiding In the hall of reason, Wants to pronounce the sentence; Love and blood, lawyers, Defend him, but it is not enough,

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Conscience on Stage For infamy and shame Are on the other side. The law of God, at least, Is the one who relates the blame, His conscience the one who writes it.87

Not surprisingly, the duke ends this excruciatingly painful monologue by invoking conscience explicitly. We shall see more similar constructions of conscience in chapter 4. In the end, he decides to carry out ‘la ley de Dios’ and kill his incestuous family members.88 He should have consulted his confessor first, however; according to Noydens, ‘el marido no puede con su propia autoridad matar a su muger adultera, aunque la coxa con el amigo’ (the husband cannot with his own authority kill his adulterous wife, even though he catch her with her lover).89 The situation of the duke reminds us of the murder of Doña Mencía in Calderón’s El médico de su honra, in which her husband – convinced of her infidelity – has a blindfolded doctor bleed her to death although she is not ill. These murderers who take the law into their own hands are unequivocally condemned by the confessors, even if the law would eventually exonerate their position. As Felipe de la Cruz clarifies in Norte de confessores y penitentes, ‘si el marido mata a la muger adultera, aunque la tope en el mismo adulterio con el amigo, y auiendo antecedido sentencia, peca mortalmente, y es omicida, aunque no serà castigado con las penas de la ley’ (if the husband kills the adulterous wife, even if he finds her in the very act of adultery with her lover, and having preceded the sentence, he sins mortally, and is a homicide, even though he will not be castigated with the punishments of the law).90 In this case, the casuists uphold the law of God as a higher authority than civil laws. The dramatists, however, use the space of the stage to offer an alternative morality. The Casuistical Dramatic Monologue and Tragedy At this point it may be appropriate to stop for a moment to reflect upon the literary form which most of these ‘casuistical excursus’ speeches seem to be taking: that of the soliloquy or dramatic monologue. Miguel Álvarez comments upon the importance of the dramatic monologue for the study of casuistry in the comedia: El soliloquio es la forma más adecuada, el vehículo por excelencia, para pintar las manifestaciones plásticas de la lucha mental del personaje.

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 105 Con frecuencia, y siguiendo la dialéctica casuística, el soliloquio se ve mezclado de un sutil raciocinio, especialmente en el drama calderoniano. Se establece un modelo definido, por el cual el personaje repara su honda angustia mental y pesa las consecuencias de alternativas sendas de acción antes de llegar a una decisión. En otros casos, el soliloquio sirve para transmitir una explicación plausible de una acción o actitud de la cual el motivo verdadero, aunque a menudo inconsciente, es tal, que uno lo repudiaría ... En sus soliloquios, única forma posible de manifestar sus dudas y angustias, cada personaje busca razones y argumentos que avalen su proceder o, al menos, que disculpen su acción. (The soliloquy is the most adequate form, the vehicle par excellence, for painting the plastic manifestations of the mental struggle of the character. Frequently, and following the casuistical dialectic, the soliloquy is seen to be mixed with a subtle reasoning, especially in Calderonian drama. A definite model establishes itself, through which the character repairs his deep mental anguish and weighs the consequences of alternative paths of action before arriving at a decision. In other cases, the soliloquy serves to transmit a plausible explanation of an action or attitude for which the true motive, even though sometimes unconscious, is such, that one would repudiate it ... In his soliloquies, the only possible form to manifest his doubts and anguishes, each character seeks reasons and arguments which support his conduct or, at least, excuse his action.)91

The effective use of this technique is not limited to the realm of early modern Spanish literature. Thomas E. Fish has studied the casuistical monologue in the poetry of Robert Browning, and W. David Shaw has done a specific study of this technique in a variety of English authors.92 In Fish’s analysis, Browning’s characters use these monologues as opportunities not to decide what to do in the future but instead to justify or defend their past actions. Here we see once again the double, simultaneous temporality of Derrida’s trace, in which casuistry appears as both prospective and retrospective. Sometimes, in the process of either justifying what they have done or planning what they are about to do, these characters arrive at moments of heightened self-awareness. Paula McQuade makes some insightful comments on the importance of the casuistical monologue for gauging that elusive quotient we call early modern ‘interiority’: Despite recent critics’ claims that early modern men and women lacked a fully individuated self, other scholars have long recognized that Renais-

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sance drama differed from its native predecessors in the attention it gave to depicting interior states, creating through the use of soliloquy an impression of individual interiority and subjective depth. I argue that the attention given to representations of interiority on the early modern stage is an expression of the casuistic habit of mind, by which a person learned to reflect upon both his interior state and the outward circumstances that might affect his action.93

Sor Juana takes recourse to a similar form of solitary casuistical reasoning in some of her sonnets, as has been noted by Georgina Sabat de Rivers: ‘Es como si, a través del soneto, la voz lírica estuviera reflexionando consigo misma y considerando distintas opciones’ (It is as if, through the course of the sonnet, the lyric voice were reflecting with itself and considering distinct options).94 What is the cumulative effect of all of these casuistical dramatic monologues being enacted upon the stage? (See the appendix for a chart of relevant plays, for many more examples of speeches introduced by the signature ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ lead-in.) As we shall see in the next chapter, not all casuistical reasoning is monological; and until we have explored further the dialogical aspects of casuistry in the comedia, any conclusions we could reach at this point might seem premature. But at least as far as the ‘double bind’ we have been describing is concerned, perhaps some preliminary conclusions are in order. The overwhelming impression one receives from reading these ‘double bind’ monologues is that of tragedy – tragedy and irretrievable loss. By definition, once one option is chosen, the other option is gone forever, never to return as a viable possibility for moral action. This may seem surprising, since the very term comedia connotes a comic genre and since there have been interminable debates about whether, in early modern Spain, the very concept of tragedy was even theologically possible.95 But I would argue that the very gravity of moral decision-making – the possible consequences of which, let us not forget, include eternal damnation – leaves room for a more tragic interpretation of certain early modern comedies than has heretofore been possible. As we shall see in the next chapter, these characters are trapped in a moral labyrinth, wallowing in a moral abyss, from which they can find no possible escape. There is nothing funny about this emotional cul-de-sac, at least in that dramatic moment when this feeling of panic is being expressed. Perhaps this casuistical reading of the comedia leaves it more open for future identification and discussion of tragic elements, or for commen-

‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 107

tary on the contrast between moral despair as expressed in these soliloquies and the discordantly happy endings generally imposed upon the plays by dramatists fearful of censorship or accusations of subversion. These psychoanalytical musings about why Spanish playwrights wrote as they did naturally lead us to a reconsideration of the trace from a psychoanalytical perspective. We recall that Derrida himself referred to Freud as one of his primary sources for this concept. For Freud, the trace ‘is ... considered as virtually synonymous with memory itself.’96 Irene Harvey reiterates, ‘the trace for Freud ... is little more than the opening of memory to storage.’97 But opening the memory does not automatically insure that what is imprinted therein will necessarily be retained. Retention can only be accomplished through the force of repetition: The ‘difference’ here which allows for the constitution of memory is between the ‘forces of resistance’ and the ‘forces of breaching.’ In some cases the resistance is too strong and the trace is forgotten, while in others the breaching overcomes this resistance and a memory trace is implanted, or imprinted. Thus the force of repetition itself makes itself felt here since its power is precisely that of ‘breaking through’ the forces of resistance.98

We must realize that it is precisely the force of repetition that enables casuistry to leave such a noticeable trace: the annual repetition, year after year, of the sacrament of penance left a trace of the discourse of conscience even upon the most casual believer. How much more so would this be the case for priest / playwrights who may even have served as confessors themselves ... In the concluding chapter of this book, we shall focus on dilatio and Derridian différance as further, more pervasive consequences of the almost constant appearance of casuistry in the comedias. These Derridian concepts are applicable to casuistry in the comedias in both its monological and its dialogical manifestations. Monologues, after all, tend to be spoken by protagonists, while casuistry in the comedias extends itself even to the subplots and the secondary characters. Let us turn now to scenes of advice-giving, which illustrate aptly the inherently dialogical nature of casuistry.99 In doing so, we shall have occasion to examine issues of class, gender, and the supernatural.

3 Asking for Advice: Class, Gender, and the Supernatural

The idea of the trace is not exclusive to the thought of Jacques Derrida. It is perhaps in the ethical work of Emmanuel Levinas that the concept of trace bears the closest relation to casuistry. Writing in the field of Holocaust studies, Levinas emphasizes our ethical responsibility to the Other even though we can never truly know that other human being. In his essay ‘The Trace of the Other,’ Levinas defines trace negatively at first: ‘The trace is not a sign like any other. But every trace also plays the role of a sign.’1 He further explains: ‘A trace in the strict sense disturbs the order of the world. It occurs by overprinting. Its original signifyingness is sketched out in, for example, the fingerprints left by someone who wanted to wipe away his traces and commit a perfect crime. He who left traces in wiping out his traces did not mean to say or do anything by the traces he left.’2 Irene Harvey seizes upon this aspect of criminality to reiterate that ‘the “perfect crime” would be the possibility of leaving “no trace” whatsoever.’3 The trace may thus be understood as the excess, the lingering fingerprints, sometimes invisible to the naked eye. The search for casuistical traces in the discourse of the comedia thus becomes nothing short of a detective story in which every line must be examined for the invisible ‘fingerprints’ of the casuists. Continuing Levinas’s ethical emphasis on the Other, we shall now turn from monologue to dialogue in the comedia. One of the ways that comedia scenes can reflect the organization of casuistry is through the formula of asking for and receiving advice. This scenario mirrors the confessional paradigm of a penitent going to a priest for advice, at the same time both appropriating and secularizing this religious ritual and domesticating it for use in a non-religious context. As Álvarez explains,

Class, Gender, and the Supernatural

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Ante la imposibilidad de resolver por sí solo la duda, viene la consulta con alguien que le pueda orientar. Aquí entra en juego toda la dialéctica casuística, con sus argumentos y contraargumentos, usando todos los recursos a su alcance, en pro de una u otra opinión. (Faced with the impossibility of resolving doubt by himself, there comes the consultation with someone who can orient him. Here enters in play all the casuistical dialectic, with its arguments and counterarguments, using all the recourses in its reach, in favour of one or another opinion.)4

The dialogical nature of casuistry has been described eloquently by Edward Long, who notes that the principles of casuistry come in pairs and can be applied only as warnings against falling into error on opposite extremes. We must engage in casuistry much as the mariners of old were forced to sail between Scylla and Charybdis. This is not to search for a golden mean, like the rational balance advocated by Aristotle. A mean strikes an average which is supposedly better than either of its components; a dialectical process maintains an uneasy tension between two contrasting values.5

This dialectical aspect of casuistry makes it necessary for comedia characters to engage in dialogue with someone about which course of action they should take or not take. Let us see how this advice-giving scenario becomes a hallmark of the casuistical comedia. In Lope de Vega’s El animal profeta, Julián tries to determine whether to answer Federico’s challenge to a duel. He makes an apostrophe to Honour in which he asks for advice to determine which course of action he should take: Ahora, honor, pediros quiero que me aconsejéis. ¿Qué haré? ¿Saldré al puesto? ¿Para qué si vuestra desdicha espero? Pues ¿qué he de hacer? (Now, Honour, I want to ask you To advise me. What shall I do? Should I go out to meet the challenge?

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For what, if I anticipate your misfortune? Well, what should I do?)6

At another point in the play, Julián takes counsel from his saintly wife Laurencia about going to Rome to plead with the pope for absolution: julián: ¿Qué importa que un parricida se desespere y se mate, si a semejante delito no ha de haber perdón que baste? laurencia: ¿Tú eres cristiano? julián: Bien dices: Dios es piadoso; bien haces en reprenderme mis yerros: a Roma parto al instante a que el Vicario de Cristo perdone yerro tan grande ... (julián: What does it matter if a parricide Despairs and kills himself, If for such a crime There will not be a pardon which suffices? laurencia: Are you a Christian? julián: You speak well: God is merciful; you do well To reprehend my errors: To Rome will I depart this instant So that the Vicar of Christ Can pardon such a great error ...)7

Here a male figure makes a startling admission of error to a female, going so far as to thank her for her reprehension. In Calderón’s La dama duende, Cosme reverses the pattern of advicegiving and receiving, using another variant of the recurrent catch phrase we have been following. By asking his master ‘what should you do?’ he attempts to aid Manuel in deciding how to handle the mysteri-

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ous lady ‘devil’ and in determining whether they have an obligation to inform their hosts of her presence: cosme: Y en efeto, ¿qué has de hacer? manuel: Escribir y responder pretendo, hasta averiguallo, con estilo que parezca que no ha hallado en mi valor, ni admiración ni temor; que no dudo que se ofrezca una ocasión en que demos, viendo que papeles hay, con quién los lleva y los tray. cosme: ¿Y de aquesto no daremos cuenta a los huéspedes? manuel: No, porque no tengo de hacer mal alguno a una mujer, que así de mí se fio. cosme: Luego ya ofendes a quien su galán piensas. manuel: No tal, pues sin hacerla a ella mal, puedo yo proceder bien. (cosme: And in effect, what should you do? manuel: I will try to write and respond, Until verifying it, With a style that will make it appear That there has not been found in my valour, Either astonishment or fear; For I do not doubt but that some occasion Will present itself, in which Seeing that there are papers We shall discover who takes them and brings them back. cosme: And about this we will not give Account to our hosts? manuel: No, For I should not do any harm To a woman, Who thus trusted me.

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cosme: But then you offend the one Whom you believe to be her gallant. manuel: Not at all, For without doing her harm, I can proceed well.)8

The conflicting obligation here is Manuel’s duty to protect a damsel in distress or, by extension, any lady who trusts him. He attempts casuistically to find a way to proceed well himself without necessarily doing her any harm. But such a satisfactory solution is not always within reach, as his servant Cosme (rather impertinently) reminds him. In fact, in this play almost all the principal characters ask one another for advice9 at some point or another precisely because they cannot find satisfactory solutions on their own. Worried about his frustrated attempts to woo Doña Beatriz, Don Luis asks his sister Angela, ‘¡Ay hermana! ¿qué he de hacer?’ (Oh sister! what should I do?). She answers succinctly, ‘Dar tus penas al olvido; / que querer aborrecido / es morir y no querer’ (Forget your pains; / for to love, being hated / is to die and not to love).10 Here proverbial wisdom would seem to take the place of stringent moral imperatives. But from these examples, we can see that within the same play a given character may ask for or receive casuistical advice from multiple different sources at the same time. Why do we see so frequently in the comedias this pattern of advicegiving and receiving? Would it not be enough for a character to ask the signature ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ question in a monologue? Is not the ethical decision ultimately a matter to be decided by the comedia character himself or herself, chiefly in consultation with God, or perhaps privately with a priest in the confessional? This issue raises both artistic and moral questions; potentially, the individuality of conscience could make for a series of very long dramatic monologues that would prove dreadfully boring if they were to be presented in rapid succession on stage. But while the conscience is often characterized as highly individualized or private in the early modern period (see chapter 4), casuistry remains during this era a largely dialogic – if not outright social – enterprise. As Guyton B. Hammond reminds us, ‘conscience as monologue ... is a pathology of conscience’ and ‘the individualizing agency – the guilty conscience – has communal roots.’11 In this formulation, the social aspect of casuistry arises in response to ‘the tragedy of autonomy.’12 The advice of companions or even of the community is desperately sought by

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comedia characters who increasingly represent ‘the seemingly autonomous but actually lonely and anxious modern individual.’13 As Lowell Gallagher reminds us, in this period conscience itself was understood to be not only a place but an ongoing activity, a syllogistic dialogue between synteresis (the storehouse of divine truth) and conscientia (the application of moral precepts to concrete situations).14 We shall examine specific constructions of conscience from the comedias themselves in the next chapter. Given this consideration, let us examine some of the dialogical situations in which advice is either requested or received on moral issues in the comedia. To do so, we must start by asking a series of ‘diagnostic’ questions, such as: which is more typical? For a male character to reason casuistically more often than a female? Or for a woman character to be more easily confused, while the men around her are more resolute? And what about the age or social class of both the advisors and the advisees? Is it more common for a servant to tempt his or her master to stray from the narrow path of moral rectitude? Or for a master to ignore altogether the counsel of a servant who is, by definition, a social inferior? What about their interlocutors? Do men tend to offer casuistical advice more often than women? Do older people tend to counsel youths? Do servants tend to counsel masters? Or vice versa? To attempt to answer these questions, let us once again examine some representative instances for clues to the overall patterns we are tracing through the comedia as a genre, as well as some of the imagery used in scenes of advice-giving and receiving. Rulers and Subjects, Masters and Servants Sometimes in the comedia a male character asks other men for advice, as when a ruler asks his advisors for counsel. Thus the Duke in Cervantes’s El laberinto de amor states that he must seek advice from his counsellors before deciding how to handle Dagoberto’s accusation of his daughter Rosamira’s adultery: ‘que al parecer de mi consejo / tengo de remitir todo este hecho’ (that to the opinion of my council / I must remit this whole deed).15 This also happens in Guillén de Castro’s Las mocedades del Cid after the Conde Loçano has mortally offended the Cid’s father, Diego Laínez. The king exclaims to Arias Gonçalo and Peransules: ‘¡Loco estoy! ... ¿Qué haré, amigos?’ (I am crazy! ... What shall I do, friends?). The first of these two friends responds with a recommendation about this caso as compared to others like it:

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en casos tales es negocio averiguado que el prender al delinqüente es publicar el agravio. (In such cases It has been verified That to arrest the delinquent Is to publish the offence.)16

Here he advises caution, discretion, and above all, secrecy, fearing that the incident will not reflect well upon the king’s own reputation. The other counsellor, Peransules – equally unconcerned about the morality or immorality of the situation – approves this plan, calling it ‘notable razón de estado.’17 This defence of ‘reason of state,’ as we have seen, is a common one in early modern manuals of casuistry.18 Conversely, often a woman asks a maidservant for advice, as in Agustín Moreto’s La fuerza de la ley, where Aurora weeps for love of Demetrio and asks her female servant / confidante Irene: ¡Ay, Irene! ¿qué he de hacer? ... Qué hará Demetrio sin mí; Pero ¿qué haré yo sin él? (Ay, Irene! What should I do? ... What will Demetrio do without me; But what shall I do without him?)19

Invariably these scenes bear echoes or at least resonances of similar female-to-female confidences or advice-giving scenes in one of the greatest works of Spanish literature, Fernando de Rojas’s Tragicomedia de Calisto y Melibea (1499–1502), more often referred to as simply La Celestina. In this closet drama the young noble woman Melibea listens to bad advice from female servants and falls prey to the wiles of the older, lower-class woman Celestina, who acts as tercera or alcahueta (procureress) for the young nobleman Calisto. There is perhaps a more universal principle at work here, however, as similar scenes of female-to-female advice-giving also occur in contemporaneous works of French literature. In Racine’s Phèdre, for example, the servant Œnone speaks the language

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of casuistry, thereby enticing her mistress Phèdre to fall into the sin of incest.20 A reversal of the usual advice-giving scenario occurs when servants of either gender ask their master or mistress what he or she intends to do in a given situation: ‘Volviendo a lo comenzado, / señor, ¿qué piensas hacer?’ (Returning to what has begun, / sir, what do you plan to do?).21 Occasionally this scenario includes commentary by a servant on the obstinacy of his or her master, as when Fabio asks Lucrecia in the opening scene of Mira de Amescua’s La tercera de sí misma: Con essa resolución, a tu obstinada opinión no habrá fuerte silogismo; mas ya que a Mantua has llegado ¿qué determinas hacer? (With that resolution, Against your obstinate opinion There can be no syllogism strong enough; But now that you have arrived in Mantua What do you decide to do?)22

Similarly, Celia expresses exasperation with her mistress Sol in Alarcón’s La industria y la suerte, declaring, ‘Aconsejarte es en vano’ (To counsel you is in vain).23 The opposite situation occurs when a man or woman purposefully rejects the advice of a servant, usually on the grounds that the servant is stupid or does not understand the delicacies of conduct dictated by social class. In this way Anastasio reproaches his squire Cornelio in Cervantes’s El laberinto de amor: ‘Ya te he dicho, Cornelio, que te dejes / de darme esos consejos excusados’ (I have already told you, Cornelio, to stop / giving me that unnecessary advice).24 At other times the servant confesses ignorance and does not even attempt to offer advice about the dilemma of his or her master: anastasio: ¿Pues qué he de hacer? cornelio: ¿Qué sé yo? (anastasio: Well, what should I do? cornelio: How should I know?)25

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Here the servant decides not to risk future punishment in case the course of action he proposes happens to turn out badly. Sometimes an upper-class or older character will proffer unsolicited advice to a character who is younger or pertains to a lower social stratum. This commentary is usually prefaced by an apology for the perceived interference: Perdóname; que aunque léjos De culparme no estarás Que yo te dé estos consejos Sin pedillos, ya sabrás La licencia de los viejos. (Pardon me; for even though You will not be far from blaming me, For giving you this advice Without your asking for it, you already know The licence of old men.)26

Here Don Beltrán claims ‘licence’ to speak based upon his old age and wisdom. Occasionally, one character objects to another’s advice. Doña Leonor in El médico de su honra rejects a marriage proposal on the grounds that the plan would be bad advice in terms of the honour code for both parties involved: ‘No es / amante prudente y sabio, / don Arias, quien aconseja / lo que en mi daño se ve; / ... / y a vos no os estará bien tampoco’ (He is not / a prudent and wise lover, / Don Arias, who advises / what is obviously to my harm; / ... / and it will not be good for you either).27 Don Gutierre in the same play refuses to accept a servant’s advice to escape from prison, partially because the advice comes from a lowly servant but also because it is simply bad advice, again in terms of honour: ‘¡Vive Dios, necio, villano, / que te mate por mi mano! / ¿Pues tú me has de aconsejar / tan vil acción, sin mirar / la confianza que aquí / hizo el alcaide de mí?’ (As God lives, fool, villain, / I shall kill you with my own hand! / How can you recommend to me / such vile action, without observing / the confidence that here / the mayor has placed in me?)28 In a reversal of these socially postured roles, the servant Catalinón retorts indignantly to Don Juan in El burlador de Sevilla, ‘¡A mí ... / quieres advertirme a mí / lo que he de hacer!’ (Me ... / you want to tell

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me / what I should do!).29 Even though Don Juan is his master, Catalinón prefers to consult his own conscience when it comes to his own actions. Given the reprehensible conduct of Don Juan, his decision is probably a wise one. This servant even retaliates against his master later in the play by attempting to reverse their roles further and give Don Juan some unwanted advice: catalinón: ¿Hay engaño nuevo? juan: Estremado. catalinón: No lo apruebo. Tú pretendes que escapemos una vez, señor, burlados; que el que vive de burlar burlado habrá de escapar pagando tantos pecados de una vez. juan: ¿Predicador te vuelves, impertinente? (catalinón: Is there a new deceit? juan: An extreme one. catalinón: I don’t approve of it. You try to have us escape Once, sir, being tricked; For he who lives by deceiving [Being tricked himself] Will have to escape Paying for so many sins All at once. juan: Have you become A preacher, impertinent one?)30

Here Catalinón warns Don Juan that someone who has tricked so many women will doubtless end up being tricked himself. He urges him not to try to escape his moral responsibilites yet again. Of course Don Juan, in turn, objects to his servant’s advice with equal vehemence. Don Juan even uses the pejorative term ‘preacher’ to discard Catalinón’s wise counsel. These are some of the commonly encountered scenarios of advicegiving and advice-taking that we encounter in the comedias. Sometimes

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the scenarios fulfil our expectations, while other times they subvert them. Why exactly, we might ask, would noble characters – up to and including even royalty – ask for or receive advice from lowly servants? Are the social and class distinctions within this admittedly stratified society too great to overcome? Or are issues of moral responsibility somehow ‘universal’ enough to respond to deeply felt human anguish, regardless of a person’s rank or status within a culture? The evidence from the comedias would seem to support the latter hypothesis, as we see characters from across the social spectrum asking the same kinds of moral questions, albeit with varying degrees of eloquence, depending on such factors as education and upbringing. This may come as a surprise until we remember that essentially, we all do the same thing today: we ask advice from our hairdressers, our taxi drivers, our housekeepers, and our secretaries. Each of the workers in these ‘service’ occupations – who by default end up acting as substitute therapists – would need a degree in psychology to field all of the questions they must be asked in the course of a career! Extrapolating from evidence we can glean from the stage, we can only assume that the same dynamic was at work in early modern Spain. But within this essential similarity, there remains (of course) some degree of difference. As we have mentioned, characters in the comedias express themselves with varying degrees of eloquence depending on their social status or level of education. Let us turn now to some of the ‘highest’ expressions of casuistry in the comedias as articulated by its most eloquent proponents. These characters tend to be noble or welleducated, as reflected in their use of elaborate tropes and extended literary conceits. There are some identifiable metaphors that often accompany the presence of casuistical reasoning and asking for advice. Let us look at some of the imagery in the comedias that surrounds advice and moral dilemmas. Wave Imagery, Blindness, and Labyrinths Frequently when a character asks another one for advice, he or she will pose as a sailor adrift on a sea of doubt: Mil confusiones me anegan: Aconséjame, Jimeno; Que yo entre celos y amor Imito ya al marinero

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Que, con los fieros combates De las olas y los vientos, Sin fuerzas tiene el timón Y sin sentido el gobierno. (A thousand confusions inundate me: Advise me, Jimeno; For I, between jealousy and love Imitate the mariner Who, with the fierce combats Of the waves and the winds, Holds the helm without strength And controls without sense.)31

Sometimes this wave imagery is literalized, as at the beginning of Calderón’s auto sacramental titled Los encantos de la culpa, when a Christianized Ulysses figure calls out from the prow of his sinking ship: Y así, nadie se espante que Ulises, peregrino y navegante, con inquietud violenta, corra tanta tormenta, confusos y perdidos en mis tribulaciones mis sentidos. (And thus, let no one be surprised That Ulysses, pilgrim and navigator, With violent disturbance, Runs through such torment, My senses confused and lost In my tribulations.)32

The pilot of Ulysses’ ship, Understanding, laments his impotence later on in the play using the same imagery once again: ‘vaga mi imaginación / confusas visiones ve / y todo es tiniebla y sombras’ (my imagination wanders / it sees confused visions / and all is darkness and shadows).33 This imagery is not limited to depictions of casuistical dilemmas on the Spanish stage, but instead appears in contemporaneous works of English drama as well. Thus Samson in John Milton’s closet drama

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Samson Agonistes confesses to the Chorus that he, ‘like a foolish Pilot have shipwreck’t / My Vessel.’34 Later the Chorus echoes this assessment, commenting upon his misplaced trust in his Philistine wife Dalila: ‘What Pilot so expert but needs must wreck / Embark’d with such a Steers-mate at the Helm?’35 As Camille Wells Slights notes in ‘A Hero of Conscience: Samson Agonistes and Casuistry,’ the metaphor of the shipwreck, derived from 1 Timothy 1:19, was often invoked explicitly by the casuists.36 An example would be the closing words of the English casuist William Perkins’s A Discourse of Conscience (1612): Now we are all as passengers; the world is an huge sea through which we must passe: our ship is the conscience of every man ... Therefore it stands us in hand to be alwaies at the helme, to carrie our ship with as even a course as possibly we can, to the intended port of happines [sic], which is the salvation of our soules. But if so be it we grow carelesse & make breaches in the ship of conscience, suffering it to dash upon the rockes of sinne, it is a thousand to one, that wee in the end shall cast away our selves and all we have.37

As Slights concludes, in the case of Samson, he ‘abandoned the helm, neglected his duty, and irresponsibly shipwrecked his conscience.’38 Of course, as we have seen, sometimes in the comedia this same imagery appears not just in dialogues of advice-giving, but also in monologues or soliloquies: ¿Qué he de hacer? La culpa es grave, Noble y mujer la ofendida, Justiciero el Rey ... Perdida Miro esta mísera nave Entre fieras tempestades E inevitables bajíos. ¡Oh terribles desvaríos De amorosas ceguedades! (What should I do? The offence is grave, A noble woman the offended party, The king a just judge ... Lost I see this miserable ship Among the fierce tempests And inevitable declines of fortune.

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Oh terrible deviations Of amorous blindnesses!)39

These ‘ceguedades’ are another common theme in casuistical speeches, as characters lament their blindness or lack of insight when it comes to making decisions about moral dilemmas. For example, in Moreto’s La fuerza de la ley, Alejandro describes the double bind in which this situation places him as having the effect of making him ‘twice blind’: A dudar lo que haré llego, Que sin luz y con la ofensa Que dudosa el alma piensa, Vengo á estar dos veces ciego. (I come to doubt what I shall do, For without light and with the offence Which the soul thinks is doubtful, I come to be twice blind.)40

Likewise, Don Félix in Calderón’s casuistically titled Los empeños de un acaso invokes multiple commonplaces of casuistry, including the trope of being blind: Con equívoco conceto Habló á los dos mi dolor, Torpe confundiendo y ciego Empeños de amor y juego. (With equivocal conceit My sorrow spoke to them both, Slowly and blindly confusing Obligations of love and a game.)41

Here he mentions blindness in the same breath as he references the doctrine of equivocation, a famous casuistical manoeuver proposed by the Jesuits to allow for moral gray areas when it came to some forms of lying.42 Although he does not specifically mention blindness, Albert E. Sloman describes the frequent equivalence of moral disorder in Calderón’s plays with the darkness which blindness produces: ‘The

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association of error with darkness and disorder, of moral confusión with physical confusion, is probably the most common of all Calderón’s associations.’43 Equally common in this type of casuistical discourse is the image of the labyrinth or abyss. In this picture, the character expresses the nightmarish feeling of being trapped in a maze, unable to find a way out. Thus Manuel asks in Calderón’s La dama duende : ‘¿Qué haré en tan ciego abismo, humano laberinto de mí mismo?’ (What shall I do in such a blind abyss, a human labyrinth within myself?).44 Antonio Regalado notes that this is a device used commonly by Calderón, who ‘empuja a sus personajes a sentir vértigo y horror ante el abismo interior ... ese “caos” que san Agustín definió gráficamente como el “abyssus humanae conscientiae”’ (pushes his characters to feel vertigo and horror before the interior abyss ... that ‘chaos’ that Saint Augustine defined graphically as ‘the abyss of the human conscience’).45 Lowell Gallagher reiterates that ‘the image of the labyrinth ... [is] a recurrent image in the rhetorical trappings of conscience.’46 Occasionally, the labyrinth is even literal, as in Lope de Vega’s classically inspired El laberinto de Creta. In this play, Lope uses the metaphor of the labyrinth to frame an extended meditation on the sensation of being trapped in a maze of moral dilemmas with no apparent exit. Casuistical dilemmas abound in this play as King Minos returns from battle to find that his wife Pasife has given birth to the Minotaur – a monstrous creature who is half man, half beast. He hires the architect Dédalo to construct a maze to enclose the beast, to whom he vows to feed ten conquered Athenians every year. The first intended victim, Teseo, finds his way through the maze by the use of Ariadne’s golden thread. The moral dilemmas in this play do not end here, however, as Theseus must then decide what to do with the two fugitive women on his hands, Ariadne and her sister Fedra. In a supreme act of treachery, he abandons Ariadne on the island of Lesbos to run off with her sister instead. Ariadne then repents of her own treachery in having abandoned her lover Oranteo for Teseo. There is plenty of blame to go around for all the heartache in this play, as faithlessness seems to be the only constant exhibited in the actions of various characters in multiple situations. The overarching image of the blind labyrinth, the ‘laberinto ciego,’47 is appropriate for the ethical and amorous quandaries in which they find themselves. Like Theseus using Ariadne’s thread to find his way out of the labyrinth, or Peter walking toward Jesus in the midst of the storm,48 comedia

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characters who do not ask advice of each other often appeal to supernatural entities to find a way out of their casuistical dilemmas. Let us look now at some of these supernatural entities and how they fit in to the scheme of the larger casuistical project we have been describing. Soliloquies and Supernatural Entities As we saw at the beginning of this chapter, sometimes a character of either gender will apostrophize Honour or some other intangible entity in the course of a speech debating one or several possible courses of action. In Agustín Moreto’s La fuerza de la ley, Aurora asks Honour for advice and demands a response: Responde, honor, ¿qué he de hacer? ¡Dura ley! ¡Fiero pesar! Si obligas á despreciar, ¿Para qué dejas querer? (Respond, honour, what should I do? Harsh law! Fierce burden! If you oblige me to despise, Why do you permit me to love?)49

Here she also apostrophizes Law and Burden, respectively, and asks questions of them as well. In such instances, several entities become conflated as the character casts about for any possible source of advice: ¡Ay Cielos! ¿Qué he de hacer si acaso es él? ¿He de estar muda con él, o hele de decir mis duelos? ¡En gran confusión me veo! Ingenio, Cielos, ayuda: que no es posible estar muda con tan parlero deseo. (Oh heavens! What should I do in case it is he? Should I be mute with him, Or should I tell him my troubles?

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I see myself in great confusion! Ingenuity, Heavens, help: For it is not possible to be mute With such talkative desire.)50

Here Porcia starts out by asking the ‘heavens’ for aid but then directs her plea to Ingenuity simultaneously. It is almost as if she does not quite trust heaven, so she throws in her own ingenuity for good measure. In a more clearly pagan or secular apostrophe, Crespo addresses the fates in Calderón’s El alcalde de Zalamea: ‘¿Qué he de hacer, hados esquivos?’ (What should I do, perverse fates?).51 Here the addressee would seem to be categorized as specifically classical. In contrast, however, in what appears to be an overtly religious appeal, Margarita asks the heavens to take pity on her life in Quien da luego, da dos veces: ¿Qué he de hacer? Volverme a casa no es posible, que ha sentido mi hermano mi liviandad, y dar esta noche intenta fin a mi vida y su afrenta. ¡Tened, cielos, piedad de mi vida! (What should I do? To return home Is not possible, for my brother Has sensed my lust, And tries this night to put an end To my life and his affront. Take pity, heavens, On my life!)52

Even in apparently religious apostrophes, sometimes the more secular or commonplace meaning may be intended. For example, Margarita in the same author’s La misma conciencia acusa asks advice from the heavens as she tries to save her beloved Carlos from her father’s wrath: ¿Qué haré, cielos? ... ¿Qué haré, cielos? ¡Sin mí estoy! ... A Carlos dar muerte quiere. ¿Qué haré, cielos? ¡sin mí voy!

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(What shall I do, heavens? ... What shall I do, heavens? I am beside myself! ... He wants to kill Carlos. What shall I do, heavens? I go crazy!)53

These lines may be a less religious instance of apostrophe or personification, however, since the ‘heavens’ are a place normally invoked in common usage. Equally common is the concept of ‘time,’ mentioned in Cervantes’s El laberinto de amor as another source of advice that will counsel the doubting character on a future course of action. In this play, Porcia advises Julia: ‘El tiempo vendrá a avisarte / de aquello que has de hacer’ (Time will come to advise you / of that which you should do).54 Another relevant everyday topos is love, whom Julia seems to reject in this play as an untrustworthy source of counsel: ¿Qué consejo en mis enojos es, ¡oh amor!, el que me das? En gran confusión me veo. ¿Quién me podrá aconsejar? (What advice in my anger Is it, oh love, that you give me? I see myself in great confusion. Who will be able to counsel me?)55

Here she casts about for an alternative source of advice, asking who will be wise enough to counsel her. It may surprise modern audiences that, in early modern comedias, sometimes an appeal to supernatural entities for advice or help is greeted with a (literal) response. This happens in Mira de Amescua’s La mesonera del cielo, where María’s interlocutor in the dialogue is actually a demon who appears onstage: maría: ¡Ay de mí!, que las centellas de amor parece que vuelven a encender cenizas nuevas en mi pecho. ¿Qué he de hacer? demonio: Ya María titubea; prosigue en lo comenzado. maría: Allí las penas eternas

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(maría: Ay me! For the sparks Of love appear to return To burn new ashes In my breast. What should I do? demonio: Already María wavers; Proceed with what has begun. maría: There the eternal pains Menace me rigorously, Here the occasion squeezes me, For Alejandro is resolved And I am alone among these peaks; I fear God, love incites me, I do not know where to turn.)56

Here she feels caught between the ‘eternal pains’ of hell (symbolically present on stage in the person of the tempting demon) and the ‘occasion’ that squeezes or pressures her. In this case, the occasion is the temptation to give in to the seductive advances of her lover, Alejandro, with whom she finds herself alone on a deserted mountain. Ultimately she does succumb to this temptation, losing her virginity. She pauses again to determine a course of action after her lover abandons her in disgrace: ¿Qué puedo hacer, ¡ay triste!, entre tantos desvelos, murada de pesares? Porque si miro al cielo, hallo que vibra rayos contra mí el Juez severo; el virginal tesoro, si a mí misma me vuelvo, veo que le he perdido; si el infierno contemplo,

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hallo que por un gusto me aguarda fuego eterno. (What can I do [oh sad one!], Among so many anxieties, Hedged in by burdens? Because if I look to heaven, I find that the severe Judge Brandishes rays against me; The virginal treasure, If I return to myself, I see that I have lost it; If I contemplate hell, I find that for one pleasure Awaits for me eternal fire.)57

Here she literally feels herself caught between heaven and hell. Once again, following the impulses of the demon, she rejects her formerly ascetic lifestyle to become instead a whore at an inn. She rationalizes her decision by stating that she is only allowing her body to follow her soul to perdition: ‘que voy, perdida el alma, / a que se pierda el cuerpo’ (for I go, the soul being lost, / to lose my body as well).58 In a different play, another character who both seeks and accepts advice from a demon is the Moorish sorcerer Román Ramírez (modelled after an historical figure) in Alarcón’s Quien mal anda en mal acaba. The demon counsels him beginning with the words, ‘Atiende á lo que has de hacer’ (Listen to what you should do).59 The Gendering of Casuistry All of these casuistical elements – advice-giving, wave imagery, blindness and insight, labyrinth motifs, and the appeal to supernatural entities – may be found in speeches made by both male and female characters in the comedias. So is there, in fact, any notable difference, any ‘gendering’ of casuistical discourse in the comedia, or not? Paula McQuade makes a generalization: ‘When casuists discuss the power of the individual conscience, they insist that it applies equally to both men and women. Like men, women are born with a free conscience; like men, they have the ability to use this conscience to negotiate competing ethical claims.’60 But as Guyton B. Hammond reminds us, ‘the analysis of gender identity ... is

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closely connected with issues regarding conscience formation.’61 So it seems intuitively obvious that men and women might construct conscience differently.62 Or do they? To generate a set of statistics for the purpose of answering these questions, I chose a set of 97 digitalized comedias by various authors and had my research assistant do word searches for variations of the phrase ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ There were 197 identifiable instances of this phrase or one of its variants. Out of this data set, there were 56 instances of a male character speaking to another male character; 27 instances of a male character speaking to a female character; and 50 instances of a male speaking to himself. In the scenes with female speakers, there were 20 instances of a woman asking advice from another woman; 21 instances of a woman asking advice from a man; and 22 instances of a woman talking to herself. This yields a total of 133 instances of a man speaking versus only 64 instances of a woman engaging in casuistical discourse. Of the interlocutors, there were 77 males being asked for advice versus only 47 females. So statistically, out of 97 plays searched, in scenes where casuistical discourse could easily be identified, 67.5 per cent of the speakers were male and 32.5 per cent were female.63 Their interlocutors also were almost twice as likely to be male as female. So what does this tell us about the gendering of casuistical discourse? Are male characters more casuistical? Twice as many men as women in the comedias engage in speeches of casuistical reasoning. But anecdotally, do these proportions translate into an identifiable literary pattern? Are men perhaps more likely to engage in casuistical reasoning by virtue of the fact that they are more likely to be portrayed as engaging in any type of reasoning? Popular psychology books such as Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus64 would have us believe that men are more rational, while women are more emotive. But does this configuration hold true for other times and other cultures, specifically for Spaniards of the early modern period? An attempt to find answers to these questions may help us to discover another important contour of this paradigm for a new poetics of the comedia. Are Men or Women More Casuistical? Interestingly enough for scholars working in gender studies, a similar depiction of a tormented conscience appears both in Calderón’s La vida es sueño and in his El alcalde de Zalamea; but in both instances, it occurs

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on the female side of the gender divide as well as of the violation equation. In the first play Rosaura, the female victim of just such a man as the appropriately named Don Juan in Don Gil de las calzas verdes, delivers a monologue demonstrating a tormented conscience equal in anguish to that of several promiscuous male characters we have observed earlier: rosaura: ¡Válgame el cielo! ¿Quién fuera tan atenta y tan prudente que supiera aconsejarse hoy en ocasión tan fuerte? ¿Habrá persona en el mundo a quien el cielo inclemente con más desdichas combata y con más pesares cerque? ¿Qué haré en tantas confusiones, donde imposible parece que halle razón que me alivie ni alivio que me consuele? ¡Ay de mí! ¿Qué debo hacer hoy en la ocasión presente? Si digo quien soy, Clotaldo, a quien mi vida le debe este amparo y este honor, conmigo ofenderse puede, pues me dice que callando honor y remedio espere. Si no he de decir quién soy a Astolfo, y él llega a verme, ¿cómo he de disimular? Pues aunque fingirlo intenten la voz, la lengua y los ojos, les dirá el alma que mienten. ¿Qué haré? ¿Mas para qué estudio lo que haré, si es evidente que por más que lo prevenga, que lo estudie y que lo piense, en llegando la ocasión ha de hacer lo que quisiere el dolor? Porque ninguno

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(rosaura: Heaven aid me! Who could be So attentive and so prudent As to know how to advise herself Today on such a difficult occasion? Could there be a person in the world Whom inclement heaven Combats with more misfortunes Or surrounds with more sorrows? What shall I do in so much confusion, Where it appears impossible To find reason to alleviate me Nor comfort to console me? Ay me! What should I do Today on the present occasion? If I say who I am, Clotaldo, To whom my life owes This rescue and this honour, Can be offended with me For he tells me to await Honour and remedy in silence. If I must not tell Astolfo Who I am, and he sees me, How can I dissimulate? For although my voice, tongue, and eyes Try to pretend it My soul will say that they lie. What shall I do? But why do I study What I shall do, if it is evident That no matter how much I prevent it,

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Study it, and think about it, When the occasion arrives The sorrow must do what it wishes? For no one has control over her pains. And since my soul does not dare To determine what it should do, Let the sorrow today reach its limit, Let the pain reach its extreme, And let me be free from doubts and appearances Once and for all; but until then, Aid me, heaven, aid me.)65

Here the disguised Rosaura must decide whether or not to reveal her identity as a woman, thus confronting Astolfo, the man who has stolen her honour. In the process, she realizes that her father, Clotaldo, would find out that her honour had been stained. In the end, she even questions her own ability to make such a momentous decision. She asserts that at the moment of truth, her pain will do as it pleases; she speaks as if her anguish is so great that she has no control over it any more. The casuists would certainly be on her side in this situation. The Arte para bien confesar speaks of the deceptive man who ‘engañe mugeres por palabras falsas y p[ro]metimie[n]tos’ (deceives women with false words and promises).66 Benito Remigio Noydens writes of the ‘obligacion con que queda el que desflorò, ô rindiò á su voluntad alguna muger con palabra de casamiento’ (obligation incurred by the man who deflowered, or rendered to his will a woman with promise of marriage).67 This obligation was defined as marrying the violated woman, under threat of hanging: ‘puede el juez obligar à vn conuencido en vn estrupo de vna donzella, à que se case, amenazandole, le ha de ahorcar’ (the judge can oblige a man convicted of the rape of a damsel, to marry her, threatening him, that he must hang him).68 But for many casuists, unfortunately, there was some question as to whether this obligation would still hold in a case where the woman was not of equal social standing. The case was phrased thus: ‘Si el que la desflorò con promessa fingida de casamiento, queda obligado à casarse, sie[n]do notablemente desigual’ (Whether he who deflowered her with a pretended promise of marriage, remains obligated to marry her, being notably unequal).69 This sin of deflowering a woman through empty promises was seen as distinct from the related crime of abduction: Felipe de la Cruz’s Norte de confessores y penitentes stipulates that ‘para que

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sea rapto, ha de ser aviendo sacado la doncella, o q[ue] no lo sea, si es por fuerça: pero si con solos ruegos, y promessas, sin hazella otra fuerça, se va con el raptor, no serà incurso este impedimento’ (for it to be abduction, it must be having taken the virgin, or even if she is not one, if it is by force: but if only with pleas, and promises, without any force, she goes with her abductor, this impediment will not be incurred).70 Here we see that if a woman goes along ‘willingly,’ presumably after having fallen in love with her captor, then the man involved is not to be found guilty of rape, even though he deceived the woman with empty promises. In the other play, Rosaura’s counterpart Isabel, having actually been raped on the mountain, wanders in the darkness of the night – and, as San Juan de la Cruz would say, of her soul – as she tries to determine what to do: isabel: ¿Qué he de hacer? ¿Dónde he de ir? Si a mi casa determinan volver mis erradas plantas, será dar nueva mancilla a un anciano padre mío que otro bien, otra alegría no tuvo, sino mirarse en la clara luna limpia de mi honor, que hoy, desdichado, tan torpe mancha le eclipsa. Si dejo, por su respeto y mi temor afligida, de volver a casa, dejo abierto al paso a que digan que fui cómplice en mi infamia; y, ciega e inadvertida, vengo a hacer de la inocencia acreedora a la malicia. ¡Qué mal hice, qué mal hice de escaparme fugitiva de mi hermano! ¿No valiera más que su cólera altiva me diera la muerte, cuando llegó a ver la suerte mía? Llamarle quiero, que vuelva

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con saña más vengativa y me dé muerte. (isabel: What should I do? Where should I go? If my errant feet determine To return to my house It will be giving a new blemish To my old father Who had no other good, no other joy Than to see himself In the clear, clean moon Of my honour, which today, unfortunate one, Such a torpid stain eclipses. If I neglect, afflicted by his respect And my fear, To return home, I leave Open the way for people to say That I was an accomplice to my own infamy; And, blind and unaware, I come to make innocence A creditor of malice. How badly I acted, how badly To escape a fugitive From my brother! Would it not have been better For his proud choler To give me death, when He saw my fate? I want to call him, that he might return With more vengeful ire To give me death.)71

The casuists make it clear that in this instance, she has done nothing wrong. The Arte para bien confesar specifically addresses the situation of ‘violencia o rapto’ (violence or abduction)72 and elaborates that this means ‘q[ua]ndo algu[n]o por fuerça o por engaño saca o leua la muger virge[n] de casa de su padre o do[n]de esta’ (when someone by force or deception takes or carries the virgin woman from the house of her father or wherever she is).73 Bartholomé de Alva’s Confessionario mayor, y menor gives an even more graphic description of rape as it interrogates the penitent male: ‘La doncella que dizes co[n] quien pecastes, quitastele la

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honra tu, estrupandola [?] ... Y para cometer este pecado forçastela, con violencia, y amenaças, arastrandola, y haziendola fuerça, resistendose ella con muchas veras [?]’ (The damsel you say with whom you sinned, did you take away her honour, raping her? ... And to commit this sin did you force her, with violence, and threats, dragging her, and forcing her, with her truly resisting?).74 It is clear that this confessor would have blamed the male rapist and absolved the violated woman from any responsibility in the situation. But Isabel is thinking here of her father, brother, and social network, not her confessor. Her tormented conscience seems to have accepted the socially imposed (and to modern eyes, abhorrent) premise that a violated woman has lost her honour and somehow bears at least a degree of blame for the awful incident. The obvious consequence of this premise is that male characters in the comedia seem to partake of a societal double standard for their consciences as well as for their actions. Critics such as Antonio Regalado have long noted this ‘doble moral ejercitada por numerosos galanes y el libertinaje que disfrutan’ (double morality exercised by numerous gallants and the libertinism they enjoy).75 Any potential dilemma of conscience is, perhaps, less rigidly moulded for males in this society, or at least provided for with a greater variety of options. Many males (who are often portrayed as less conscientious to begin with) do not appear to feel guilty for even the most egregious offences or proposed courses of action. For example, Ramiro in Alarcón’s Don Domingo de Don Blas exhibits a chilling ambition as he rationalizes his intended treason: ¡Cielos! ¡Esta tempestad de inquietudes y cuidados a los términos cansados les faltaba de mi edad! Mas, ¿qué he de hacer? Hoy García es sol que empieza a nacer, y el Rey se ve ya esconder en el sepulcro del día. Poder y resolución tiene el Príncipe, y si quiero resistirle, considero mi muerte en su indignación. Del Rey don Alfonso estoy mal satisfecho; y García,

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pues que de mí tanto fía y tan su privado soy, pondrá en mi mano el gobierno del reino y, con su poder y mi industria, podré hacer mi casa y mi nombre eterno. Pues, ¿qué tiene que dudar quien aspira a tanto bien? Aventure mucho quien mucho pretende ganar. (Heavens! This tempest Of worries and cares Was missing from the tired limits Of my age! But what should I do? Today García Is a sun who begins to shine, And the king already sees himself hidden In the sepulchre of the day. Power and resolution Has the prince, and if I want To resist him, I consider My death in his indignation. I am ill satisfied With the king, Don Alfonso; And García, Since he trusts me so much And I am his counsellor, Will place in my hand the government Of the realm and, with his power And my industry, I will be able to make My house and my name eternal. So what cause for doubt Has he who aspires to so much good? Let him who seeks to gain much, Adventure much also.)76

Even a less Machiavellian character in the same play, such as Juan, speaks the language of casuistry to enunciate what amounts to a doctrine of equivocation:77

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¿Qué he de hacer? ¡Válgame Dios! Si callo y dejo prenderme, pongo a riesgo la ocasión de librar al Rey Alfonso; si declaro que los dos tienen preso a don Domingo, por entendido me doy de sus aleves intentos, y es el peligro mayor; mas de la misma verdad he de vestir la ficción. (What should I do? God save me! If I stay silent and let myself be arrested, I risk losing the occasion To liberate King Alfonso; If I declare that those two Have taken Don Domingo prisoner, I present myself as a knowing party To their treacherous intents, And the danger is greater; But I must cloak fiction With truth itself.)78

Speeches such as these might lead us to conclude that in the comedia in general, females feel guilty even about consequences that are in no way their fault, while males rationalize away any unpleasant complications of circumstance that might impede the attainment of their desires. But startling exceptions to this generalization, such as that of Sol in Alarcón’s La industria y la suerte, lead us to conclude that female characters are infinitely capable of reasoning in an equally casuistical manner (in the more modern, pejorative sense of the term). Here Sol abuses casuistry to rationalize her deceitful seduction of Don Juan, whom she tricks into deflowering her (believing she is another woman) so that she can force him to marry her later: ¿Qué mucho que mis pasiones Precipiten mis intentos, Si me cercan más tormentos Y menos obligaciones?

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Y no es tan grande mi error, Pues junta el remedio al daño, Porque en lograr este engaño Está el conservar mi honor; Pues que si á don Juan entrego La mayor prenda, le obligo A que se case conmigo, Aunque esté por Blanca ciego Que siendo yo su parienta, En descubriendo el engaño, Ha de remediar el daño, Pues que le alcanza la afrenta. (Who cares if my passions Precipitate my intentions, If more torments surround me And fewer obligations? And my error is not so great, For it adjoins the remedy to the harm, Because in achieving this deceit I conserve my honour; For if I surrender to Don Juan The greatest prize, I oblige him To marry me, Although he is blind for Blanca And I being his relative, In discovering the deceit, He has to remedy the damage, For the affront reaches him.)79

Here she reasons that her error is ‘not so great’ after all, since her plan involves conjoining the damage with its remedy. In the course of her speech, however, we discover that the situation is even worse than previously imagined: Don Juan is her cousin, to boot. This is an aspect of her plan with which she does not seem to have reckoned yet, unless she is counting on receiving a papal dispensation for incest. If we look closely at the comedias, in fact, we find many speeches by devious women plotting to commit the specific sin of incest. Here Casandra in Lope’s El castigo sin venganza rationalizes her decision to commit incest with her son-in-law:

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casandra: Pues de aquella turbación tanto el alma satisfice, dándome el duque ocasión, que hay dentro de mí quien dice que si es amor no es traición, y que cuando ser pudiera rendirme desesperada a tanto valor, no fuera la postrera enamorada ni la traidora primera. A sus padres han querido sus hijas, y sus hermanos algunas; luego no han sido mis sucesos inhumanos, ni mi propia sangre olvido, pero no es disculpa igual que haya otros males de quien me valga en peligro tal; que para pecar no es bien tomar ejemplo del mal. Éste es el conde, ¡ay de mí! pero ya determinada, ¿qué temo? (casandra: For I satisfied my soul so much From that turbulence The duke giving me occasion, That there is someone inside me who says That if it is love it is not treason, And that when it could be Surrendering myself desperately To such valour, I would not be The last woman in love Nor the first traitor. Daughters have loved Their fathers, and some Their brothers; then my deeds Have not been inhumane, Nor do I forget my own blood,

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But it is not an equal excuse That there be other evils to which I can point in such danger; For to sin it is not well To take example from evil.)80

As Miguel Álvarez explicates the casuistry in this speech, ‘Casandra, como buen probabilista, pesa las razones en pro y en contra de su “imposible imaginado” ... en una especie de argumento probabilista, Casandra va trayendo a su mente los argumentos que avalan la disculpa de su acto’) (Casandra, as a good probabilist, weighs the reasons for and against her ‘imagined impossibility’ ... in a type of probabilist argument, Casandra goes bringing to mind the arguments which avail her of an excuse for her action).81 We might assume that the confessors would have been horrified to hear this speech of Casandra’s. We might think this is casuistry being abused in its most pernicious form.82 On the specific issue of incest, for the casuists, however, there seem to have been degrees of culpability.83 Noydens in his Práctica de curas asserts that ‘este pecado, en tanto es mas grave, en quanto es mas cercana la persona con quie[n] se tiene copula’ (this sin is more serious, according to how close a relation is the person with whom one has intercourse).84 There also seem to have been mitigating factors taken into consideration, such as whether the incest took place when the aggressor was drunk; Bartholomé de Alva’s Confessionario mayor, y menor asks the penitent: ‘Quando llegaste a tu parienta, estabas borracho, ó no’ (When you approached your female relative, were you drunk, or not).85 Is this perhaps a commentary on the prevalence of incest within this society? Spain’s royal family at this time, the Hapsburgs, is widely known to have degenerated physically as a direct genetic result of generations of intermarriage. Have we just recovered a literary ‘trace’ of this historical fact in the comedias? Admittedly, Casandra’s incest would still undoubtedly have been classified as a sin by any confessor. In fact, incest was defined so stringently that even ‘social’ or ‘legal’ relatives such as a godsister, etc. (‘tu parienta cercana, tu hermana, tu cuñada, tu sobrina, ó finalmente deuda tuya’ [your close relative, your sister, your cousin, your niece, or finally your kin])86 were forbidden to marry ‘de de[n]tro el q[ua]rto grado,’ or within the fourth degree of kinship.87 This ‘parentesco’ or kinship was typically enumerated with three possible types: ‘cognació[n] espiritual,

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legal, y terrenal’ (spiritual, legal, or earthly kinship).88 ‘Spiritual kinship’ was defined as originating with the sacraments: ‘La cognación espiritual se contrae por el bautismo, y confirmacion, è impide, y derime el matrimonio’ (Spiritual kinship is contracted by baptism, and confirmation, and impedes, or precludes matrimony).89 If sex with even a spiritual relative counts as incest, how much more so would sex with a son-in-law? Thus there is no doubt that what Casandra was doing was wrong, judging by any moral standard of her era. The fact that she goes to great lengths to justify her actions on stage may leave open a space, however, for alternative systems of morality available to Spaniards of the early modern period. During this same time period in France, after all, female characters in the Contes of Jean de La Fontaine were actively invoking casuistry to defend their right to sexual pleasure.90 Could this be yet another instance of ‘pernicious’ French influence upon Spain, so often decried by Spanish statesmen and moralists? Or is it instead a more universal trend, as evidenced by similarly casuistical defences of female pleasure by Amarilli in Giambattista Guarino’s Il pastor fido (1590) and its numerous English imitations?91 Are female consciences depicted as less rigid to reflect a nurturing, maternal aspect which is notably absent from depictions of males? In this vein, Hammond defines the difference between ‘male’ vs. ‘female’ constructions of conscience as ‘the difference between the experience of being nurtured and the experience of being required to follow a rule.’92 Be that as it may, even if male characters in the Spanish comedias are less restricted by conscience, surely women like Casandra also abuse casuistry. Perhaps it is not surprising, given the acknowledged misogyny of early modern Spain, to find such chauvinistic depictions of lascivious women. After all, misogynistic playwrights often portray female characters as having ‘wide’ consciences, as in the example: ‘¡Válgate Dios por mujer, / qué ancha debes de tener / la voluntad y conciencia!’ (God save you, being a woman, / how wide you must have / the will and the conscience!).93 Statements such as this one are all too common in the comedias, which – we must remember – were almost always written by men:94 ¡Vive Dios! que es una desvergonzada, y que no tiene conciencia; y si es mujer, salga aquí.

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(As God lives! She is a shameless one, And she does not have a conscience; And if she is a woman, let her come out here.)95

But perhaps there is a backdoor compliment here as well: women are also obviously being depicted as smart enough to engage in the casuistical reasoning process. It is somewhat surprising, in fact, to find that casuistry is not a realm reserved exclusively for males. The patterns of advice-giving concerning casuistical dilemmas in the comedias thus show some differentiation between male and female, older and younger, master and servant, natural and supernatural – but not always in the ways we might expect. At this point, we might well pause to meditate upon the difficulty of casuistry as an object of study. As we have seen in this chapter, the permutations of this concept can be remarkably difficult to pin down. In this way, casuistry resembles the equally difficult concept of trace, to which we have been trying to relate it all along. Derrida refers to logos as ‘the sublimation of the trace,’96 so evidently the trace precedes writing or even speech. But later he seems to contradict this precedence by the statement ‘the signifier is a trace.’97 To complicate things further, by the time he is finished, linguistic slippage has instead shifted the identity of the trace to the signified: ‘the signified is originarily and essentially ... trace.’98 Finally, he seems to surrender to the ultimate indecideability of this term: ‘What the thought of the trace has already taught us is that it could not be simply submitted to the onto-phenomenological question of essence. The trace is nothing, it is not an entity, it exceeds the question What is? and contingently makes it possible.’99 In our search for interpretive paradigms, we find that the Derrida Dictionary does not provide much further assistance: ‘Like the supplement, the pharmakon, différance and many other Derridean concepts, or what he sometimes refers to as an “aconceptual concept,” the trace cannot be understood – it makes no sense – according to a standard logic of conceptual production ... Like the supplement, the pharmakon and so on, the trace is unable to be thought within metaphysics.’100 If the trace is not an entity, then does it lose all power of reference? Perhaps not. Derrida prefers to think of it instead as a movement: ‘the arche-trace ... is the movement which produces the difference of absence and presence.’101 However, it is a movement which is difficult to

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discern or even notice: ‘the movement of the trace is necessarily “occulted.” It removes itself from the “scene of writing” in its simultaneous constitution of it.’102 Thus we continue to seek the ‘trace’ of casuistry as it moves through the discourse of the comedias, inscribing itself yet simultaneously erasing itself so successfully that it has become almost imperceptible to modern readers.

4 Constructions of Conscience

A crucial part of casuistry is the examination of conscience to determine motives, intentions, desires, and even thoughts concerning the resolution of moral dilemmas. As we noted in the introduction, Saint Ignatius in his Ejercicios espirituales (Spiritual Exercises) had recommended extensive examinations of conscience.1 The words ‘conscience’ and ‘casuistry’ are frequently uttered in the same breath by scholars in the field, as for example in the title of Edmund Leites’s valuable essay collection Conscience and Casuistry in Early Modern Europe. But conscience is a slippery word to get a handle on. What is it? Where is it located? How does it function? Can it be controlled? In his book Theologische Ethik, German theologian Richard Rothe called for a deliberate erasure of the word ‘conscience’ from all scientific studies of ethics on the grounds that the word is so imprecise as to mean virtually nothing: ‘Nach dem herrschenden ungenauen Sprachgebrauch pflegt man das alles, was wir durch den Namen die individuelle Instanz bezeichnen, unter dem Ausdruck Gewissen zusammen zu fassen’ (According to the prevailing inexact use of language, everything that we call ‘individual instance’ is summarized as ‘conscience’).2 He lamented the confused history of the term as well as the proliferation of its meanings in popular, elitist, religious, and academic discourse. Guyton B. Hammond echoes Rothe’s complaint about the word’s uncertain meaning: ‘An uncertainty remains as to whether the term conscience has an actual referent or whether the concept is merely rhetorical. Is the idea of conscience sufficiently meaningful to play a significant role in current ethical discussions? ... To what experience, activity, or agency does the term refer?’3 And Lowell Gallagher likewise refers generally to

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the ‘web of competing ideologies and competing discourses of legitimation that converged in the word “conscience.”’4 Paul Tillich, in Morality and Beyond, shares Rothe’s, Hammond’s, and Gallagher’s concerns but vehemently denies their conclusions. Instead Tillich calls for specific histories of conscience to be written in accord with the specific cultural, geographical, and temporal contexts in which the word appears: ‘the word “conscience” points to a definite reality which, in spite of its complexity, can and must be described adequately.’5 Hammond likewise allows for the possibility that ‘conscience’ could mean different things in different places at different times: ‘conscience in its origins and development differs in different societies. There is a typical conscience or social character in a given society. If so, this fact has a specific bearing on morality.’6 Rather than a universal history of conscience, perhaps we should concentrate instead on writing a diachronic as well as place-specific genealogy, as Michel Foucault encourages us to do in his essay ‘Nietzsche, Genealogy, History’: Genealogy is gray, meticulous, and patiently documentary. It operates on a field of entangled and confused parchments ... The world of speech and desires has known invasions, struggles, plundering, disguises, ploys. From these elements, however, genealogy retrieves an indispensable restraint: it must record the singularity of events outside of any monotonous finality; it must seek them in the most unpromising places, in what we tend to feel is without history – in sentiments, love, conscience, instincts ...7

In opposing genealogy to history, Foucault is not unaware of the enormity of the task he has set for himself and his would-be followers. He acknowledges the painstaking effort that must be expended in the search for ‘traces’ of lost moral dilemmas: ‘Genealogy, consequently, requires patience and a knowledge of details and it depends on a vast accumulation of source material. Its “cyclopean monuments” are constructed from “discreet and apparently insignificant truths and according to a rigorous method” ... In short, genealogy demands relentless erudition.’8 As we might have guessed from the title of Foucault’s essay ‘Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,’ this idea of genealogy did not originate with Foucault. He draws upon several of Nietzsche’s works, including On the Genealogy of Morals, to elaborate this concept. In the second essay of this work, Friedrich Nietzsche employs the genealogical method to amass a catalogue of possible meanings for ‘punishment.’9 In his essay ‘Fou-

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cault, Nietzsche, History: Two Modes of the Genealogical Method,’ Benjamin Sax analyses Nietzsche’s method thus: ‘There is no single purpose of punishment that fits all situations, ages, and cultures and ... even in a given culture at a given time the meaning of punishment might be complex, overlapping, and contradictory. Nietzsche’s use of so many examples at once demonstrates the wide range of possible meanings of punishment.’10 It is just such a genealogy that I am attempting to write here, albeit of conscience instead of punishment. In doing so, I am trusting in ‘la capacidad del dramaturgo de analizar las estructuras profundas de la conciencia ... de hacer presente las dobleces, represiones y ocultaciones de la conciencia dubitativa y escrupulosa’ (the capacity of the dramatist for analysing the deep structures of the conscience ... for making present the doublings, repressions, and hidings of a doubtful and scrupulous conscience).11 In other words, I am trusting in the dramatist’s insights into human nature as well as the viability of extrapolating religious sentiments from literary texts. The blatantly literary nature of my material makes it even more important to consult a wide range of sources. This concern has, in turn, shaped my method in the pages that follow. Even etymologically, the word ‘conscience’ is casuistical: the Latin conscientia derives from the Greek syn-eidesis, or literally, ‘knowing with.’12 The Latin noun comes from the verb con-scire, meaning ‘to know together,’ and refers to the ‘knowing together’ of both universal principles and particular applications of those principles.13 As Gallagher explains, ‘Con-scire (“to know with”) meant both to be conscious of one’s own acts and thoughts and also to be conscious of what transpired in the outside world.’14 In early modern Spain, lexicographer Sebastián de Covarrubias defined ‘conciencia’ as ‘ciencia de sí mesmo, o ciencia certísima, y casi certinidad de aquello que está en nuestro ánimo, bueno o malo’ (science of oneself, or a most certain science, and almost certainty of that which is in our spirit, good or bad).15 The Counter-Reformation produced a rise in the numbers of casuistical treatises being published about conscience, perhaps because of the shift in emphasis in the confessional from the actual sin committed to the thoughts, desires and struggles that preceded the act.16 For example, in Spain there appeared Tomás de Jesús and Hernando de Comargo’s Tribunal de la conciencia, Augustín de Esbarroya’s Purificador de la conciencia, Iuan Daza y Berrio’s Tesoro de confessores y perla de la conciencia para todos estados, and Francisco de Soto’s Confessionario general y instruc-

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ción para examinar la conciencia de los pecados de toda la vida. In these casuistical treatises, Catholics were urged to examine their consciences according to strict methods of interrogation, and these exámenes de conciencia in the vernacular were printed in large enough print runs to be made readily available to confessors as well as the believing faithful. Foucault describes this public production of private conscience: The Counter Reformation busied itself with stepping up the rhythm of the yearly confession in the Catholic countries ... It tried to impose meticulous rules of self-examination ... It attributed more and more importance in penance ... to all the insinuations of the flesh: thoughts, desires, voluptuous imaginings, delectations, combined movements of the body and the soul; henceforth all this had to enter, in detail, into the process of confession and guidance.17

Tillich reiterates that both the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation demarcate an era when conscience truly came into its own: ‘There is no “religion of conscience” either in the New Testament or in classical Christianity before the sectarian movements of the Reformation period.’18 With the proliferation of casuistical discourse about conscience at this time, the seventeenth century in Spain saw a veritable explosion of references to conscience in popular stage plays. A word search for ‘conscience’ in the Teatro Español del Siglo de Oro online database of 800 comedias, distributed by Proquest, results in 294 occurrences in 219 different plays. A similar word search through the Corpus del Español database, compiled by Mark Davies and funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities, reveals some 75 additional entries. A thorough study of these nearly 400 references to conscience by numerous authors of seventeenth-century Spanish stage plays reveals (with apologies to Rothe) a remarkably precise, detailed picture of conscience as it was envisioned by playwrights in early modern Spain.19 It is the purpose of this chapter to construct a genealogy of how conscience was constructed in the comedia. How precisely shall we proceed in this endeavour? In Morality and Beyond, Paul Tillich asks: ‘What is the relation between the form and the content of conscience? Conscience points to an objective structure of demands that make themselves perceivable through it, and represents, at the same time, the most subjective self-interpretation of personal life.’20 Following Tillich’s question, in this chapter we shall be looking at

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both the form of conscience, or how it is described, and its content, or what it is said to do. These representations will be divided into the following categories: the conscience, in action and acted upon; descriptions of conscience in the form of adjectives and metaphors; auxiliaries, or things a conscience is said to have or possess; antonyms and synonyms for conscience; and the symptoms of troubled versus clear consciences (respectively). By means of this process, we shall hope to recover an entire genealogy of ‘traces’ of the discourse of casuistry in the comedia. The Conscience, in Action and Acted Upon There are some cases where conscience is seen as a passive entity in the comedias, buffeted about by forces external to itself. In these scenes a person may be viewed as more powerful than his or her conscience, manipulating it, offending it, and / or doing violence to it in some way. In the most obvious example of this type, conscience can be prepared for confession: ambrosio: No hay remedio: no has de entrar sin que hagas penitencia. teodosio: Yo me quiero confesar. ambrosio: Apercibe tu conciencia; que habrás menester lugar. (ambrosio: There is no remedy: you should not enter Unless you do penance. teodosio: I want to confess. ambrosio: Prepare your conscience; For you will have need of a place [to confess]).21

Conscience may also be liberated from wrong action that was premeditated but not performed, such as murder: y será de aquesta suerte más llano el bien que procuro, pues mi conciencia aseguro y libro de dalle muerte. (And in this manner will be Greater the good I procure,

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For I assure my conscience And free it from giving death [i.e., being guilty of murder]).22

Conscience is typically reassured by consulting a knowledgeable individual, such as a priest or confessor: Hija, en negocios tan graves, y que tocan a tu fe, yo no puedo resolverme sin que tome parecer. Demos a Madrid la vuelta, que hay teólogos en él que mi conciencia aseguren. (Daughter, in such grave negotiations, And which touch upon your faith, I cannot resolve myself Without taking counsel. Let us return to Madrid, For there are theologians there Who can assure my conscience.)23

Conscience may also be vindicated through submission to a governing body, such as the Parliament called by King Henry VIII to approve his divorce. Here he speaks to the Parliament he has assembled: bien cierto es que no pretendo causar nuevos alborotos en la cristiandad; pues antes por excusar los estorbos a tantos heresiarcas a quien la fe causa enojos, en aqueste Parlamento a que os he llamado, sólo asegurar mi conciencia pretendo. (It is certainly true that I do not intend To cause new disturbances In Christianity; but instead

Constructions of Conscience 149 To avoid the impediments Of so many arch-heretics To whom the faith causes annoyance, In this Parliament To which I have called you I am only trying To assure my conscience.)24

Obviously, Henry was attempting to find a new authority to approve his actions, since the traditional authorities (theologians, confessors, and casuists) had failed to arrive at the verdict he desired. Here conscience appears as eminently impressionable, since he can control it simply by taking his dilemma to a different arbiter. This was seemingly an acceptable course of action within this society, however, for it was fairly routine to leave one’s conscience to the scholars, i.e., confessors or authors of confessional manuals: ‘si a los Letrados su conciencia dexan, / miren ellos por si quando aconsejan’ (if they leave their conscience to the Learnèd Ones, / let them pause before giving others advice).25 This would presumably involve letting the letrados arbitrate on issues of conscience without questioning their authority. Strangely – although it seems perverse – the conscience may also be liberated through someone else’s wrongdoing, as if that evil justifies a particular course of action (as we would say, ‘two wrongs make a right’). An example would be Doña Beatriz in Calderón’s La desdicha de la voz, who justifies her own action by referring to Don Juan’s previous improprieties: ‘[pue]sto que el Señor Don Ju[an] / [m]e da con sus groserías / [ya] libertad de conciencia’ (since Sir Don Juan / gives me, with his shameless actions / already liberty of conscience).26 This is a rather cynical view of a conscience that can be pacified merely by the mention of someone else’s wrongdoing. In a secular context, conscience can be assured or delivered from scruples by something so simple as the face of one’s beloved: ‘el semblante, / quien ... / de escrúpulos assegura / la conciencia de un amante’ (the face, / who ... / assures the conscience / of a lover from scruples).27 This is a supremely cynical view of a conscience that needs nothing more than a pretty face to make it forget all its scruples.28 But the manipulation of conscience is not without consequences. We see in the comedias that it is possible to sin against one’s own conscience, as when King David in Mira de Amescua’s El arpa de David cries, ‘mi pecado está sienpre / contra mi misma conçiençia’ (my sin is always /

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against my own conscience).29 If the situation is not quite so extreme, it is nevertheless possible to weigh down one’s conscience with temptation, as with the seduction of a woman’s beauty: ‘Yo no / quiero encargar la conciencia / por la hermosura mayor’ (I do not / want to weigh down the conscience / [even] for the greatest beauty).30 It is also possible to weigh down the conscience with something that goes beyond mere temptation and ventures into actual sin: ‘llegarme a escusalla / es encargar la conciencia’ (to bring myself to excuse it / is to weigh down the conscience).31 Lewdness can weigh down the conscience, as in Cervantes’s Pedro de Urdemalas, when Pedro asks Clemente: ¿Haste visto con Clemencia a solas o en parte escura, donde ella te dio licencia de alguna desenvoltura que encargase la conciencia? (Have you seen yourself with Clemencia Alone or in a dark place, Where she gave you license For some lewdness That would weigh down the conscience?)32

This interrogation scene in the comedia is worthy of the confessors themselves. In a different translation of the same word encargar, a person’s conscience can be charged or activated by the words of someone else to do the right thing or persuade its owner to act justly: ‘Mas pues que vos me encargays / la conciencia, veo que es justo / y que quiero hazer su gusto’ (But since you charge / my conscience, I see that it is just / and that I want to do her pleasure).33 Similarly, a charge of conscience can be placed upon someone by another individual, as when La Malcontenta threatens, ‘Yo os lo pongo por cargo de conciencia’ (I place it upon you as a charge of conscience).34 These verbs still depict conscience as malleable, impressionable, and even Protean insofar as it can be manipulated by arguments or threats of harm. In the reverse situation, conscience can be discharged by interrogating someone, as we see in the early example of Lope de Rueda’s El matón cobarde : ‘Déjeme, señor Polo, hacer a ese hombrecillo las preguntas que soy obligado por el descargo de mi conciencia’ (Let me, Sir Polo, pose

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to this little man the questions to which I am obligated in order to discharge my conscience).35 The actual verb form appears in Lope de Vega’s La serrana de Tormes: batavo: Chamizo, yo no la sé; descargo en vos mi conciencia, pues Dios os dio buen pergeño; jodicadle a vuestro modo, que yo no sé más que un leño. (batavo: Chamizo, I don’t know it; I discharge in you my conscience, For God gave you good skill; Judge it in your own way, For I don’t know more than a block of wood.)36

These forms of the verb descargar allude to conscience as more of a nuisance to be done away with than a powerful force with which to contend. In similarly passive fashion, conscience can be moved by novelty, as when Tomás says of King Henry VIII: ‘Voló la fama / que dice que le mueve su conciencia / una gran novedad’ (Rumour flew / which says that a great novelty / moves his conscience).37 In extreme cases, heaven can move a reluctant conscience to declare the truth: ‘el alto cielo / hoy mueve mi conciencia a que declare / la verdad deste caso’ (high heaven / today moves my conscience to declare / the truth of this case) (note here the reference to ‘caso’ in the same breath with ‘conciencia’).37 Conscience is also pictured as so unfocused that it can be distracted, as in this description of another sinful ruler, the Emperor in Mira de Amescua’s La rueda de la fortuna: ya el Emperador su conciencia ha distraído, aunque ya viejo, es cruël, es avariento y lascivo, y aun a la fe de cristiano le va corriendo peligro. (Already the Emperor Has distracted his conscience, For although he is already old, he is cruel,

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He is avaricious and lascivious, And even his Christian faith Is in danger.)39

In a more colourful as well as forceful image, conscience is so vulnerable that it can be stained by sin, as Feniso fears in Lope de Vega’s Lo que hay que fiar del mundo. He describes himself as ‘aunque pobre, temeroso / de no manchar mi conciencia’ (although poor, fearful / of staining my conscience).40 In a rather violent image of purification through burning, conscience may be refined by penitence, as when the Prior states of Cristóbal de la Cruz: ‘Resucitado ha en la penitencia / de los antiguos padres, que en Egipto / en ella acrisolaban la conciencia’ (He has been revived in the penance / of the ancient fathers, who in Egypt / refined in it [i.e., penance] the conscience).41 This image of a burning conscience was a common one in the early modern period, as we see from Ned Lukacher’s reading of Shakespearean pictures of conscience: Shakespeare thinks of conscience in terms of an enigmatic materiality that can be seared, singed, scarred, and finally consumed ... The imagery of Pauline conscience that proved so influential during the wars of conscience of Shakespeare’s time centered upon this fiery imagery, the imagery of branding, of searing heat, of the tenderness of conscience and the fearful prospect of bringing it too near to the flame of the law ... Damaging one’s conscience is like stifling the fire by trying to burn too much incombustible fuel.42

As Lukacher implies, fire imagery in the context of conscience may usually be traced back to 1 Timothy 4:2, where Paul speaks of a branding iron which cauterizes the conscience.43 These painful images of igniting, burning, and scorching give us glimpses of the early modern soul in torment. The foregoing have been verbs in the passive voice, revealing cases in which conscience is acted upon by someone or something. Now we shall turn to instances where conscience is an agent, performing an action upon the individual who bears it within him or her. Thus we shall follow conscience’s enigmatic ‘trace.’ There are several types of actions that conscience can perform. First, there are actions which conscience takes to effect a result in the present tense. Some of these actions appear less than forceful, and in these cases conscience plays the role of the proverbial ‘still small voice’ suggesting

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courses of action but not necessarily insisting upon them. Conscience can give licence for a specific action when it is asked for permission to do something: sansón: Porque es Borja un galán muy recoleto, y nunca lee papeles sin licencia. belisa: ¿Pues a quién se la pide? sansón: A su conciencia. (sansón: Because Borja is a very discreet gallant, and he never reads papers without permission. belisa: Well, from whom does he ask permission? sansón: From his conscience.)44

It does this by quietly adjusting to the situation at hand: ‘él allá / lo ajuste con su conciencia’ (he there / adjusts it with his conscience).45 Conscience can gently move a person to action – or not, as in the case of Jezabel, whose appetite blinds her into taking the poor man’s vineyard and whose conscience does not move her to stop offending God: ‘su apetito le ciega, / y aunque vee la sin razon, / no la mueue la conciencia’ (her appetite blinds her, / and although she sees the unreason, / her conscience does not move her).46 Conscience is portrayed here as timid or even ineffectual, since it clearly is not powerful enough to dominate the wiles of Jezabel. In a similar case, conscience can try to obligate without success, as when the servant Aurelino admits to having kept silent about information he knew even though his conscience obliged him to tell it: ‘Yo, que esta verdad sabía / años ha; aunque me obligaba / mi conciencia, lo callaba, / porque pobreza tenía’ (I, who knew this truth / years ago; although my conscience obliged me, / I kept silent, / because I was poor).47 He offers poverty as an excuse for not obeying his own conscience. In these circumstances, however, a timid conscience can do something to shore up its resources. A conscience can be seen to take courage in the face of adversity, if in fact it has nothing to fear at the Last Judgment; in this vein, Ruy López de Avalos tells his weak spirit and his meek conscience not to dismay: El ánimo desfallece; ¿Cómo y por qué me desmayo? Tengamos valor, conciencia, Pues que seguros estamos.

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(The spirit falters; How and why do I faint? Let us take courage, conscience, For we are secure.)48

These are all examples of the timid conscience in action, faltering and then reinforcing itself from a position of weakness. There are far more examples, however, of active verbs used in the comedias to describe situations in which conscience does take forceful action. In fact, the overall picture we receive of conscience from these passages is one of a fiercely aggressive, dominating source of control that keeps its bearer in a state of perpetual fear. In this vein, the conscience of the dying king in Moreto’s La cavtela en la amistad positively obliged him to declare that his bastard son Carlos had been raised in a village under the tutelage of César: Obligòle là conciencia al Rey quando se moria, y alli declarò su Alteza, que con nombre de hijo mio se criò allà en nuestra Aldea Carlos su hijo natural ... (The King’s conscience obliged him When he died, And there his Highness declared, That with the name of my son Was raised there in our village Carlos, his natural [i.e., bastard] son ...)49

A suitably strong conscience can command someone to tell or confess the truth: ‘La verdad, la razón tiene esta fuerza; / mi conciencia me manda que os lo diga’ (Truth, reason has this force; / my conscience commands me to say it to you).50 Similarly, it forces one to reveal hidden information: Irme quiero a la justicia y decir que este traidor al inocente pastor ha acusado de malicia,

Constructions of Conscience 155 y que vine a consentillo por su mucha diligencia, y que mi propia conciencia hoy me fuerza a descubrillo. (I want to go to justice [i.e., the authorities] And say that this traitor Has accused the innocent shepherd Out of malice, And that I came to consent to it Through his great diligence, And that my own conscience Today forces me to reveal it.)51

Conversely, conscience can cut short with fear the steps of a scrupulous individual so that he does not flee from his responsibilities: ‘Pruebo a huir: / no doy paso que no corte / con el temor la conciencia’ (I try to flee: / I do not take a step which conscience / does not foreshorten with fear).52 Not only does conscience use fear as an instrument of its authority; it has even been said that conscience is powerful enough to rule over fear: ‘la conciencia / es la que rige al temor’ (conscience is the one / who rules over fear).53 In a second category of verbs, there are actions a conscience performs to evaluate events which have occurred in the past tense. Sometimes in this context conscience fails to perform its duty at all; a passive conscience does not engage in any positive action, but instead can even go in the opposite direction. For example, the bastard Carlos in Moreto’s La cavtela en la amistad tells his conscience to dissumulate: ‘à dissimular, conciencia, / que ya te empiezo à tratar / como à Infante’ (to dissimulate, conscience, / for already I begin to treat you / as a Prince).54 In these cases conscience can be utilized as an instrument to accomplish evil instead of good, even leading a person into sin or helping to cover it up. But these examples are rarely found in the comedias. More frequently we find harsh or at least forceful verbs to describe the ways in which conscience probes an individual’s motives. Conscience tells a person when he has done wrong: No se excusa morir yo, digno soy de pena igual.

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Mi conciencia me lo dice. Maté un ángel, una santa ... (To die myself is necessary, I deserve like punishment. My conscience says it to me. I killed an angel, a saint ...)55

Conscience blames a person for sins committed, as when Pedro says, ‘Bien sé que la conciencia ya me culpa’ (Well do I know that already my conscience blames me).56 In a similar fashion it can accuse a person of murder or some other crime: ‘Mi conciencia me acusó, / yo he muerto aquel caballero’ (My conscience accused me, / I have killed that gentleman).57 Conscience can revive memories and wound a troubled breast more than a skilful preacher: ni con viva voz el predicador más bueno, ni el más perfeto letrado con admirables conceptos, tanto avivan las memorias ni hieren tanto en los pechos como la conciencia misma de los cristianos discretos, avisada muchas veces y advertida en los sucesos que en los frágiles humanos las edades dispusieron. (Neither with a loud voice The best preacher, Nor the most perfect learnèd one With admirable concepts, Revive so much the memories Nor wound so much the breasts As the conscience itself Of discreet Christians, Advised many times And warned of the events That the ages disposed In fragile human beings.)58

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It can afflict someone and cause unparalleled agony, as when the (admittedly Machiavellian) character Volseo says to Henry VIII in Calderón’s La cisma de Inglaterra, ‘te aflige la conciencia / a tomar contra el Papa esta licencia’ (conscience afflicts you / upon taking this licence against the pope).59 It can even terrorize the guilty individual: ‘que la misma / conciencia ... me acusa, y atemoriza’ (for conscience itself / accuses me, and terrorizes me).60 While performing these actions, it can sweat under duress: ‘lo que no sudè denantes sudo agora en mi conciencia’ (what I did not sweat before I sweat now in my conscience).61 Finally, conscience condemns the sinner to perpetual torment, as with the character who laments, ‘Mi conciencia me condena’ (My conscience condemns me) and then promptly dies of grief over his sins.62 The logical result of condemnation is incarceration, and in fact the prison is another frequent image of conscience in the early modern period: ‘One notable parallel emerges between the prison and conscience, both of which were conceived of as regions with hidden recesses where disorder – sin, crime – was punished.’63 Condemn, punish, incarcerate: these are verbs characterizing actions of a functional conscience, or one that is not yet hardened into passivity. They paint a picture of a frightening force within, an entity so strong as to be capable of producing sorrow, guilt, terror, and despair. The previous examples have been the more straightforward actions of conscience, ones which are readily comprehensible to the postmodern imagination. But early modern people envisioned conscience in some more creative ways that, at first, may not be quite so easy to grasp. For example, many analogies to eating are used in the early modern period to paint a graphic picture of the conscience in action. Conscience chews upon its victims, antagonizing them into submission to its authority, as in the following hypothetical scenario: ‘Y si [a] alguna de las jembras / les remuerde en este trance / la conciencia ...’ (And if the conscience chews / upon one of these women / in this intrigue ...).64 Similarly, Caramanchel asks in Tirso de Molina’s Don Gil de las calzas verdes, ‘¿Os remuerde / la conciencia?’ (Does your conscience / bite you?).65 In an even more arresting visualization, conscience is seen as chewing upon sinners at every moment to remind them of their guilt, as in ‘La conciencia que en su culpa / cada instante le remuerde’ (conscience which in his fault / every instant bites him again).66 It chews upon their hearts with teeth as sharp as swords: ¡Oh conciencia! ¡Cómo muerdes De filo en el corazón

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Con presas de agudos dientes! ¿Qué haré, que de carne soy, Y aunque el espíritu quiere Animarse, el propio amor Me detiene y entorpece? ¿Qué haré en tanta confusión? (Oh conscience! How you chew Like a sword upon the heart With fangs of sharp teeth! What shall I do, for I am made of flesh, And although the spirit wants To animate itself, love itself Detains me and slows me down? What shall I do in so much confusion?)67

Gallagher sees some of the same imagery operating within contemporaneous texts from the English Renaissance: ‘the “pricks” and “wounds” of conscience, both probative and punitive devices, charted degrees of spiritual pain.’68 Sometimes conscience is seen as being eaten or chewed upon in turn by sin, which feeds upon it like an asp (a type of snake): ‘el pecado / es áspid de la conciencia’ (sin / is the asp of conscience).69 A further extension of the eating analogy is possible when the conscience acts as arbiter of disputes. When a person is in doubt, a conscience digests enigmas and determines what the best course of action should be: ‘estas Enigmas no son / de muy fácil digestión / al pecho de la conciencia’ (these Enigmas are not / of very easy digestion / to the breast of conscience).70 By far the most amusing extension of this trope of eating is found in Lope de Vega’s Santa Teresa de Jesús, where Petrona tells Teresa what conscience eats for breakfast: ‘Madre mía, paciencia; / con siete misas y una disciplina / suele desayunarse la conciencia’ (Patience, my mother; / for conscience usually breakfasts / with seven masses and a whipping).71 There are those who might find seven masses and a selfflagellation to be less than appetizing, early in the morning. Other analogies for conscience relate it to some act of writing. In one formulation, the law of God relates or narrates the fault or blame, while the conscience writes it: ‘La ley de Dios, cuando menos, / es quien la culpa relata, / su conciencia quien la escribe’ (The law of God, at least, / is the one who recounts the blame, / his conscience the one who

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writes it).72 This is actually a perversion of Romans 2:15, in which Paul envisions the law as written on the heart, while the conscience simply bears witness to it. Here Lope de Vega attributes greater agency to conscience even than to the law of God. And where are we to suppose that conscience is doing the writing? Given the intertext of Romans, it is difficult to imagine any place other than the softly sensitive space of the heart. The conscience as scribe, painfully scratching out each letter of the sin committed, leaving an indelible imprint of blame upon the heart: this image is nothing short of Kafkaesque in its incisiveness.73 Descriptions of Clear and Troubled Consciences The language used to describe conscience becomes even more lively when colourful nouns are used as metaphors. A clear conscience is seen to be a diamond against envy: ‘es la buena conciencia / diamante contra la envidia.’74 It is also a witness for an aggrieved party: ‘Aquí el agraviado tiene / tu conciencia por testigo’ (Here the aggrieved one has / your conscience as a witness).75 It can likewise appear as the secretary of one’s life: ‘¿Secretario de su vida, / su conciencia convencida / no es?’ (Is not his convicted conscience / the secretary of his life?).76 A rather curious metaphor, at least at first glance, is that of conscience as the softest bed: ‘Quál es la mas blanda cama? / La conciencia y buena fama’ (What is the softest bed? / Conscience and good reputation).77 Perhaps the most colourful metaphor is that of the best food one can possibly eat: ‘Que no hay mejor comida / que la conciencia de una honesta vida’ (For there is no better food / than the conscience of an honest life).78 Here we return once again to images of eating, chewing, and digesting. This example fits well with the overall observation of Lukacher that ‘the stuff of conscience is the household stuff of the hearth.’79 But these few positive metaphors for conscience are far outweighed by negative images of a conscience in torment. A troubled conscience is viewed as the witness of the soul, as we hear in the closing words of Moreto’s La misma conciencia acusa: Y este ejemplo Dé escarmiento a los que tratan De hacer secretos delitos; Pues si cautelas los callan, La misma conciencia acusa, Que es el testigo del alma.

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(And let this example Give warning to those who try To commit secret crimes; For if caution keeps them silent, Conscience itself accuses, For it is the witness of the soul.)80

This witness of the soul scrutinizes with a penetrating gaze, like a reincarnation of the Medusa of classical antiquity.81 This image is multiplied exponentially when conscience is pictured as a thousand witnesses bearing testimony against the sinner it accuses, as when the wicked king in Guillén de Castro’s La piedad en la justicia states, ‘mi conciencia es mil testigos / contra mí’ (my conscience is a thousand witnesses / against me).82 In another legal metaphor, conscience is said to be a prosecuting attorney: ‘no hay fiscal / como la propia conciencia’ (there is no prosecuting attorney / like conscience itself).83 This image is repeated often: ‘La conciencia acusada / fiscal es de sí misma’ (The accused conscience / prosecutes itself).84 This language of trial scenes and courtrooms suggests a severe view of conscience as a strictly legalistic interpreter of divine law. As Camille Wells Slights explains, ‘The conscience acts as legislator, witness, and judge: the synteresis discerns the moral norms by which each action is judged; the syneidesis or conscientia examines all facets of a particular action and passes judgment, directing the will toward virtue.’85 Lukacher traces these images back etymologically through a short history of the different words for conscience: conscientia was St Jerome’s rendition of Paul’s Greek syneidesis, coming from syneidai, which might be translated as ‘being witness of oneself,’ or judging or observing oneself. The word acquired yet another legalistic connotation through Philo of Alexandria, who (influenced by the Old Testament) stressed the self-observatory aspect of syneidesis and added to it the function of elenchos, or accusation and conviction.86 Gallagher studies the appropriation of this characterization of the ‘association between trial, conscience, and spectacle’ by English writers in the early modern period: ‘In a society virtually bristling with interacting and competing court systems, the invisible court of conscience held a privileged place.’87 Lukacher relates trial imagery to the fire motifs we have seen earlier, describing ‘the harrowing scene of bearing witness before the fiery tribunal of the inner court of conscience.’88 The psychological ramifications of this linguistic register are perhaps expounded most succinctly

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by Paul Ricoeur: ‘To become oneself the tribunal of oneself is to be alienated.’89 Conscience is also depicted as a worm that gnaws at the sinner, accusing him silently of his evil deed. In Elizabethan parlance, this worm manifested an explicitly phallic character, and it has been seen recently in psychoanalytic terms as the ‘avenging conscience who threatens the transgressing ego ... with castration or circumcision.’90 That connotation, however, is not so evident in early modern Spanish plays. In a variation on this theme, silence or lack of a timely confession is also said to be the worm that gnaws, as in the expression ‘las lenguas mudas / gusanos suelen ser de la conciencia’ (mute tongues / are often worms of the conscience).91 In contemporaneous plays by Shakespeare, tongues themselves are seen to be images of conscience, especially when they are juxtaposed to ‘mouth’ images of gaping wounds.92 Conversely, the saintly Job expresses the lack of this particular kind of torment in the midst of all his other torments: ‘han de comerme muerto los gusanos, / como el de la conciencia no me muerda / (que culpa grave a mí no se me acuerda)’ (worms must eat me [when I am] dead, / as the worm of conscience does not chew me / [for it does not remind me of any grave fault]).93 Here we see Job – in a proto-Derridian evocation of implied presence through absence – commenting that the worms of the earth will have to eat his flesh, since the worm of conscience does not bite him (for he does not remember having committed any grave offence). But presumably only saints and others chosen by God, such as Job, have the grace to experience life free from the torments of an anguished conscience. At one point, conscience is characterized in an even more sinister fashion as a fierce yoke that binds as well as oppresses its victim: ‘me pone aquel fiero yugo / de mi conciencia aspereza’ (harshness places upon me / that fierce yoke of my conscience).94 One might conclude from these examples that conscience is portrayed negatively in Spanish comedias overall, since there are far more negative metaphors used to describe it than there are positive ones. Let us see whether this pattern holds true with adjectives as well. A conscience free from sin is called good, as in Mira de Amescua’s El esclavo del demonio: ‘es / eso de buena conciencia’ (that thing / is of good conscience).95 A clear conscience is described as pure and clean, as in Calderón de la Barca’s loa (prologue) for the auto sacramental, El pleyto matrimonial del cuerpo y el alma: ‘con pura Conciencia limpia, / llegando el Hombre à la Mesa, à Dios se ùna’ (with a pure clean Conscience, /

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Man arriving at the Altar, let him unite himself with God).96 Shakespeare’s Henry V describes the opposite sensation when he speaks of the need to clean his dirty conscience – indeed, to the point of needing to ‘wash every mote out’ of it.97 A clear conscience is also described as secure with God: ‘Vos, y Faustina teneys / para con Dios la conciencia / segura’ (You, and Faustina have / with God / a secure conscience).98 An elaboration of this description is seemingly reserved for saints who have never committed mortal sin, persons such as Tirso de Molina’s Santa Juana, whom an angel describes thus: ‘Segura está tu conciencia, / Juana: nunca has cometido / culpa mortal: siempre has sido / mansa oveja en la inocencia’ (Your conscience is secure, / Juana: never have you committed / mortal sin: you have always been / a gentle lamb in innocence).99 A fascinating extension of this laudatory treatment of saintliness is accorded to kings in the hegemonic monolith of the Spanish monarchy. The conscience of a king is actually said to be the most sure thing possible during this time period: ‘es la conciencia de vn Rey / oy la cosa mas segura’ (today the most sure thing / is the conscience of a King).100 One can only speculate about the dilemmas of conscience Spanish kings must have faced but attempted to hide from their subjects, who were presumably expected to believe that their kings were divinely ordained101 and thus exempted from the normal everyday predicaments of case morality. Not surprisingly, a good conscience is described as humble, as when a Corregidor describes a painter who receives divine inspiration for his painting after he has gone to both confession and communion and thus made his conscience secure: Deste Pintor me han contado, que con humilde conciencia, menos fiado en la ciencia, confessado, y comulgado estos lienços a pintar se pone seguro, que obra en ellos mas su fee, que el arte pudiera obrar. (Of this Painter they have told me, That with humble conscience, Less trusting of science, Having confessed, and taken communion,

Constructions of Conscience 163 He sets himself securely To paint these canvases, For his faith works more in them Than art could work.)102

This passage also describes a good conscience as one that trusts less in science (i.e., the science of casuistry) than in simple faith. Here casuistry is viewed with suspicion and even implicitly accused of leading the faithful into sin. A similar adjective that sounds negative but is actually intended as a positive characterization in this context is timid. A timid conscience in this case is not so much weak, but instead simply one that allows its bearer to be humble enough to do penance: ‘si con tímida Conciencia / procuro hazer Penitencia’ (if with timid Conscience / I manage to do Penance).103 Here we start to see a shift towards increasing agency for the early modern subject. The ever-changeable conscience can receive a fresh start, as when it is described as new in the case where a sinner repents and reforms his life accordingly: que es fe y caso averiguado que [se] regocija el cielo cuando con nueva conciencia se vuelve a hacer penitencia un pecador en el suelo. (For it is faith and a verified case That heaven rejoices When with a new conscience A sinner on earth Returns to do penance.)104

Note once again the language of casuistry being used to describe the ‘verified case’ of how heaven rejoices over the repentance of one errant sinner. The slowly stirring conscience is described as suspicious when it doubts the truth of a matter: ‘solo está sospechosa / mi conciencia en su verdad’ (my conscience is only suspicious / in the truth [of the matter]).105 The conscience may also be described as waking up suddenly in a positive way, as when it is said to be sharp: ‘¡Más agudo es de conciencia / este hidalgo que de aceros!’ (This nobleman is sharper of conscience / than of swords!).106 Here the conscience,

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sharper than swords, does appear to be a strong, even violent, force to be reckoned with. In this world of sword fights and duels, the conscience is said to be scrupulous of honour, a characterization which may help us to understand the thorny relationship between these two essential objects of study by comedia scholars: ‘¡Qué escrupulosa / la conciencia es del honor!’ (How scrupulous / the conscience is of honour!’).107 A further elucidation of this relationship is made possible by a more lengthy passage from Rojas Zorrilla’s La traición busca el castigo: ‘Y sabeis con experiencias / cuán escrupulosa es / de un noble honor la conciencia’ (And you know with experiences / how scrupulous / is the conscience of a noble honour).108 Many critics have wanted to downplay the role of moral reasoning in the comedias on the grounds that it should be subsumed under the more general category of the discourse of honour.109 Here we see that the two discourses are not mutually exclusive and, in fact, reinforce one another as two different reasons to do the right thing. Once again, we find substantially more in the way of negative characterizations of conscience than we do of positive ones. One of the most common adjectives used to describe a malfunctioning, lax, or overly permissive conscience is wide : ‘Ya vos / tenéis ancha la conciencia’ (You already have / a wide conscience).110 Here we must remember that ‘[i]n the taxonomy of consciences, it was the lax conscience, rather than the guilty, that stood in direct opposition to the good conscience.’111 The reasoning behind this taxonomy is that ‘the lax conscience fostered an ingenious, eventually an ingrained, habit of self-deception.’112 Other characteristics of the lax conscience were that it ‘epitomized the art of dissimulation,’ ‘suggested an untraceable presence in the moral universe’ (although I doubt the author of this phrase pondered its Derridian connotations), and resembled ‘an imponderable sea filled with numberless reptiles.’ As Gallagher explains, ‘Confounding the a priori distinctions between good and evil, the lax conscience makes suspect the stability and normative value of what is believed to be good or just. What is more unsettling, it does so while eluding detection as an agent of subversion.’113 Sometimes, as we have seen, women in particular are accused of having wide consciences: ‘¡Válgate Dios por mujer, / qué ancha debes de tener / la voluntad y conciencia!’ (Heaven help you, woman, / how wide you must have / the will and the conscience!).114 Occasionally the poor are excused for having wide consciences: ‘la necesidad / es muy

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ancha de conciencia’ (necessity / is very wide of conscience).115 But the most common villains accused of having overly wide consciences are actually the theologians or casuists themselves. A typical (although grammatically elliptical) example is the pun, ‘que tenía con ensanchas / la conciencia, por ser anchas / las que teólogas son’ (for he had a conscience / with extensions, being wide / the consciences of theologians).116 In similar fashion a wide conscience is attributed more generically to one who is wise or learned: Aunque para tanto agravio salida hallará su ciencia; que la más ancha conciencia, dice el vulgo, es la del sabio. (Although for such an offence His science will find an outlet; For the widest conscience, Say the common people, is that of the wise man.)117

A different adjective used to describe the conscience of well-educated persons or letrados is dark: ‘escura como conciencia / de letrado, que recibe / cualquiera pleito que venga’ (dark as the conscience / of a learnèd man, which receives / any suit that comes to him).118 Still another pejorative adjective used to describe a malfunctioning conscience is accommodated or accommodating : ‘Mi conciencia acomodada / corre, porque desto gusta, / siempre abierta y nunca justa, / por no verse empalizada’ (My accommodated conscience / runs along, because it likes to, / always open and never just, / so as not to see itself hemmed in).119 Occasionally a permissive conscience is simply dismissed as bad, as, for example, in the case of overly lenient pardoners: ‘Conciencia de dispensero, / mala cosa, no le quiero’ (The conscience of a pardoner, / is a bad thing, I do not want it).120 There are other negative adjectives to describe a conscience which is functioning normally but weighed down by sin. The conscience can feel oppressed as a result of sin, as when Don Gil pronounces, ‘La conciencia está oprimida.’121 A troubled conscience is described as broken, with its bearer also depicted as an ill-mannered drunkard: ‘hombre / de tosco trato, de conciencia rota, / y suele beber más de lo ordinario’ (he is a man / of vulgar manner, of a broken conscience, / and he usually

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drinks more than normal).122 An even more violent adjective used in this context is torn or ripped open, as in the saintly Cristóbal de la Cruz’s offer to Antonio to do penance on his behalf: De que en esas cosas des, sabe Dios lo que me pesa; mas yo haré la penitencia de tu rasgada conciencia. (That you are given to these things, God knows how much it weighs upon me; But I will do the penance For your tattered conscience.)123

Finally, falling in line with the images of eating and digestion that we have seen in other areas already, conscience is viewed as chewed up as if by a serpent: lelio: [¿]Cómo estará su conciencia? macarrón: Pues ¿cómo ha de estar? lelio: Mordida. macarrón: Como de la sierpe estaba Mordido Rodrigo el bravo, Lo estarás tú por el cabo Que le mordió por la Cava. Mordida está tu fe, ingrato, Como castaña podrida, Y tu alma está mordida Como narices de chato. (lelio: How will his conscience be? macarrón: Well, how should it be? lelio: Chewed up. macarrón: As Rodrigo the brave Was chewed up by the serpent, You will finally be chewed up [By the same serpent] who bit him for La Cava. Your faith is chewed up, ingrate, Like a rotten chestnut, And your soul is chewed up Like a flat nose.)124

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We can only conclude from the evidence in these passages that early modern Spanish playwrights had real issues with the whole concept of conscience. Whether or not we choose to speculate that they themselves might have been troubled by unresolved moral dilemmas, we can nevertheless state unequivocally that they were giving voice to widespread cultural anxieties about conscience and its effects on the psyche. Conscience’s Auxiliaries If the conscience is so anguished, what ramifications does this have for other areas of life? One approach to this problem might be to look at its auxiliaries, or various attributes that conscience is said to have or possess, since these would logically be the things it affects first when it starts to become burdened or traumatized. Webster’s Dictionary defines the adjective ‘auxiliary’ to mean ‘helping, aiding, assisting; giving aid or support by joint exertion, influence, or use.’ It is therefore these actions that conscience’s auxiliaries (here in the noun form) are said to perform. A conscience is said to have business to do, as in the phrase ‘un negocio de conciencia.’125 Part of the business of conscience is undoubtedly to produce scruples, something that many characters in the comedias would like to avoid: que a toda ley, en ocasión tan estrecha, no hay cosa como evitar escrúpulos de conciencia. (For with any law, On such a tight occasion, There is nothing like avoiding Scruples of conscience.)126

Ricoeur defines scrupulousness as ‘the advanced point of guilt,’ noting: The scrupulous conscience is an increasingly articulated and subtle conscience that forgets nothing and adds incessantly to its obligations; it is a manifold and sedimented conscience that finds salvation only in movement ... Everything attained by the scrupulous conscience lies within the dimension of ‘transgression’; and that, no doubt, is the reason for the subtle narrowing of the scrupulous conscience.127

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When scruples become intense enough, they can amount to fear, as in the declaration, ‘tu amistad ha podido / obligarla a que olvidara / de su conciencia el temor’ (your friendship has been able / to oblige her to forget / the fear of her conscience).128 Antonio Regalado points to Basilio in Calderón’s La vida es sueño as the ultimate dramatic representation of the fear resulting from a scrupulous conscience: ‘Retratada magistralmente por Calderón, la conciencia escrupulosa adquiere en el personaje de Basilio hondura metafísica’ (Portrayed masterfully by Calderón, the scrupulous conscience acquires in the character of Basilio a metaphysical depth).129 On a more cheery note, conscience is also said to have liberty, as in the phrase ‘liberty of conscience,’ which appears in various plays: Mira de Amescua’s Lo que no es casarse a gusto130 and Calderón’s auto sacramentales, El nuevo hospicio de pobres,131 Psiquis y Cupido,132 and El nuevo palacio del Retiro,133 among others. Antonio Regalado explains the sense of this term: El término ‘libertad de conciencia’ aparece en el teatro de Calderón para significar una independencia de juicio que no se ajusta a las leyes de la Iglesia o que no reconoce los imperativos morales o la fuerza de la costumbre. En términos más generales libertad de conciencia significa legitimar desde la libertad de la voluntad el desprenderse de un deber, una obligación, una fidelidad. (The term ‘liberty of conscience’ appears in the theatre of Calderón to signify an independence of judgment that does not adjust itself to the laws of the church or that does not recognize moral imperatives or the force of custom. In more general terms, liberty of conscience signifies legitimizing, from [the perspective of] liberty of the will, disengaging oneself from a duty, an obligation, a loyalty).134

This phrase is often present in schismatic rhetoric, since in the Protestant lexicon liberty of conscience was the entire justification for the split with the Catholic Church. Although this phrase became a buzzword for schismatic tendencies,135 it still reflects a general attribution of at least some measure of autonomy to conscience as a distinct entity. When conscience takes too much liberty, however, it is said to be taking risks, as in the phrase ‘riesgo de la conciencia.’136 In diametrical opposition to liberty, conscience acts with a certain rigour which serves as a deterrant against illicit activities, such as sorcery:

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‘¡Vive Dios, que he de tornar / a mi diabólica ciencia, / que el rigor de mi conciencia / no me la dejaba usar!’ (As God lives, I must return / to my diabolical science, / which the rigour of my conscience / did not let me use!).137 A conscience may also be said to achieve justification or satisfaction derived from the performance of right action: ‘para justificaçión / de su conçiençia y la nuestra, / se os dará satisfación / mui a gusto de la vuestra’ (for justification / of his conscience and ours, / satisfaction will be given to you / very pleasing to your [satisfaction]).138 This satisfaction may also derive from proof it has of someone else’s wrong action, which could in turn justify revenge or some other punitive measure: ‘¿qué probanza más cierta / para la conciencia mia?’ (what more certain proof / for my conscience?).139 Additionally, knowledge of one’s own innocence provides consolation within the space of conscience: ‘que tengo en mi conciencia mi consuelo’ (for I have my comfort in my conscience).140 The conscience that is ultimately peaceful is said to attain happiness, a condition associated in the more didactic plays with solitude, tranquility, and virtue: Quien por falta de experiencia huye las felicidades que ofrecen las soledades a la vida y la conciencia, venga a aprender esta ciencia en mi sabrosa quietud y hallará aquí a la virtud tan segura de temores que, coronada de flores, le conserve la salud. (He who through lack of experience Flees the felicities That solitudes offer To life and conscience, Let him come to learn this science In my delicious quietude And he will find here a virtue So secure from fears That, crowned with flowers, It will conserve his health.)141

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In contrast, a troubled conscience may be said to experience restlessness or uneasiness derived from the performance of wrong action, as in the phrase ‘desasosiegos / de conciencia’ (disturbances / of conscience).142 A conscience may even be said to have extensions that allow it to approve of wrong actions; thus it may be said of a man that ‘tenía con ensanchas / la conciencia’ (he had a conscience / with extensions).143 Finally, a conscience is said to possess knowledge of specific doctrines, prayers, and rituals – in other words, all the things that define a person’s identity as a Christian: que me sé cristiano en mi conciencia, saber la [doc]trina crestiana, el Credo, la Salve Reina, el Pan Nostro, y el catorce Mandamientos de la Iglesia. (For I know myself To be a Christian in my conscience, To know the Christian doctrine, The Credo, the Hail Mary, The Lord’s Prayer, and the fourteen Commandments of the Church.)144

In this case, however – ironically – the words are not spoken by an orthodox Christian, but instead by the morisco gracioso, Alcuzcuz. His heterodoxy is, in fact, betrayed by his error in referring to fourteen commandments instead of ten. There is a great abyss, moreover, between knowing and doing; and knowledge of Christian doctrine does not necessarily entail the following of Christian precepts. Occasionally conscience is said to have something we are not expecting it to have – for example, relics or vestiges. The sacrament of extreme unction is said to provide temporary convalescence, at least for long enough to satisfy the vestiges of conscience remaining in the sick body: ‘y assi, para reliquias de conciencia, / labra la Extrema-Uncion Convalecencia’ (and thus, for relics of conscience, / Extreme Unction fosters convalescence).145 Calderón’s word choice here is somewhat perverse, given that relics are normally associated with dying saints, and here he uses them in the context of dying sinners. In perhaps the most humorous image of something that conscience is said to have or possess, it is

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likened to an ugly garment full of holes onto which have been sewn patches to try to mend it: Otros la pereza vende à las Almas, que en sus yerros, habituadas, desean emmendar su traje feo; mas perezosos en èl, por no hazer abito nuevo; se contentan con echar à la Conciencia vn remiendo. (Others sell sloth To souls, which, accustomed To their errors, want To mend their ugly garment; But they are lazy in it, Not wanting to form a new habit; They content themselves with sewing A patch on their Conscience.)

In the continuation of this passage, we see that these patches or attempts at mending are dangerous, for sometimes they can damage the whole garment: apetito: Remiendos ay, q[ue] han costado más que vestidos enteros. músicos: El remendar la vida siempre aprovecha, mas bolviendo à romperse, queda más fea. (appetite: There are patches, which have cost more than entire garments. musicians: Mending one’s life Is always advantageous, But when it rips open again, It is even uglier than before.)146

This set of images is in fact an allusion to the words of Jesus about putting a patch of unshrunken cloth on an old garment, with the conse-

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quence being that the patch pulls away from the garment, and a worse tear results.147 The crucial difference is that Jesus was not speaking in the context of conscience, but instead of differences between Jewish legalism and Christian grace; Calderón has appropriated his imagery and put it to a different use. The result is a grotesque vision of conscience as a beggar in rags who will not go away, but instead persistently nags at the sinner who tries desperately to ‘patch things up.’ The patches keep rending apart, exposing the raw wounds of perpetual guilt. Synonyms and Antonyms for Conscience Sometimes conscience is juxtaposed to another concept with which it is compared or contrasted in some way. These juxtapositions often appear in dichotomies, with conscience appearing as one of two terms. In these cases conscience is being defined in opposition to something else – a common rhetorical move in the early modern period, during which, as Stephen Greenblatt reminds us, ‘self-fashioning is achieved in relation to something perceived as alien, strange, or hostile’148 in opposition to which the self must define its identity. Conscience is apparently the opposite of gusto, although it is possible to satisfy both gusto and conciencia at the same time: grisanto: Señor, si me das licencia, haciendo mi gusto, yo miraré por mi conciencia. honorio: Por los dos quiero mirar ... (grisanto: Sir, if you give me licence, Doing my pleasure, I Will look after my conscience. honorio: I want to look after them both ...)149

It is definitely the opposite of gusto ajeno, as in ‘no quiera por gusto ajeno / contra conciencia heredarla’ (let him not wish, for another’s pleasure / to inherit it against conscience).150 Another word for pleasure, agrado, is a further antonym for conscience: ‘mi modestia / solicitò con callar, / o su agrado, o su conciencia’ (my modesty / sought, by staying quiet, / either his pleasure, or his conscience).151 In a similar fashion conscience is juxtaposed to comfort or convenience and placed in contrast to these things, as when a certain friendship is described as

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being ‘contra su comodidad, / mas no contra su conciencia’ (against his comfort, / but not against his conscience).152 Evidently conscience is the opposite of pleasure, comfort, and happiness – not exactly a rosy picture. Conscience appears in these passages more as an enemy of human beings than as a friend. Characterizations of conscience in the comedia, however, are not universally negative. Conscience is also juxtaposed to quietud, but with no implication of contrast (‘que por quietud, y porque assí conviene a su conciencia’) [for reason of quietude, and because that is what suits his conscience]),153 so that we are left to assume that what satisfies the conscience will also produce psychological tranquility in its owner. This tranquility extends to body, soul, and life: ‘la quietud en cuerpo y alma, / en la vida y la conciencia’ (quietude in body and soul, / in life and conscience).154 These things are frequently grouped together in the comedias: ‘te fío mi Conciencia, / y de mi vida y mi Alma / la paz, quietud y consuelo’ (I entrust to you my conscience / and of my life and my soul / the peace, quietude and comfort).155 Furthermore, ‘conscience’ is uttered in the same breath with justice, leading us to believe that what conscience dictates will also turn out to be just: Si es tirana tu malicia, deste Reyno con violencia ¿sólo para mí ay conciencia, sólo para mí ay justicia? (If your malice is tyrannical, Of this Kingdom with violence Is there conscience only for me, Only for me is there justice?)156

In addition, that which is done in good conscience is also said to result in the insurance, improvement, or indemnification of the soul: ‘en conciencia, y para abono / de mi alma, le perdono’ (in conscience, and for the indemnification / of my soul, I pardon him).157 A clean conscience is also a synonym for the state of being without mortal sin, a condition that is likened to having intact or snow-white clothes: ‘con intacta / cándida ropa, con limpia / conciencia; y en fin, sin manchas / de mortal Culpa’ (with intact / white clothes, with clean / conscience; and finally, without stains / of mortal Sin).158 Furthermore, conscience is not only a private phenomenon with benefits to solitary individuals. It also seems to be compatible with the com-

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mon good: ‘¿Quién pensará de ti que no lo has hecho / aconsejado de común provecho / y tu misma conciencia?’ (Who will think of you that you have not done it / counselled by the common good / and your own conscience?).159 Social conscience can take the form of pity, as in Lope de Vega’s Los locos de Valencia: ‘Esa piedad y conciencia / agora en vos se derrama’ (That pity and conscience / is now poured out in you).160 Conscience is also equated to faith, as when Crotilda in Mira de Amescua’s Las lises de Francia claims, ‘si me caso ha de durar / mi Fè, y mi buena conciencia, / aunque en el alma ha de estar’ (if I marry, there must remain / my Faith, and my good conscience, / even if only in the soul).161 Interestingly enough, this passage also provides a location for conscience (it is said to reside in the soul.) There are additional examples of soul being used as a synonym for conscience, especially in the context of a contrast to the physical body: ‘¿Y vuesas mercedes, señores Justicias, tienen conciencia y alma en esos cuerpos?’ (And your mercies, sir Judges, do you have conscience and soul in those bodies?).162 Sometimes other entities are mentioned not as synonyms for conscience, but as things with which it acts in concert to accomplish a desirable result. Some such ‘accomplices’ to conscience are heaven and justice, as in the lines, ‘Esto los cielos me mandan, / su justicia y mi conciencia’ (This the heavens command me, / their justice and my conscience).163 A very common phrase in the comedias is ‘en Dios, y en mi conciencia,’ and this phrase would seem to make God the primary accomplice of conscience. For example, this phrase often appears when a promise is being made, or when a person is swearing that what she is about to say is true: ‘te prometo, porque en Dios y mi conciencia ...’ (I promise you, because in God and my conscience ...).164 The previous examples have been synonyms used for good conscience, but once again, they seem to be outweighed by synonyms for bad conscience. For example, bad conscience is equated to envy, as when Jorge proclaims his innocence to the king and denounces his enemy: ‘Y verás con mi inocencia / la envidia y mala conciencia / del autor de aquesta hazaña’ (And you will see with my innocence / the envy and bad conscience / of the author of this deed).165 Let us look briefly at what some of the symptoms of this ‘bad conscience’ might be. ‘Symptoms’ or Physical Manifestations of Conscience Having a clear or a troubled conscience is like being healthy or being sick. It produces clearly definable symptoms, even in the body. Side

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effects of having a troubled conscience include being scared by shadows in the night: ‘A quien la conciencia acusa / qualquier sombra le estremeze’ (He whom the conscience accuses / shudders at any shadow).166 The guilty conscience thus alters any sudden shock into a confirmation of blame: ‘que cualquier susto, aunque vano, / la mala conciencia altera’ (for whatever fright, even though vain, / the bad conscience alters).167 Another symptom of a troubled conscience is being startled in the presence of a person whom one has secret plans to attack or offend: ¡Mucho esfuerzo ha menester quien, con traidora conciencia, no se alborota en presencia de aquel que quiere ofender! (Much effort requires The person who, with a treacherous conscience, Does not become disturbed in the presence Of the one he wants to offend!)168

Similarly, a frightened conscience is said to remind itself of probable punishment: ‘La conciencia temerosa, / de los castigos se acuerda’ (The fearful conscience / remembers punishments).169 The ramifications of a troubled conscience, in fact, extend to almost every area of life: el que con mala conciencia solo atiende a su codicia, ni conoce qué es malicia, ni sabe qué es inocencia. (He who with bad conscience Only attends to his greed, Neither knows what is malice, Nor knows what is innocence.)170

Thus bad conscience is associated with deceptions, roguery, and evil: guillén: Pagaré locuras mías. gallardo: Yo, engaños, bellaquerías, mala vida y peor conciencia.

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(guillén: I will pay for my crazy deeds. gallardo: I [will pay] for my deceits, rogueries, Bad life and worse conscience.)171

A conscience which is already troubled may lead its bearer to commit further acts of atrocity, such as murder. The problem is that the faltering of conscience leads to the loss of all fear, so that no danger seems too great, no obstacle too high. Calderón seems to imply that for one who has lost the salutary fear produced by an active conscience, there are no longer any moral boundaries; all is possible, even such a gross excess as assassination: ¿Cómo dudas que cometa Esa especie de asesino, Pues no hay peligro que tema El que ya llegó a perder El temor de su conciencia? (How do you doubt that he could commit That sort of assassination, For there is no danger he fears The one who has already come to the point of losing The fear of his conscience?)172

The residual effects of a clear conscience, in contrast, manifest themselves in the ability to sleep easily at night, free of care: ‘¿Cuál es el sueño mejor? / El de la buena conciencia’ (What is the best sleep? / That of the good conscience).173 As Don Pedro Tenorio notes in Tirso de Molina’s El burlador de Sevilla, ‘Quien así / con tanto descuido duerme, / limpia tiene la conciencia’ (He who thus / sleeps with such lack of care, / has a clean conscience).174 In Claramonte’s version of the same story, Octavio repeats this sentiment: ‘que una conciencia segura / no tiene de qué temer’ (that a secure conscience / has nothing to fear).175 This and other references extend the freedom from fear to include not just the night time, but the day time as well: ‘no me oprime el miedo, / la conciencia está segura, / y espero en Dios ...’ (fear does not oppress me, / my conscience is secure, / I hope in God ...).176 Another symptom of a clear conscience is an honest face or tranquil countenance, so that all who observe it will think well of the person in question: ‘y honrosa la razón pone en la cara / libertad de conciencia al pensamiento’ (and honourable reason places on the face / liberty of

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conscience to the thought).177 Yet another result of a clear conscience is the freedom from fear of punishment: ‘Que la segura conciencia / no puede temer castigo’ (That the secure conscience / cannot fear punishment).178 Finally, a secure conscience – as well as the close observation of others’ innocence – is said to result in peace for the soul: Considerar la inocencia Del Duque, me tiene en calma, Porque está la paz del alma En la segura conciencia. (The consideration of the innocence Of the duke, has me at peace, Because the peace of the soul Is in the secure conscience.)179

This peace is voted almost unanimously by early modern dramatists to be the ultimate good: ‘que no hay bien como tener / bien segura la conciencia’ (that there is no good like having / the conscience wellsecured).180 Of all the dramatists mentioned in this study, Calderón de la Barca paints the most detailed picture of the tranquility resulting from a clear conscience in El jardín de Falerina: Vuelve a ese valle los ojos, digo, porque en él adviertas la paz de ánimo, quietud de corazón, avenencia de espíritu y concordia de sentidos y potencias, con que la tranquilidad de una segura Conciencia, de la suficiente Gracia asistida, goza quieta en el Campo de la Vida la florida Primavera de una edad, a quien no dan ni aun escrúpulos molestia. (Turn your eyes to that valley, I say, because in it you will find Peace of the soul, quietude

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Of the heart, harmony Of the spirit and concordance Of the senses and powers, With which the tranquility Of a secure Conscience, Assisted by sufficient Grace, Enjoys quietly In the Countryside of Life The flowering Spring Of an age, to whom not even Scruples give disturbance.)181

This locus amoenus to which he invites us can only be entered through the gateway of a clear conscience. Here we must pause and ask: do these glowingly positive descriptions outweigh the negative representations we saw earlier of conscience – the scribe, the witness, the judge who condemns the sinner to justice? How about the images of eating, where conscience is a worm that gnaws at the heart of an individual and prevents her from sleeping at night? What we have here is a clear case of the Derridian play between absence and presence, in which something is truly present only as the negative of its absence.182 The characters in the last few passages are yearning for a state of psychological tranquility that they can never hope to achieve in this lifetime. As Lukacher states rather bluntly, ‘Conscience hurts, and if it doesn’t, it’s not conscience.’183 The stern and unyielding consequence of the doctrine of Original Sin is that human beings are condemned to slave upon this earth, toiling to survive by the sweat of the brow, ever striving and ever falling short of the divine ideal placed before us. Didactic dramatists such as Calderón are inviting their audiences to a greater effort at holiness, but anyone familiar with Calderón’s dark baroque severity could attest that such perfection is not attainable as long as earth is our dwelling place. Perhaps the peace of a conscience at rest is possible only in death, when at last the Christian is bound no longer by the chains of sin and may rise to a new state of being free from guilt or distress. Such is the promise, at least, extended to believers through these constructions of conscience in the comedia. In ‘Nietzsche, Genealogy, Critical Theory,’ Vincent Pecora describes why he sees Nietzschean / Foucauldian genealogy as effective history:

Constructions of Conscience 179 Genealogy is ‘effective’ history precisely because it is diagnostic and medicinal, because it returns critique to the body in order to become a ‘curative science.’ In many ways, however, this is quite deliberately a shaman’s medicine, for it does not seek the laws of illness but concentrates its efforts on producing unmediated antidotes – concentrates, that is, on what Deleuze calls a ‘symptomatology’ and its potential reversals rather than on any underlying etiology or history of the pathological condition. Beneath symptoms and their antidotes, the genealogist finds only other layers of ‘symptomatic’ conflict.184

Given all the imagery we have encountered of food, eating, and digesting in this chapter, perhaps it would have been equally appropriate to call this study a ‘symptomatology’ of conscience. Other scholars may come along to interpret these ‘symptoms’ differently, but at least I will have laid out a data set (and, at the same time, offered my own interpretation, with which future scholars may choose to agree or disagree). Arguably, genealogy is more effective than traditional history, at least at the outset, because ‘it delimits that place of correspondence / noncorrespondence among discourses, practices, and effects ... [It is] the specific interplay between techniques, strategies, and apparatuses that could only be captured through detailed historical description.’185 Or perhaps we could say that for any history to be written, it is necessary to write first a genealogy as a preliminary step: ‘Genealogy ... is first and foremost a way of defining an area for historical research.’186 In the last chapter, we shall attempt to synthesize what we have learned from Derrida with what we have learned from Foucault, Nietzsche, and others. In doing so, we shall hope to arrive at some conclusions about the functioning of the casuistical ‘trace’ in the comedia.

5 Casuistry and Theory

The passages cited in the preceding chapter are merely the best examples culled from roughly four hundred references to conscience in the comedias. This is the stuff of genealogy: the specific, the minuscule, the tiniest little nuance can add to our understanding of a complex concept that demands explication. Paul Ricoeur has utilized a similar methodology in The Symbolism of Evil to write what purports to be a ‘history of types of guilt.’1 What conclusions can we draw from such a wealth of detail? Genealogies of Conscience The quoted passages reveal a fascination – an obsession, even – with conscience as an entity that appears strangely as at once part of, and yet again not part of, the self. As Paul Tillich confirms paradoxically, ‘the self discovers itself in the experience of a split between what it is and what it ought to be.’2 Conscience would appear to function as a meeting point between body and soul, or perhaps the site of conflict (or at least uneasy coexistence) between these warring factions: ‘cases threaten to tear the self apart, pulling us in different directions with their ambiguous or conflicting claims.’3 In the words of Michel Foucault, ‘discourse [about conscience] had to trace the meeting line of the body and the soul, following all its meanderings: beneath the surface of the sins, it would lay bare the unbroken nervure of the flesh.’4 This characterization, as with many sentences penned by as colourful a writer as Foucault, may strike us as somewhat sensationalistic. But at the very least, even if we choose to view conscience in terms, say, of the Freudian superego, then the ego seeks ‘approval by an ideal self who is

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in some sense other.’5 It is this uneasy Otherness which we cannot escape as we read early modern descriptions of conscience. Body/soul, guilt/innocence, anxiety/peace, salvation/damnation. For early modern people, there was no Derridian deconstruction available to dissolve these stark dichotomies. The overwhelmingly negative images of conscience performing the actions of accusing, blaming, terrorizing, and condemning suggest an early modern crisis of people at war with their consciences. Perhaps as the Renaissance in general signalled a return to the classics, so in the specific realm of conscience this period saw a return to ancient Greek notions of ‘conscience as the parsing of spiritual pain’: It [the ancient Greek conception of conscience] articulated the idea of pain itself as the measure of one’s departure from a norm, one’s transgression of a boundary. Accordingly, it assumed a boundless aspect: it was not only the agent of pain but the faculty in which pain was felt and the very substance of pain as well. It mirrored the plenitude of a divine power whose wrath might not be escaped.6

We find here the ‘traces’ of sleepless nights, upset stomachs, and sudden fits of grief, sometimes leading even unto death. We eavesdrop and overhear early modern people attempting to manipulate, hammer, or even ignite their consciences into submission. They are frantically asking one another for advice. They are running around constantly seeking to unload or discharge their consciences by finding alternative arbiters for their disputes. This is a people in turmoil, running away from a source of anguish from which they cannot escape because it remains ever inside them. But they are also refreshingly honest and willing to grapple with sin in all of its messy complexity. These are the types of characters we meet onstage in early modern Spanish comedias. The Relationship of Theatre to Casuistry It has been noted by many scholars, but most recently Stephen Greenblatt and the so-called New Historicists, that Catholic ritual resembles theatre.7 Conversely, it may be said that theatre resembles religious ritual. Like casuistry, theatre frames and orders conscience if its spectators will allow it to do so. This potential function of theatre is at least as old as Hamlet’s Mouse Trap and probably goes back even further to Aristotle’s notion of catharsis.8 It is a relationship that we had

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already grasped intuitively but now have been able to demonstrate definitively. In El día de fiesta por la tarde (1660), the playwright Juan de Zabaleta wrote: ‘El Templo se le vuelve teatro, y teatro del cielo. No entiende bien de teatros, quien no deja por el templo el de las comedias’ (The Temple becomes a theatre, and a theatre of heaven. The person who does not leave the theatre of the comedias for that of the temple does not understand well about theatres).9 This comparison of the theatre with the church is indicative of the similarity of the functions of these two institutions as they were conceptualized within early modern Spanish society. This similarity played itself out on both the practical and the theoretical levels. On the practical level, preaching in the early modern period could sound an awful lot like acting. As Emilio Orozco Díaz notes in his essay ‘Sobre la teatralización del templo’: ‘La interrelación entre el predicador y el comediante fué, así, en el período barroco mucho más estrecha de lo que se suele considerar’ (The relationship between preacher and comediante was, thus, in the baroque period much closer than what is normally considered).10 He asserts that preachers during this time period used props such as human skulls (obviously a form of memento mori) and sound effects such as ringing bells, along with physical gestures up to and including self-mortification during their sermons.11 Acting, in turn, could accomplish the same purpose as preaching. In Lope de Vega’s Lo fingido verdadero, the hero Ginés is a newly converted Christian actor who attains martyrdom (by impalement, no less) while performing on a stage.12 Conversely, many were the accounts of spectators who, after witnessing inspiring performances of comedias de santos, resolved to enter a religious order as a result of their theatrical experience.13 On the more theoretical level, Orozco Díaz has pointed out similarities between Lope de Vega’s Arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo and a still-unpublished treatise on sacred oratory by Father Valentín de Céspedes.14 The main points of contact are attention to the needs of the specific audience as well as adaptation to their tastes and mentality. On a much larger scale, Michael J. Ruggerio has demonstrated that the very term ‘comedia’ used as a generic category to designate most early modern Spanish dramatic production owes its origin to the Jesuit playwrights discussed in the introduction to this book: The use of the term ‘comedia’ in Spanish dramaturgy (with the allinclusive meaning of play) to refer to a work with a mixture of tragic and

Casuistry and Theory 183 comic elements seems to have been influenced by the Jesuit theoreticians who saw the mixture, often called tragicomedy, as nothing more than a comedia ... [T]he term ‘comedia’ seemed to be the more readily acceptable one because it already embraced a wide range of subject matter, characters, etc. And some of the more influential Jesuit theoreticians played a role in establishing this expanded meaning by stating outright that tragicomedies are basically comedies.15

Thus not only were the Jesuit playwrights the spiritual fathers of early modern Spanish drama, we now recognize that it was they who first gave that drama its name. So we see that in general, church and theatre could not have been more intimately related during the early modern period, and the comedia as casuistry is merely a concrete manifestation of this larger trend. The Jesuit Contribution to Spanish Literary Theory and Practice So why has this manifestation remained unnoticed for so long? Critics such as José Antonio Maravall have long ignored the casuistical elements of the comedia and continued to make such totalizing statements as the following: El teatro español es, ante todo, un instrumento político y social, no responde a una preocupación o finalidad ética e incluso es mínima la parte que en él se ocupa de temas religiosos ... Es claro que ello no se debe a que faltara interés por el problema moral, como el ejemplo de tantísimos escritores jesuitas pone de manifiesto, sino que se debe a que el teatro se orientaba hacia otros aspectos de la vida común. (The Spanish theatre is, above all, a political and social instrument, it does not respond to an ethical preoccupation or finality and the part of it which concerns religious themes is even minimal ... It is clear that this is not due to lack of interest in moral problems, as the example of so many Jesuit writers makes evident, but instead to the fact that the theatre oriented itself towards other aspects of daily life.)16

Here Maravall specifically calls to mind the Jesuit casuists, only to conclude that they had nothing to do with the comedias. Similarly – but on somewhat different grounds – Bruce Wardropper categorically denies the relevance of casuistry for the comedias.17 In his case, he argues (in a

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stance typical of New Criticism) that ‘cada obra es suficiente en sí misma’ (each work is sufficient in itself) without taking into account historical, religious, philosophical, or sociological contexts. One possible reason for this apparent ‘blind spot’ in comedia criticism is that the Jesuits, even though they were accomplished dramatists themselves, were among the foremost attackers of the popular theatre.18 In 1581 the Jesuits prohibited their students from viewing secular comedias in the corrales (open-air theatres).19 Jesuits such as Juan Ferrer, Pedro Guzmán, Pedro de Ribadeneira, and Juan de Mariana, author of De spectaculis (1609), were fierce critics of the corrales as hotbeds of lasciviousness and a detriment to public morality.20 Their well-known diatribes have prevented scholars from seeing points of contact or even synergy between the two separate but parallel dramatic traditions.21 In particular they have prevented scholars of early modern literature from noticing the comedia’s debt to casuistry, treatises of conscience, and confessional manuals. It is only logical to assume that Calderón and the other priest/dramatists who were constantly exposed to and instructed in the art of casuistry by the church could put this art to use both in the confessional and in the theatre. The crucial distinguishing feature of the latter forum, however, was the less threatening presentation of hypothetical, impersonal ‘case studies’ (much like the situations presented in modern-day soap operas or advice columns) which allowed the spectators to work through their feelings about potential moral decisions22 without subjecting themselves to the directly personal surveillance of a confessor in the sacrament of penance.23 In Protestant countries such as England, this need was being filled during this time period by the appropriately named ‘scruple shops’ (the undergraduate nickname for a weekly public conference begun in 1646 at Oxford University to resolve cases of conscience).24 Alternatively, the era around the 1690s also saw the publication of popular periodicals such as the Athenian Mercury, the original title of which was The Athenian Gazette: or, Casuistical Mercury (these were the ancestors of the Ann Landers ‘agony column’).25 In Spain, in contrast, this need was being acted out upon the popular stage. Much has been written about the social control mechanisms circulating among Spanish playwrights, monarchs, nobles, and plebeians.26 But any sort of decision making on the part of the spectators is precisely the sector of this field that has not been studied enough. There is an intended double meaning here: the spectators made the decision to attend the comedia performance and allow its didactic aspects27 to ‘disci-

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pline’ them in some proto-Foucauldian way;28 and they also went forth into the non-theatrical world after the performance to make real–life decisions that may also have been ‘disciplined’ by what they had witnessed (and participated in) at the theatre. The scholar who has approached most closely this conception of the ‘disciplinary’ function of theatre is Steven Mullaney, whose chapter ‘Apprehending Subjects’ in The Place of the Stage delineates a passive English audience in the Renaissance being acted upon by didactic theatre. Although his title would at first seem to promise an exploration of individual subjectivity, Mullaney instead describes the theatre’s audience as a group, a collective whole; by doing so he denies their individuality and emphasizes their passivity.29 As some other New Historicists have done, he denies autonomy to the subject by emphasizing instead the ‘symbolic economy’ of the period.30 Maravall has tried to make essentially the same argument for the Spanish stage. Maravall is famous for the phrase ‘una cultura dirigida,’ which he employed to describe Spanish baroque society.31 His classic study Teatro y literatura en la sociedad barroca in particular needs to be revisited and perhaps nuanced somewhat further. In his chapter ‘La imposición del marco social sobre los impulsos individualistas: La fórmula “soy quien soy”’ (‘The imposition of the social frame over individual impulses: The formula “I am who I am”’), Maravall states that moral autonomy was impossible for any citizen of baroque Spain, including (indeed, especially) the playwrights: ‘[E]l “soy quien soy” ... [n]o se trata de afirmar un ser íntimo, ni una esencia individual, ni un yo interior’ (The ‘I am who I am’ is not about affirming an intimate being, nor an individual essence, nor an interior self).32 Like a true precursor of the New Historicists, he assumes that, in the monolithic Spanish state, little individuality or autonomy was possible. I argue that casuistry offered an escape valve for dramatists and spectators seeking greater autonomy within this admittedly hegemonic system. Although the social atmosphere in Catholic Spain at this time was in no way conducive to privacy or interiority,33 there was in fact a kind of subversive movement towards moral autonomy on the part of the Jesuit-educated playwrights. These dramatists were also often clerics themselves and thus sanctioned to have a voice. Perhaps the comedia was so popular, in part – aside from its obvious value as escapist entertainment – because it gave Spanish Catholics a forum for examining specific hypothetical moral dilemmas for which they might find parallels in their own lives. Ironically, this public phe-

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nomenon of the comedia may have offered them a greater privacy than the Catholic confessional34 or the proto-Foucauldian Panopticon35 of the church / state monolith. Poetics of the Comedia in Early Modern Spain The idea of casuistry as a basis for a new poetics of the comedia would seem far-fetched if the literary theory of the period did not support it. Plato, it will be remembered, had banished plays from his Republic on the grounds that they were too frivolous and dangerous for morality. In contrast, the positive didactic function of the theatre ultimately hearkened back to Horace’s view of literature’s purpose to ‘instruct or delight.’36 Italian literary critics of the Renaissance routinely credited this didactic purpose to stage plays. Sperone Speroni stated bluntly, ‘La commedia è una scola di tutto il populo’ (The comedy is a school for all the people).37 Giason Denores wrote his Discorso ... intorno a qve’ principii, cavse, et accrescimenti che la comedia, la tragedia, et il poema heroico ricevono dalla philosophia morale, & ciuile, & da’ gouernatori delle republiche for the purpose of delineating, among other things, what contributions comedy receives from moral philosophy. For Denores, human error was the key ingredient of comedy: ‘Sarà per tanto la comedia rappresentazion di una azion piacevole di persone private fra buone e cattive, che per qualche errore umano di sempietà, cominciando da travaglio finisce in riso’ (The comedy thus will be a representation of a pleasant action of a private person between good and evil, who by some sympathetic human error, beginning from travail ends in laughter).38 Sometimes these critics spoke specifically of human action in terms of sin and right or wrong. For example, Speroni spoke of playwrights when he wrote, ‘di non peccar ci ammoniscano, andando a paro la pena insieme e la colpa’ (they admonish us not to sin, the punishment going right along beside the fault).39 Early modern Spanish literary critics appropriated and repeated this idea of didactic theatre with some overtly casuistical twists of their own. Luis Alfonso de Carballo, in his poetics, Cisne de Apolo (1602), discusses the poets’ social duty to offer the truth as they saw it, however unpleasant, to the public as well as to the prince: Fue otra razon el procurar huyr el odio y aborrecimiento, que como no ay ninguno que naturalme[n]te no le pese de que le digan sus vicios, y faltas, [los poetas] vsaron de representarnoslas en otras personas para que viendo las agenas costumbres, cayessemos en cuenta de las nuestras.

Casuistry and Theory 187 (Another reason was to procure that they flee hate and abhorrence, since there is no one who is not naturally pained when they tell him his vices and faults; the poets used to represent them to us in other persons so that, seeing foreign customs, we would realize what is wrong with our own.)40

Alonso López Pinciano, in his Philosophia antigua poética, recalls the ancients through one of the characters in his dialogue, who asks: ¿por q[ué] Aristóphanes, por boca de Eurípides, dize, en vna de sus comedias, q[ue] el desseo de enseñar a los ciudadanos le hizo poeta? ¿E Isócrates, que los poetas antiguos enseñaro[n] cómo los ho[m]bres sean mejores, y, en otra parte, q[ue] la poesía diuierte al ho[m]bre del vicio? (why did Aristophanes, through the mouth of Euripides, say, in one of his comedies, that the desire to teach the citizens made him a poet? And Isocrates, that the ancient poets taught how men are to be better, and, in another part, that poetry diverts a man from vice?).41

Later he has one of his interlocutors reiterate, ‘en la tragedia ha[n] de enseñar la vida que se deue seguir, y la comedia la que se deue huyr’ (in the tragedy they have to teach the life that should be followed, and [in] the comedy that which should be avoided).42 López Pinciano also specifies that comedy is useful for teaching men prudence in dealing with their family affairs: ‘la tragedia con sus compassiones enseña valor para sufrir, y la comedia co[n] sus risas, prudencia para se gobernar el hombre en su familia’ (the tragedy with its compassions teaches valour for suffering, and the comedy with its laughter, prudence for a man to govern himself in his family).43 Francisco Cascales, in his Tablas poéticas (1617), ventures beyond the didactic function of comedy specifically into the realm of casuistry. He quotes Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and writes about various causes for sin and various extenuating circumstances that might mitigate its just punishment: Y si el facinoroso [sic] y malo padezca calamidad, siendo aquella calamidad y miseria por sus pecados, no es digno de conmiseración. Serála, pues, aquel que padece por algún pecado hecho sin malicia, por imprudencia y por algún error humano. Dize el Filósofo en el tercero de la Ética que todas las cosas que los hombres hazen, o se an de llamar voluntarias, o no voluntarias. Voluntarias son las que provienen de la electión nuestra, no volun-

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tarias son aquellas que hazemos forçados. Haze uno una cosa por fuerça de tres maneras: o compelido de la violencia, o por ignorancia, o por miedo de mayor mal ... Actión violenta es quando uno haze una cosa más de fuerça que de grado, como si un tirano me mandasse matar a mi padre, con tal que si le mato, que yo salvo, y sino le mato, que yo muera ... Ignorantemente pecaría, si un hombre gravemente enojado o beodo matasse a alguno, porque el enojado o beodo ignora por culpa suya lo que es justo y lo que conviene. Haze la cosa por ignorancia quien imprudentemente y sin saber que aquello que haze es malo, lo haze. (And if the wicked and bad man suffers calamity, that calamity and misery being the result of his sins, he is not worthy of commiseration. He will be worthy of it, then, the one who suffers for some sin committed without malice, through imprudence or some human error. The philosopher says in the third book of the Ethics that all the things that men do must be called voluntary or involuntary. Voluntary are the ones that derive from our choice, involuntary are the ones that we are forced to do. Someone is forced to do something in three ways: either compelled by violence, or through ignorance, or out of fear of a greater evil ... A violent action is when someone does something being forced to instead of wanting to, as if a tyrant commanded me to kill my father, with the condition that if I kill him, I will be saved, and if I do not kill him, I will die ... Ignorantly would he sin, if a man who was gravely annoyed or drunk killed someone, because the annoyed man or the drunkard ignores by his own fault that which is just and that which is convenient. He does the thing through ignorance, he who does it imprudently and without knowing that that which he does is bad.)44

This series of fine distinctions between degrees of prior knowledge and motivations for crimes committed is worthy of the casuists themselves. The fact that Cascales was writing here in the context of stage plays makes the case for casuistry on the Spanish stage even more compelling. This early modern conception of a poetics for the comedia based upon casuistry is echoed in Lope de Vega’s immortal definition of the genre as expressed both in his El arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo and in one of his most tragic plays, El castigo sin venganza. In his manifesto on the comedia (1613 edition) Lope lays out his formula for writing a successful play beginning with the casuistical ‘caso’: En el acto primero ponga el caso, en el segundo enlace los sucesos

Casuistry and Theory 189 de suerte que hasta el tercero apenas juzgue nadie en lo que pare. (In the first act put the case, In the second interweave the events In such a way that until the third [act] Hardly anyone will guess how it will end.)45

He also highlights moral issues as especially conducive to ‘moving’ the audience: Los casos de la honra son mejores Porque mueuen con fuerça a toda ge[n]te, Con ellas las acciones virtuosas, Que la virtud es do[n]dequiera amada, Pues que vemos, si acaso vn recitante Haze vn traydor, es ta[n] odioso a todos Que lo q[ue] va a comprar no se lo ve[n]de[n], Y huye el vulgo dél qua[n]do le encue[n]tra, Y si es leal le prestan y combidan Y hasta los principales le ho[n]ra[n] y ama[n] Le buscan, le regalan y le aclaman. (The cases of honour are the best Because they move all people with force, With them the virtuous actions, For virtue is beloved everywhere, For we see, if perhaps an actor Portrays a traitor, he is so odious to all That what he goes to buy they will not sell to him, And the common people flee from him when they encounter him, And if he is loyal they aid him and invite him And even the principal lords honour him and love him, They seek him, they pamper him and acclaim him.)46

Here he speaks through the discourse of casuistry, invoking the concepts of casos and acaso explicitly. In Lope’s El castigo sin venganza also the Duke becomes, for a magical moment, the mouthpiece of the playwright turned literary critic:

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duque: Agora sabes, Ricardo, que es la comedia un espejo en que el necio, el sabio, el viejo, el mozo, el fuerte, el gallardo, el rey, el gobernador, la doncella, la casada siendo al ejemplo escuchada de la vida y del honor, retrata nuestras costumbres, o livianas o severas, mezclando burlas y veras, donaires y pesadumbres. (duque: Now you know, Ricardo, That the comedia is a mirror In which the fool, the wise man, the old man, The young man, the strong man, the elegant man, The king, the governor, The maiden, the wife Being listened to as an example Of life and honour Portrays our customs, Either libidinous or severe, Mixing jokes and truths, Witty sayings and heavy ones.)47

The ‘ejemplo’ mentioned here is nothing more nor less than a classic casus conscientiae. In a similar vein, Cervantes also tried his hand at dramatic (as opposed to novelistic) theory when he wrote in the Prologue to his Ocho comedias y ocho entremeses (1615) that his intention was to represent ‘las imaginaciones y los pensamientos escondidos del alma.’48 What are these ‘imaginations and hidden thoughts of the soul,’ if not (at least potentially) casuistical dilemmas? These statements of purpose on the part of early modern playwrights and critics have not gone completely unnoticed by modern scholars. Henry Sullivan, in his study establishing a psychoanalytical poetics of the comedia, has pinpointed the ethical dilemma as the central element infusing the comedia as a genre with its special force or impact. He discusses this central element as ‘the ethical relationship between Desire and action’:

Casuistry and Theory 191 We can say that this is what Spanish Classical dramas are mostly about. Author and audience were pretty much in agreement on the big-time stakes of their society. In the hierarchicalized value-system of the Spanish comedia, the key signifiers – in descending order of importance – were God, king, honor, love and, arguably, friendship or family. In this scheme, any of the key values is made to cede when challenged by a value further up in the hierarchy. In this way, the art of the dramatist lay in the skill with which he could devise situations in which the obligations of love and honor collided; or the obligations of honor with feudal submission to a king or lord; or the conflict between duty to God or king; or between God and love, and so on. The savor of the drama was derived from the specificity of the ethical dilemmas in their myriad combinations, and the ingenious manner of the comedia’s resolution.49

Sullivan’s comments, although highly suggestive, do not tell the full story. It is to a different but related genre that we must turn for secondary criticism that will further illuminate our study of the comedia as casuistry. Comedia or Quaestio? One of the most insightful studies of moral reasoning in an early modern Spanish dramatic genre is an essay by Barbara E. Kurtz on Calderón’s conception of the auto sacramental.50 In it she posits that the auto, as defined by Calderón – and, by extension the auto sacramental as an entire genre – finds its roots in the scholastic or rhetorical quaestio (a formal disputation or debate followed by a determinatio or resolution of the issue in question). In this formulation, the autos sacramentales are nothing less than ‘condensed scholastic quaestiones that turn around a doctrinal dispute between orthodox and apostate beliefs.’51 Kurtz explains how the quaestio becomes the engine that drives the auto sacramental as a genre: If the autos were to be something more than proselytic salesmanship ... they needed drama, they needed conflict. And Calderón found this conflict, in part, in the agon of the scholastic quaestio.52

She then goes on to differentiate between a quaestio finita – involving a definite question or hypothesis that turns on specific persons, facts, and circumstances – and a quaestio infinita involving general or abstract

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issues.53 From there she further subdivides (following Cicero) the quaestiones infinitae into theoretical inquiries (quaestiones cognitionis) and practical inquiries (quaestiones actionis). She concludes that ‘only the theoretical inquiries (quaestiones cognitionis) ... will concern the analysis of Calderón’s auto.’54 I am convinced she is right in her analysis of the ever-problematic genre of the auto sacramental. But it is precisely the other half of the binarism, the side of the equation she did not choose to pursue, which interests me most. Would it not be reasonable to suggest that just as the auto sacramental finds its point of departure in the rhetorical quaestio cognitionis, the comedia could find its own origin in the quaestio actionis? And what is the classical quaestio actionis, in the Christian humanist synthesis, but a casus conscientiae? After all, humanist rhetoricians said the purpose of arguing in utramque partem (on both sides of the question) was to arrive at what they called approximate knowledge, or probable truth.55 This is the same ‘probable truth’ that lent its name to a controversial casuistical concept known as probabilism.56 Even more important for our purpose here is Kurtz’s analysis of the larger consequences to be gleaned from tracing this Foucauldian genealogy. Dismantling previous critics’ assertions that most potentially subversive discourse was effectively contained by the Spanish church / state monolith, she argues instead that Calderón ‘establishes a conflictual ... basis for the autos’ plots’ and that this ‘conflictive quaestio did indeed have a transgressive intent.’57 In the case of his auto Las órdenes militares, it was to cast a harsh light upon Inquisitorial practice. Challenging Maravall and, by extension, the entire later New Historicist movement, Kurtz insists upon a plurality of contestatory voices competing to be heard in early modern Spain. It is in this light that we wish to cast our current study of casuistry in the comedia, for here too we see a phenomenon of individuation and subjective agency that goes far beyond the New Historicists’ subversion / containment model. Dilatio, Deferral, and Différance The function of casuistry’s trace in the comedia is to suspend the action, prolonging the process of resolution in a Derridian logic of deferral. What is the relationship of the trace to différance? Derrida states succinctly, ‘The (pure) trace is différance.’58 What, then, is différance in this context? We see that the notion of trace is intimately connected to the notion of différance: ‘All these differences in the production of the trace

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may be reinterpreted as moments of deferring.’59 At times Derrida even seems to use the two terms synonymously: ‘No doubt life protects itself by repetition, trace, différance (deferral).’60 It is this connection that makes the trace fundamental for the enterprise of philology as a whole: ‘the arche-trace ... opens up the possibility of ... the structure of reference in general.’61 In his fine essay ‘Deference, Différance: The Rhetoric of Deferral,’ Edward Friedman follows Patricia Parker62 in relating the différance of Derridean deconstruction to the early modern concepts of dilatio and amplificatio.63 He builds a case for the essential similarity of several other possible theoretical frameworks, including Shklovskii’s ‘deceleration,’64 Bakhtin’s ‘chronotope of delay,’65 and Barthes’s ‘espace dilatoire,’66 pointing back (as they all do) to earlier Renaissance formulations of rhetorical devices designed to augment or expand a metaphor, a speech, or even an entire plot. Friedman explains that in early modern usage, ‘to dilate’ became virtually synonymous with ‘to narrate’ or ‘to tell.’ This tradition of dilatio begins at least as far back as the Old Testament, where Abraham argues with God and manages to postpone the impending destruction of Sodom and Gommorah by asking God to spare the city if only a handful of righteous people can be found.67 Continuing this religious use of the concept, patristic writers employed the term dilatio patriae to refer to the period of time before the Apocalypse. In this formulation, there was a ‘space of deferral’ leaving time for repentance before the Last Judgment.68 This tradition was continued in medieval Latin instructions to preachers, such as Richard of Thetford’s thirteenth-century treatise on the eight modes of dilatation.69 In a secular example, Homer’s Odyssey relies upon the seemingly endless deferral of Odysseus’s return home to carve out a narrative space for more adventures to unfold. In the eastern sphere, the One Thousand and One Arabian Nights relies upon the same process of postponement, in this case as Scheherazade desperately keeps concocting stories in order to save her life. To illustrate this technique of amplification, numerous other examples could be listed, from the infinite sequels spawned by the romances of chivalry to their parodic imitation by Don Quijote. Friedman notes that in the early modern West, dilatio came to find a place within such diverse intellectual traditions as Neoplatonism and the expansion of empire. In legal contexts, it could metamorphose into delayed judgments, while in sexual ones, it could refer to delayed consummation. In Renaissance comic drama it could contribute to the inflated pride of the alazon figure, while in a

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tragedy it could allow for a character’s moral evolution.70 In all of these examples we see how dilation or amplification could serve to keep the plot in motion. I would like to argue that in the early modern Spanish comedia, casuistry is the main instrument of this type of dilatio, amplificatio, or deferral. Friedman postulates that ‘what unites theology and rhetoric, despite the apparent closure of one system and the openness of the other, is the “interpreting space” afforded by God’s signs.’71 I would like to suggest that this ‘interpreting space’ is occupied by casuistry. Casuistry serves as the missing link between theology and rhetoric by ‘filling in the blanks’ between religious doctrine and practice. Every decision on how to implement religious belief in the course of everyday life (by definition) involves ethical reasoning. It is this type of ethical reasoning which, as we have seen, becomes an obsession for comedia characters and their authors and thus provides a glimpse of one of the major preoccupations of early modern Spanish society. Casuistical discourse is explicitly linked to deferral within the texts of the comedias themselves. The basic idea here is that the more complicated the case is, the longer it will take to unravel the various strands of guilt and innocence: ‘Un caso tan grave y tal, / con prisa mal se resuelve’ (A case so grave and such, / is badly resolved with haste).72 Comedia characters often profess bafflement in the face of ever more complex moral dilemmas (‘No sé en qué ha de parar tan grande enredo’ [I don’t know where such a great entanglement will end]) or the need for patience in resolving them (‘Tener paciencia / es lo que más importa en este caso’ [To have patience / is the most important thing in this case]).73 The literary effect of such cases (‘ocasiones dilatadas’ [dilated occasions])74 is to ‘suspend’ the action: ‘en tan confuso estado / aguardar será forzoso’ (in such a confused state / it will be necessary to wait),75 or as Cervantes’s Manfredo states succinctly, ‘el caso me suspende’ (the case suspends me).76 This suspension or dilation may be expressed alternatively in terms of time or of space; Alarcón’s Don Fernando prefers the latter as he asserts gravely, ‘Más espacio / quiere el caso’ (This case requires / more space).77 This same formulation is encountered in Guillén de Castro’s Las mocedades del Cid, where Peransules counsels the Conde Loçano to proceed slowly, even phlegmatically, in response to his confession of guilt: ‘Escucha agora, / ten flema, proced a espacio’ (Listen now, / be phlegmatic, proceed apace).78 The king uses the specific verb dilatar to describe his process of casuistical reasoning, which involves taking counsel with his advisors:

Casuistry and Theory 195 Y assí, dudoso, y perplexo, la respuesta he dilatado, porque de un largo cuydado nace un maduro consejo. (And thus, doubtful, and perplexed, I have dilated the response, Because from a long caution Is born mature counsel.)79

Peransules uses a noun form of the same word to describe the uncertainty of the dilemma: ‘Entre dilaciones largas / esso es dudoso, esto cierto’ (Among long dilations / that is doubtful, this [is] certain).80 Usually casuistry offers the characters a chance to debate various courses of action before engaging in any one of them: ¿Qué puedo hacer? A callar Me resuelvo hasta pensar Mejor lo que me conviene. (What can I do? I resolve To be quiet until I can think Better about what is convenient for me.)81

But sometimes it simply offers a means for stalling until the time is right: Y así, en mí la dilacion No nace de la resistencia, Mas de buscar con prudencia El tiempo á la ejecucion. (And thus, in me dilation Is not born from resistance, But from seeking with prudence The time for the execution.)82

Thus in Agustín Moreto’s La misma conciencia acusa the insecure Duque deliberately delays action in order to give himself time to gather his army: ‘Lograré esta dilación’ (I will accomplish this dilation).83 In the same author’s La fuerza de la ley, Alejandro announces the role of delay and suspense within the overall scheme of his plans for revenge: ‘Por

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lograrla mejor, solo / ya mi venganza dilato’ (To accomplish it better, I alone / delay my revenge already).84 The Marqués in Alarcón’s Ganar amigos invokes the specific casuistical concepts of ends and means to foster the desired dilation: Válgale: pecho, trazad Cómo tengais igualmente, Ni piedad inobediente, Ni ejecutiva crueldad; Que entrambos fines consigo Si algun medio puedo hallar Con que dilate, sin dar Enojo al Rey, el castigo ... (Aid him: breast, trace How you have equally Neither inobedient piety, Nor executive cruelty; For I obtain both ends If I can find some means To delay the punishment Without giving annoyance to the king ...)85

He later recounts his actions using the same terms of dilation and suspense: ‘Piadoso empecé á trazar / medios para dilatar’ (Piously I began to trace / means to delay). Even at the very last moment in this play one of the other characters announces a ‘nueva dilación’ (new dilation).86 In a more extended example, Tirso de Molina’s Desde Toledo a Madrid illustrates perfectly this use of casuistry as the dilatory ‘engine’ of the comedia. The function of this engine, in deconstructionist terms, is simultaneously to drive the plot and to slow it down. In this play, Don Baltasar and Doña Mayor fall in love at first sight the night before she is to go to Madrid to marry Don Luis. Don Baltasar disguises himself as a muleteer in order to accompany her on the journey and, ultimately, to prevent the planned wedding from ever taking place. This play includes in microcosm many of the elements of casuistry we have examined in the course of this book: an anguished conscience, abundant references to complicated casos, and of course the ubiquitous ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ question asking for advice. In the very first scene, Baltasar finds himself trapped in Doña Mayor’s bedroom after killing a servant and fleeing from justice by breaking into her house. Taking stock of the situation,

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he exclaims: ‘¡Válgame el cielo! ¿Qué haré? / ¿Vióse confusión igual?’ (Aid me, heaven! What shall I do? / Has anyone ever seen such confusion?).87 Several pages later, he is still delivering the same monologue: ‘¡Qué de males me rodean! / ¡Qué mal que puedo excusarlos! / Mucho tarda: ¿qué he de hacer?’ (What evils surround me! / How poorly I can excuse them! / It is very late: what should I do?).88 Here he admits that the unfavourable circumstances surrounding him are largely of his own creation; there is very little he can do to ‘excuse’ himself from blame. He then predicts that an unknown resident of the house, upon finding him there and listening to his story, ‘lastimaráse de un caso / tan digno de su favor’ (will take pity upon a case / so worthy of favour).89 Here we see that mentally, he is already constructing a ‘case’ to exculpate himself from blame. He justifies his crime of murder casuistically, using the lexicon we have come to expect: ‘Sin culpa fui su homicida; / él se buscó la ocasión’ (Without blame I was his homicide; / he sought the occasion for himself).90 When she awakens, Doña Mayor speaks within the same linguistic register to accuse him of seeking to dishonour her by breaking into her room: ‘Pues si la ocasión buscastes ...’ (Well, if you sought the occasion ...).91 As they sense their mutual attraction and discuss her wedding plans, Baltasar asks her why she is going to marry against her will. She answers: ‘Quiérelo mi padre así. / ¿Qué he de hacer? Ya consentí’ (My father wants it this way. / What should I do? I already consented).92 Baltasar mirrors her words in his reply, asking the identical question: ‘¿qué he de hacer, / si ya en ajeno poder / lloro mi esperanza vana?’ (what should I do / if already in someone else’s power / I mourn my vain hope?).93 Throughout the play, various characters refer to the situation as a ‘caso bravo’94 or a ‘caso fuerte,’95 with one of them concluding, ‘El caso está bien dudoso’ (The case is very doubtful).96 As they make the seemingly interminable journey from Toledo to Madrid, Doña Mayor stops to ask: ‘Pues, si perdida vengo, / ¿qué he de hacer? / ... Yo no quiero casarme’ (Well, if I come lost, / what should I do? / ... I do not want to marry).97 Once again, Baltasar repeats the same question in response: ‘¿Qué he de hacer, Mayor hermosa, / vos casada, y yo sin culpa / condenado, por quereros ... ?’ (What should I do, lovely Mayor, / you married, and I without fault, / condemned, for loving you ... ?).98 Note that he is still trying to justify himself, insisting that he is ‘without blame.’ Other characters in the play also speak the language of confession, as when Carreño exclaims: ‘quiera Dios que la presente [aventura] / nos absuelve a culpa y pena’ (may God will that the present adventure / absolve us of fault and punishment).99 Paralyzed by the pattern of constant delays on the road to Madrid, Medrano asks a question that

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might well be paradigmatic of the plot construction as a whole: ‘¿Qué hemos de hacer, / sino sufrir y esperar?’ (What should we do, / but suffer and hope?).100 Here we see time and again how casuistry is enlisted in the service of a teleology of deferral to prolong the action, increase suspense, and hold the interest of the audience. ‘The Soul of Spain’ So aside from casuistry’s literary function – to serve as the engine driving the plot of the comedia – what about its social function? We shall attempt to answer this question both within the particular context of comedia studies and within the more general framework of early modern studies as a whole. The internal anguish that we are so accustomed to thinking about in the discourse of moral dilemmas in the comedias is relevant in other linguistic registers as well. In Romance languages such as Spanish, the word for ‘conscience’ (conciencia) is the same word used to refer to ‘consciousness,’ there being no way linguistically to distinguish between the two.101 It turns out that the rise of conscience is linked to the rise of subjectivity in general, and in fact to the burgeoning humanism so often pointed to as a hallmark of the Renaissance: ‘The self, says a modern philosopher, has been discovered by sin. The merely logical self-consciousness does not have such a power. Without practical knowledge about oneself, produced by the experience of law and guilt, no practical self-consciousness ... could have developed.’102 Under this interpretation, famous early modern characters such as Hamlet face as much a crisis of conscience as they do of consciousness: ‘Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” pertains, in the final analysis, less to the act of suicide than to the possibility of coming into a relation with conscience that is always at the same time a relation with our fundamental sense of existence.’103 The French philosopher Ricoeur agrees, stating bluntly: ‘With the factor of “conscience” man the measure likewise comes into being.’104 Even Friedrich Nietzsche, who passionately decried in On the Genealogy of Morals what he called the ‘blood-soaked origins’ of hypotheticals such as conscience and guilt, still had to affirm that it was these very concepts that contributed to the sovereign humanity of the Übermensch: Then we discover that the ripest fruit is the sovereign individual, like only to himself, liberated again from morality of custom ... the man who has his own independent, protracted will and the right to make promises – and in him

Casuistry and Theory 199 a proud new consciousness, quivering in every muscle, of what has at length been achieved and become flesh in him, a consciousness of his own power and freedom, a sensation of mankind come to completion. This emancipated individual ... how should he not be aware of his superiority over all those who lack the right to make promises and stand as their own guarantors ... and of how this mastery over himself also necessarily gives him mastery over circumstances, over nature, and over all more short-willed and unreliable creatures? ... The proud awareness of the extraordinary privilege of responsibility, the consciousness of this rare freedom, this power over oneself and over fate, has in his case penetrated to the profoundest depths and becomes instinct ... What will he call this dominating instinct, supposing he feels the need to give it a name? The answer is beyond doubt: this sovereign man calls it his conscience.105

This description was of course only intended to apply to the Supermen, not ordinary mortals, and thus we may account for its overly optimistic (some would say delirious) view of an infallible conscience that never errs. It is worth remembering that Jakob Burckhardt, the creator of the ‘myth’ of Renaissance secular humanism, was once a mentor to the young Friedrich Nietzsche.106 But even if we refuse to accept his mythologizing historiography and simply stay with early texts, we nonetheless find in Pico della Mirandola’s Oration on the Dignity of Man a glowing new awareness of the power of the individual and of the centrality of his place in the universe.107 To what do we owe this humanistic awakening, in which the floodgates of self-consciousness are thrown open in the early modern period to reveal the tumultuous emotional life within? The relationship between consciousness of guilt and self-consciousness in general cannot be overestimated. As Tillich concludes, ‘self and conscience are dependent on the experience of personal guilt.’108 After all, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden only realized they were naked after they had tasted the forbidden fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Sin brings with it knowledge: knowledge of who we are, in all our nakedness, and knowledge of how painful the distance is between our current dwelling place and the Paradise from which we were once expelled. Once again we see the Derridian play of absence and presence, of longing for a missing wholeness and innocence that can only be experienced through its lack. And so we see that without conscience there could be no guilt, and without guilt there could be no self-consciousness, and without self-

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consciousness there could be no self (witness the early modern Descartes’s ‘I think, therefore I am’).109 A reasonable conclusion to draw from this would be that we cannot begin to understand early modern Spanish people until we understand how they constructed themselves – that is to say, how they constructed their consciences. This Foucauldian genealogy of the Derridian ‘trace’ of conscience has attempted to provide a window onto a hidden world: that of the thoughts, feelings, desires, and miasmas of guilt that plagued early modern subjects. And perhaps it might be possible to extend this genealogy, like a true family tree, into the present day.110 Countless Spanish philosophers have lamented the insecurity, the cynicism, even the morbid fatalism of the elusive but tantalizing ‘Spanish soul.’ The Spanish intellectual historian Ciriaco Morón Arroyo, in El ‘alma de España,’ while denouncing the absurdity of the very notion of constructing a soul for an entire nation, nonetheless recognizes the same tendency at work within his countrymen: Lo que todavía no hemos superado, a mi parecer, en todo el siglo XX es la sensación de inseguridad cultural ... Los españoles hemos crecido con complejo de inseguridad. (What we still have not overcome, from my perspective, in all the twentieth century is the sensation of cultural insecurity ... We Spaniards have grown up with an insecurity complex.)111

Would it not be possible to explain this restlessness, this insecurity, this anguish that falls nothing short of despair, in terms of a living legacy of Counter-Reformation constructions of conscience as a worm that gnaws? In this vein it should be noted that comedias were performed in the New World as well as the Old. Some of the dramatists discussed in this book, such as Tirso de Molina, Matías de Bocanegra, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, and Juan Ruiz de Alarcón, were either born outside of Spain or spent significant portions of their careers in the colonies. Some of the passages quoted in this book came from plays written and performed in colonial Spanish America. So if these hypotheses are accurate, it should be possible – at least in theory – to extend them (with all the appropriate caveats, of course) not just to modern-day Spaniards, Mexicans, and Latin Americans, but to U.S. Chicanos and Latinos as well. It is my hope that other scholarly studies will arise to take up this challenge. The come-

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dias form a part of Hispanics’ common cultural heritage – or rather, what might better be expressed at the shrink’s office (particularly in the case of conscience) as their common cultural baggage. By ‘tracing’ genealogies such as this one, we may be surprised to discover certain family resemblances to some of our anxieties today. But why should we care about recovering this elusive ‘trace’? Derrida argues forcefully for the absolute centrality of this concept: The trace is in fact the absolute origin of sense in general. Which amounts to saying once again that there is no absolute origin of sense in general. The trace is the différance which opens appearance [l’apparaître] and signification. Articulating the living upon the nonliving in general, origin of all repetition, origin of ideality, the trace is not more ideal than real, not more intelligible than sensible, not more a transparent signification than an opaque energy and no concept of metaphysics can describe it.112

But if this concept is so foundational, so essential, so originary, is Derrida the first to have articulated it? Certainly not. Derrida himself points to Nietzsche, Freud, and above all, his contemporary Emmanuel Levinas as his sources. Because both Freud and Nietzsche were writing in German, and because they were the earliest sources for this notion, it may be helpful to find out which German word they use to refer to this concept. This is a strategy, in fact, employed by Derrida himself: at one point he alludes to ‘the irreducible notion of the trace (Spur), as it appears in both Nietzschean and Freudian discourse.’113 The German word Spur in fact resonates with multiple valences, including bit, channel, clue, footprint, footstep, groove, gutter, mark, remains, rut, scent, scrap, sign, trace, track, trail, vestige, and wake.114 Derrida also calls it the ‘arche-phenomenon of memory,’115 and it is of course in this context that the term is most important for the thought of Sigmund Freud. The concept of trace appears in Freud’s writing with his image of the ‘magic writing pad,’ and it is with this image that we shall close. This writing technology (a device which was actually marketed in Great Britain at least until the 1960s) is in some sense a return to ancient cuneiform: The ‘mystic writing pad’ is composed of a wax slab, a sheet of wax paper and a thin celluloid sheet which covers the paper. If one is to inscribe ‘something’ upon the pad, one uses a stylus, not a pen or pencil or anything which contains ink. A certain pressure and a certain formation of

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form are all that are required since the ‘letter’ or inscription becomes visible by a process of reversal. With pressure exerted on the celluloid, the wax slab becomes imprinted, and this inscription in turn is ‘sent’ back up to the original celluloid via the mediation of the wax paper which ‘picks up’ the inscription from the wax slab. In order to ‘erase’ the inscription, all that is needed is to lift the celluloid on which it appears from the wax paper and it is ‘cleared,’ as if new once again. The ‘stain’ or the imprint, however, remains on the wax slab and cannot be erased. Neither can it ever become visible, however, except in ‘certain lights.’116

Freud is not, of course, interested in the actual device so much as its usefulness as a metaphor. This is its same source of interest for us. The ‘stain’ or imprint, for Freud, is ‘the method by which the perceptual apparatus of our mind functions,’117 i.e., the process of memory. I would argue that this image is even more appropriate for describing the process of cultural, or collective, memory. This form of memory roughly corresponds to Derrida’s ‘trace’ and also describes adequately the residue of casuistical discourse we find in the comedia. Furthermore, the image of the magical writing pad is appropriate for describing the early formation of Spanish playwrights in Jesuit schools: ‘the subject is herein “written upon” before it realizes or indeed recognizes ... that which it writes ... [T]here seems to be a strange sort of economy where nothing is lost between the wax slab and the “appearance of the inscription” on the celluloid sheet of consciousness.’118 The writing pad thus describes the memory, the very consciousness of these Spanish playwrights, where the early influence of casuistry left an indelible imprint. It could hardly be an accident that hundreds of early modern comedias are interlaced with casuistical words, phrases, questions, and concepts. Our purpose in this study has been to shine those Freudian ‘certain lights’ upon these texts so that otherwise-invisible or undetected traces of casuistry might be therein illuminated. In the process, we have encountered moral dilemmas of loyalty, equivocation, and desire with which perhaps we can still identify. We have found poignant descriptions of an anguished conscience which perhaps might still ring true. If Freud’s mystic writing pad still works, then these ethical dilemmas being enacted upon the early modern stage will have left a curious mark upon us, the readers, as well. The next time we find ourselves caught in an ethical double bind, we might just find ourselves asking, ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ (What should I do?).

Appendix Chart of Relevant Plays: Comedias Containing Variations of the Phrase ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’

Seventy-five per cent of the 116 comedias searched contain a form of the phrase ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ They are listed below by author. Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616) • ‘¿Qué habemos de hacer?’ in Los baños de Argel • ‘¿qué has de hacer?’ in La casa de los celos y selvas de Ardenia • ‘¿Qué hemos de hacer?’ in La gran sultana, Doña Catalina de Oviedo • ‘¿Qué hemos de hacer?’ in El laberinto de amor Lope de Vega (1562–1635) • ‘¿Qué ha de hacer?’ in ¡Ay, verdades que en amor ...! • ‘¿Qué habemos de hacer?’ in El castigo sin venganza • ‘¿Qué has de hacer?’ in La prueba de los amigos • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El perro del hortelano • ‘¿Qué has de hacer?’ in La moza de cántaro • ‘¿Qué habéis de hacer?’ in El caballero de Olmedo • ‘¿Qué habemos de hacer?’ in Las bizarrías de Belisa • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Las ferias de Madrid • ‘¿Qué hemos de hacer?’ in La discordia en los casados • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in La discreta enamorada • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El animal profeta Guillén de Castro (1569–1631) • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El conde Alarcos • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El curioso impertinente • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Las mocedades del Cid • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El Narciso en su opinión

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Appendix

Mira de Amescua (1574?–1644) • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in La adversa fortuna de Don Álvaro de Luna • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Amor, ingenio y mujer • ‘¿qué hemos de hacer?’ in El amparo de los hombres • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El caballero sin nombre • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in La casa del tahur • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Cautela contra cautela • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Cuatro milagros de amor Tirso de Molina (1584?–1648) • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Amar por razón de estado • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Amar por señas • ‘¿qué has de hacer?’ in El amor médico • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Amor y celos hacen discretos • ‘¿Qué habéis de hacer?’ in Antona García • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in El Aquiles • ‘¿qué hemos de hacer?’ in El árbol del mejor fruto • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Averígüelo Vargas • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Los balcones de Madrid, I • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Los balcones de Madrid, II • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Bellaco sois, Gómez • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El burlador de Sevilla y convidado de piedra • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El Caballero de Gracia • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El castigo del penséque • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Celos con celos se curan • ‘¿Qué has de hacer?’ in La celosa de sí misma • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Cómo han de ser los amigos • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El condenado por desconfiado • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in La dama del Olivar • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Del enemigo el primer consejo • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Desde Toledo a Madrid • ‘¿qué han de hacer?’ in La fingida Arcadia • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in La gallega Mari-Hernández • ‘¡Qué he de hacer!’ in Habladme en entrando • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in La huerta de Juan Fernández • ‘¿Qué hemos de hacer?’ in La lealtad contra la envidia • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Marta la Piadosa • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El mayor desengaño • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in La mejor espigadera

Chart of Relevant Plays

• • • • • • • • • •

‘¿qué han de hacer?’ in El melancólico ‘¿Qué habemos de hacer?’ in La mujer que manda en casa ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in Palabras y plumas ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El pretendiente al revés ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Quien calla, otorga ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Quien da luego, da dos veces ‘¿qué hemos de hacer?’ in Escarmientos para el cuerdo ‘¿qué hemos de hacer?’ in Doña Beatriz de Silva ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Don Gil de las calzas verdes ‘¿qué hemos de hacer?’ in El vergonzoso en palacio

Ana Caro (1600s; dates unknown) • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El Conde Partinuples • ‘¿Qué hemos de hacer?’ in Valor, agravio y mujer Calderón de la Barca (1600–81) • ‘¿Qué ha de hacer?’ in El alcalde de Zalamea • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Amado y aborrecido • ‘¿Qué ha de hacer?’ in Las armas de la hermosura • ‘qué hemos de hacer’ in La aurora en Copacabana • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Con quien vengo, vengo • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in La dama duende • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Darlo todo y no dar nada • ‘¿Qué hemos de hacer?’ in El escondido y la tapada • ‘¿Qué hemos de hacer?’ in La hija del aire • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Luis Pérez el gallego • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Mañanas de abril y mayo • ‘¿qué hemos de hacer?’ in Las manos blancas no ofenden • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in El médico de su honra • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Nadie fíe su secreto • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in No hay burlas con el amor • ‘¿qué hemos de hacer?’ in No siempre lo peor es cierto • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in El príncipe constante • ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ in Las tres justicias en una • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in La vida es sueño Agustín Moreto (1618–69) • ‘¿qué he de hacer?’ in El lindo don Diego

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Notes

Introduction: The Rise of Casuistry in Spain, the Flowering of Jesuit School Drama, and the Jesuit Education of Spanish Playwrights 1 See, for example, Aubrun, La comedia española: 1600–1680 ; Díez Borque, Sociedad y teatro en la España de Lope de Vega; McKendrick, Theater in Spain, 1490–1700; Newels, Los géneros dramáticos en las poéticas del Siglo de Oro ; Parker, ‘The Spanish Drama of the Golden Age’; Rennert, The Spanish Stage in the Time of Lope de Vega; Ruiz Ramón, Historia del teatro español desde sus orígenes hasta 1900; Wilson and Moir, The Golden Age: Drama ; and Margaret Wilson, Spanish Drama of the Golden Age. 2 For a discussion of the complex relationship of honour to morality in this place at this time, see Jones, ‘Honour in the Spanish Golden-Age Drama,’ and Chauchadis, Honneur, morale et société dans l’Espagne de Philippe II, especially 45–95. Chauchadis summarizes his argument with the statement: ‘les directeurs de conscience de l’epoque connaissent bien leurs fidèles et certains inclinent à penser que mettre l’honneur un peu en avant est une bonne incitation à la vertu ... Si l’honneur incite à la vertu, à l’inverse, la peur du déshonneur, qui n’est autre que la vergüenza, doit arrêter le chrétien sur le chemin du péché’ (the directors of conscience of the period know their faithful [directees] well and certain of them are inclined to think that to place honour a little in advance is a good incentive to virtue ... If honour incites to virtue, conversely, the fear of dishonour, which is none other than shame, should halt the Christian on the road to sin) (60). All translations are my own unless otherwise noted. 3 See Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze; Huntley, ‘Macbeth and the Background of Jesuitical Equivocation’; Kistner and Kistner, ‘Macbeth: A Treatise of Conscience’; Lukacher, Daemonic Figures; McCready, ‘Milton’s Casuistry’; Slights, The Casu-

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4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

30

Notes to pages 4–7

istical Tradition; Wilks, The Idea of Conscience in Renaissance Tragedy; and Starr, Defoe and Casuistry. See Castro, ‘Algunas observaciones acerca del concepto del honor en los siglos XVI y XVII.’ See Castro, ‘Algunas observaciones acerca del concepto del honor,’ especially the section ‘El honor según los casuistas,’ 39–44. It is a PhD dissertation, New York University, 1982. Álvarez, ‘La casuística y el drama,’ 238–318. See Hesse, ‘La dialéctica y el casuismo,’ and Pring-Mill, ‘La casuística como factor estructurizante.’ Pring-Mill, ‘La casuística como factor estructurizante,’ 65. Ibid., 63. Hesse, ‘La dialéctica y el casuismo,’ 576. Escosura, ‘Calderón considerado como moralista dramático.’ See especially chapter 7. Regalado, Calderón 1:171, 283. Parker, ‘The Spanish Drama,’ 693. Sullivan, ‘Moral Probabilism and Casuistry,’ 44. See Wenley, ‘Casuistry.’ Hammond, Conscience and Its Recovery, 3. Long, Conscience and Compromise, 9. Ibid., 22. Ibid., 15. Miller, Casuistry and Modern Ethics, 5. Slights, The Casuistical Tradition, 48–9. Long, Conscience and Compromise, 34. Mothersill, ‘The Moral Dilemmas Debate,’ 82. Miller, Casuistry and Modern Ethics, 26. Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 2. See Pichl, ‘Kasuistik,’ 905. See Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry, 47–88. Paul Ricoeur favours the Jewish contribution to casuistry over and above the Roman one: ‘The great work of “casuistry,” which was to be characteristic of the scribes of the Exile and the Return, must have begun before the Exile. In contrast to the conceptualization and the systematization of Roman law, the Jewish mind was already proceeding by way of “a large collection of typical cases from which judges and students could draw analogies”’ (‘Scrupulousness,’ 120; Ricoeur cites S.W. Baron, A Social and Religious History of the Jews, 2nd ed. [New York: Columbia University Press, 1952], 80). Mahoney, The Making of Moral Theology, 5.

Notes to pages 7–12

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31 Ibid., 17–19. 32 O’Malley, The First Jesuits, 10. 33 For these facts, see Segura, ‘El teatro en los colegios de los jesuitas,’ and Griffin, ‘Virtue versus Letters,’ 16. 34 Loyola, Ejercicios espirituales, 1. 35 See Breisemeister, ‘Calderón y el teatro de los jesuitas en Munich e Ingolstadt,’ 33 and 35. 36 O’Malley, The First Jesuits, 145. 37 Griffin, ‘Virtue versus Letters,’ 10–11. 38 O’Malley, The First Jesuits, 146. 39 Ibid. 40 Ibid. 41 Ibid. 42 The 1601 edition bears the title Opera omnia ... in quinque tomos diuisa. His completed works later grew to include a sixth volume, and editions of this version appeared in 1601 and 1618. 43 De la Granja, ‘Hacia una revalorización del teatro jesuítico,’ 149. 44 Sullivan, ‘Tam clara et evidens,’ 132. See also Molina Meliá, Iglesia y estado en el Siglo de Oro español. 45 See Pascal, ‘Quatorzième Lettre,’ in Les Provinciales, 824. 46 Cherubino de Firenze, Confessionario de Fray Cherubin de Florencia de la orden de los frayles predicadores, added to Luis de Escobar, Fasciculus myrrhe, el qual tracta de la passion de nuestro redemptor Iesu Christo (Antwerp: Martin Nucio, 1553). 47 Tentler, ‘The Summa for Confessors as an Instrument of Social Control,’ 108. 48 For ironic commentary on this means of organization, see Bossy, ‘Moral Arithmetic: Seven Sins into Ten Commandments.’ 49 López de Alvarado, Breve compendio de confession, 3. 50 For a discussion of these terms, see Regalado, Calderón, 2:230. 51 Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry, 71, 131. 52 Ibid., 132. 53 Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 133. 54 O’Malley, The First Jesuits, 147. 55 For a detailed discussion of these proto-dramatic genres, see Menéndez Peláez, Los jesuitas y el teatro en el Siglo de Oro, 48. 56 González Gutiérrez, El teatro escolar de los jesuitas, 1555–1640, 52. 57 Ibid., 54. 58 Ratio studiorum et institutione scholasticae Societatis Iesu, 1:128–9. Thanks to Craig Kallendorf for assistance with this translation. On the specific provisions and stipulations regarding the theatre to be found in the first and sub-

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59 60 61 62

63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74

Notes to pages 12–14

sequent iterations of the Ratio studiorum, see Griffin, ‘El teatro de los jesuitas,’ 409–10. On the various iterations and editions of the Ratio studiorum, see Padberg, ‘Development of the Ratio studiorum.’ See De linguarum studio, ratione et ordine, 372–3. Scaglione, The Liberal Arts and the Jesuit College System, 15. O’Malley, The First Jesuits, 224. The astute reader will note the use of the indefinite article in this sentence. I present these findings as the basis of a poetics for the comedia, not the one and only poetics possible for this genre. There have been several other fascinating studies published recently emphasizing other approaches, most notably Egginton’s How the World Became a Stage. My particular interest in casuistry in no way negates the validity of these other approaches. See Daum, ‘The Jesuit Theatre on the Continent with Particular Reference to Rome and the Collegio and Seminario Romano’; Burman, ‘Literary Evidence of Theatrical Representations at the Collegio Romano and the Seminario Romano, 1600–1773’; Mohler, ‘An Analysis of the Plans for the Theatre in the Seminary of the Collegio Romano,’ and ‘Architectural Observations on the Theatre in the Collegio Romano and the Seminario Romano.’ Burman (‘Literary Evidence’) gives a chronological list of documented productions for both the Collegio Romano and the Seminario Romano. Daum, ‘The Jesuit Theatre on the Continent with Particular Reference to Rome and the Collegio and Seminario Romano,’ 12. García Soriano, El teatro universitario y humanístico, 228–9. Ibid., 229. Segura, ‘El teatro en los colegios de los jesuitas,’ 311. García Soriano, El teatro universitario y humanístico, 85. Ibid., 115. Ibid., 319. Ibid., 392. Segura, ‘El teatro en los colegios de los jesuitas,’ 313. For discussions of these authors and their works, see Menéndez Peláez, Los jesuitas y el teatro en el Siglo de Oro, 433–60. Further manuscript sources for the study of Jesuit drama in Spain may be found in the city archives of Toledo as well as the Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid, in addition to the Colegio de San Ignacio in Alcalá de Henares (González Gutiérrez, ‘El teatro escolar de los jesuitas en la Edad de Oro,’ 1:11). In addition to the Cortes collection at the Real Academia de la Historia in Madrid, there is another relevant collection labelled ‘Capuchinos del Prado.’

Notes to pages 14–19

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75 This book gathers together twelve articles previously published between 1927 and 1932 in the Boletín de la Real Academia Española. 76 For studies of these dramas, see González Gutiérrez, El teatro escolar de los jesuitas, 1555–1640, and Menéndez Peláez, Los jesuitas y el teatro en el Siglo de Oro. For editions of specific plays, see Bajén Español, ed., Iosephea; De la Granja, ed., La vida de San Eustaquio; Picón et al., Teatro escolar latino, vol. 1, Lucifer furens, Occasio, Philautus, Charopus; González Gutiérrez, El Códice de Villagarcía del P. Juan Bonifacio; and Asenjo, ed., La Tragedia de San Hermenegildo y otras obras del teatro español de colegio. De la Granja’s edition is of a manuscript play in the Biblioteca Menéndez y Pelayo de Santander, and Bajén Español’s is of a play from the Jesuit colegio in Lérida; but both are still representative works of this genre. 77 Bonifacio, prologue to Comedia quae inscribitur Margarita, fol. 81v. On the inaccessibility of Latin to many people of the lower classes at this time, see Kagan, ‘Il latino nella Castiglia del XVII e XVIII secolo,’ 307. 78 García Soriano, El teatro universitario y humanístico, 398. For other instances of royal attendance at Jesuit school performances, see McCabe, ‘Christian Humanism and Drama,’ 29. 79 For example, see Acevedo, [Dialogus] in aduentu Regis [Philippi II ]. This dialogue bears the tag ‘Nec recitata.’ 80 García Soriano, El teatro universitario y humanístico, 366–7. 81 Ibid., 222–3. 82 Ibid., 234–5. 83 Ibid., 234. 84 Ibid., 228, n. 1. 85 Roux, ‘Cent ans d’expérience théatrale,’ 2:479. 86 Ibid., 488. 87 Elizalde, ‘El antiguo teatro en los colegios de la Compañía de Jesús,’ 681; Menéndez Peláez, Los jesuitas y el teatro en el Siglo de Oro, 74. 88 McCabe, An Introduction to the Jesuit Theatre, xi. 89 García Soriano, El teatro universitario y humanístico, 80–1. 90 Ibid., 51. 91 Wardropper, Introducción al teatro religioso del Siglo de Oro, 144. 92 García Soriano, El teatro universitario y humanístico, 52. 93 Ibid., 54. 94 Ibid., 57. 95 Elizalde, ‘El teatro escolar jesuítico, en el siglo XVII,’ 115. 96 Griffin, ‘Virtue versus Letters,’ 14. 97 Scaduto, ‘Pedagogia e teatro,’ 363. 98 McCabe, An Introduction to the Jesuit Theatre, 23.

212

Notes to pages 19–23

99 Fülöp-Miller, ‘The Jesuit Theatre,’ 410. 100 Elizalde, ‘El teatro escolar jesuítico,’ 124. 101 Fülöp-Miller, ‘The Stage Management of the Jesuits,’ 417–18. See also Bjurström, ‘Baroque Theatre and the Jesuits.’ 102 Purdie, ‘Jesuit Drama,’ 512. 103 Segura, ‘El teatro en los colegios de los jesuitas,’ 307. 104 Ibid., 319. 105 Purdie, ‘Jesuit Drama,’ 513. 106 McConaughy, The School Drama, 73. 107 Louis Oldani, foreword to his edition of McCabe, An Introduction to Jesuit Theatre, vi. 108 Pedro de Ribadeneira, Historia de la Asistencia de España, 5:12, cited in Astraín, Historia de la Compañía de Jesús en la Asistencia de España, 2:587. 109 Bonifacio, prologue to Comedia quae inscribitur Margarita, fol. 83r. 110 Epistvla ad Pisones, l. 333, in Horace, Epistles Book II and Epistle to the Pisones (‘Ars Poetica’), 69. 111 Castiglione, Il libro del cortegiano, 4.10, pp. 291–2. 112 Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, trans. Charles S. Singleton, 4.10, p. 294. Thanks to my colleague Patricia Phillippy for help with finding this reference. 113 Bonifacio, ‘interpres nepotianae’ after Actio quae inscribitur Nepotiana Gometius [sic], fol. 137r. 114 See Yanitelli, ‘Heir of the Renaissance.’ Another precursor of the Jesuit school drama may also be seen in earlier Spanish humanistic drama; see Canet Vallés, ‘La comedia humanística española y la filosofía moral.’ 115 A good study of this topic that does take into account the Spanish Jesuit contribution is Hermenegildo’s Los trágicos españoles del siglo XVI , especially the last section of chapter 2, ‘Las tragedias universitarias y de colegio,’ 118–40. 116 Roux, ‘Cent ans d’expérience théatrale,’ 515. 117 Ruggerio, ‘Some Jesuit Contributions to the Use of the Term “Comedia” in Spanish Dramaturgy,’ 201, 203. 118 Alexander Parker, ‘The Spanish Drama,’ 694. Spanish dramatists were not the only ones to have been trained by the Jesuits; famous French playwrights such as Molière as well as Thomas and Pièrre Corneille were also trained in the Jesuit schools (McCabe, ‘Jesuit Influence on National Drama,’ in An Introduction to the Jesuit Theatre, 296–8). For a specific example of the French playwright Racine’s Jansenist critique of Jesuit casuistry, see Calder, ‘Contrition, Casuistry and Phèdre’s Sense of Sin.’ 119 See ‘Mira de Amescua: Playwright-Priest,’ in the introduction to Huck, A

Notes to pages 23–5

120 121 122 123 124

125 126 127 128 129

130 131 132 133 134

135

136

137 138

139

213

Critical Edition of Mira de Amescua’s La tercera de sí misma, 15–20. Mira de Amescua attended the Colegio Imperial de San Miguel in Granada, where he received a doctorate in Cánones y Leyes (canons and laws). Sullivan, ‘Moral Probabilism and Casuistry in Spain during the Counter Reformation,’ 45–6. Orozco Díaz, ‘Sobre la teatralización del templo y la función religiosa en el Barroco,’ 176. Sullivan, ‘Tam clara et evidens,’ 130, 136. Ibid., 131. Pérez Pastor, ‘Testamento de D. Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1681),’ Document no. 188, in Documentos para la biografía de D. Pedro Calderón de la Barca, 1:387. Regalado, Calderón, 1:276. Caro Baroja, Teatro popular y magia, 15. Yanitelli, ‘Jesuit Education and the Jesuit Theatre,’ 135–6. Corbacho, Guía breve del Instituto San Isidro. See Hornedo, ‘A propósito de una fecha’ and ‘Lope y los jesuitas’; Millé y Giménez, ‘Lope de Vega, alumno de los jesuitas’; Cascón, ‘Fuentes jesuíticas en el teatro de Lope de Vega’; and González Gutiérrez, El teatro escolar de los jesuitas, 1555–1640, 290. Hornedo, ‘A propósito de una fecha,’ 75. Hornedo, ‘Lope y los jesuitas,’ 407. Millé y Giménez, ‘Lope de Vega, alumno de los jesuitas,’ 248. Ibid., 250. See Segura, ‘Calderón y la escenografía,’ 16 and 26; and Marcos Villanueva, ‘La formación ascética de Calderón,’ in La ascética de los jesuitas en los autos sacramentales de Calderón, 17–33. La Roche, Nouveaux documents quévédiens, 214. Luisa López Grigera confirms that Quevedo was educated by Jesuits in her Anotaciones de Quevedo a la Retórica de Aristóteles, 15. Segura, ‘Calderón y la escenografía,’ 17; Asenjo, ‘Introducción’ to his edition of La tragedia de San Hermenegildo y otras obras del teatro español de colegio, 1:37; and González Gutiérrez, El teatro escolar de los jesuitas, 292. See Quevedo y Villegas, Teatro inédito, and Cotarelo Valledor, El teatro de Quevedo. Juan de Pineda bore at least some relationship to several major Golden Age figures, including Lope de Vega, Góngora, and Quevedo. See his biographical sketch in Asenjo, ‘Introducción’ to his edition of La tragedia de San Hermenegildo y otras obras del teatro español de colegio, 1:51. Quevedo, ‘Respuesta al Padre Juan de Pineda,’ 1:804.

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Notes to pages 25–7

140 Quevedo, Vida del buscón don Pablos, 3.9, p. 266. 141 See Rodríguez Marín, Cervantes estudió en Sevilla (1564–1565), 28, with appended documentation from archival evidence. Although one of Cervantes’s biographers, Jean Canavaggio, does not accept this claim (Cervantes, 35), another well-respected scholar, Melveena McKendrick, does entertain it (Cervantes, 21). 142 All of these works appear in ms. 383, sig. 9/2564, of the Cortes Collection at the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. The manuscript bears the title Comœdiae dialogi & orationes q[ue] P. Açevedus sacerdos Soci[etatis] Iesu componebat. Its provenance indicates that it came from the Colegio de S. Ermenegildo in Seville. The dates appear on the following folios: Occasio (f. 230r), Philautus (f. 1r) and Charopus (f. 169r). 143 Dialogus feriis solemnibus corporis Christi (1564), Cortes Collection, Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, ms. 383, sig. 9/2564; n. 23, fols. 290r–8r. 144 García Soriano, El teatro universitario y humanístico, 54–5, n. 2. 145 Cervantes, El coloquio de los perros, 2:316. For a discussion of these passages, see Selig, ‘Cervantes and the Jesuits.’ 146 Cervantes, El coloquio de los perros, 2:316. 147 This poem of 705 verses was published as a suelta in Madrid in 1629 for the celebration and then republished in Lope de Vega’s La Vega del Parnaso, 220–8. 148 Lope de Vega, Isagoge a los Reales Estudios de la Compañía de Jesús, in La Vega del Parnaso, 226v. 149 These professors are mentioned on the following pages: Francisco de Mazedo (221r), Juan de Pineda (221v), Agustín de Castro (222r), Juan Perlín (223r), Juan Antonio Usón (223v), Juan Bautista Poza (224r, 226r), Eusebio Nieremberg (225r), and Francisco Ruiz (225v). 150 Isérn, San Ignacio y su obra en el Siglo de Oro, 107–9. For further discussion of Lope de Vega’s works honouring the Jesuits, see Hornedo, ‘Lope y los jesuitas,’ 411; Sirera, ‘Espectáculo y adoctrinamiento,’ 296–300; and Cascón, ‘Fuentes jesuíticas,’ 388–400. For references to the Jesuits in his other writings, see Hornedo, ‘Lope y los jesuitas,’ 413. For works by other playwrights honouring Saint Ignatius, see Elizalde, ‘San Ignacio de Loyola y el antiguo teatro jesuítico,’ 289–304; Isérn, San Ignacio y su obra en el Siglo de Oro; and Elizalde, San Ignacio en la literatura. 151 Segura, ‘Calderón y la escenografía,’ 24. 152 González Gutiérrez, El teatro escolar de los jesuitas, 240. 153 Segura, ‘Calderón y la escenografía,’ 27. Mira de Amescua’s poem ‘A las profecías de San Francisco Javier (Coplas de arte mayor)’ is reprinted in Isérn, San Ignacio y su obra en el Siglo de Oro, 124–5.

Notes to pages 27–9

215

154 These verses are reprinted in Tirso de Molina (Gabriel Téllez), Diálogos teológicos y otros versos diseminados, 207–8. 155 Segura, ‘Calderón y la escenografía,’ 27. His prize-winning poems ‘Penitencia de San Ignacio (Romance)’ and ‘Resucita San Francisco veinte y cinco muertos’ (Quintillas) are reprinted in Isérn, San Ignacio y su obra en el Siglo de Oro, 158–63. The same volume also contains two poems written by Calderón, at a much older age, for a literary contest held in 1671 in celebration of the canonization of Saint Francis of Borgia (he won first prize). These two poems are titled ‘A San Francisco de Borja (Canción)’ and ‘A San Francisco de Borja (Soneto)’ (Isérn, San Ignacio y su obra en el Siglo de Oro, 164–7). 156 Calderón de la Barca, El gran príncipe de Fez, 3.17, p. 353. All references to plays in this book will follow the format act.scene.line numbers, page numbers unless otherwise noted or unless scene or line numbers are not marked in the original. In this case, for example, there are no line numbers. 157 González Gutiérrez, El teatro escolar de los jesuitas, 293; Breisemeister, ‘Calderón y el teatro de los jesuitas en Munich e Ingolstadt,’ 29–36; and Groult, ‘Des Jésuites de Bavière aux arabes d’Andalousie, ou les sources du Burlador de Sevilla.’ 158 See González Gutiérrez, El teatro escolar de los jesuitas, 293. 159 Dawn Smith, introduction to her edition of La mujer que manda en casa, in Tirso de Molina, Obras completas, 365. 160 Hornedo, ‘Lope y los jesuitas,’ 422. 161 García Soriano, El teatro universitario y humanístico, 90. 162 Ximénez, Diálogo hecho en Sevilla, lines 2208–9, 1:380. 163 Bonifacio, Triumphus Eucharistiae, 4.3, fol. 216v. 164 Bonifacio, Triumphus Circuncisionis, fol. 31v. This play lacks division into acts or scenes. 165 Bonifacio, Tragicomedia Nabalis Carmelitides, act 4, fols 111v–16r. 166 Bonifacio, Triumphus Eucharistiae, 3.2, fols 212v–14r. 167 Guillermo Barçalo, prologue to Tragedia de divite epulone, Cortes Collection, Real Academia de la Historia, ms. 388, sig. 9/2569 (fols 110r–36r), fol. 110r; cited in González Gutiérrez, El teatro escolar de los jesuitas, 1555–1640, 228. 168 Pedro Pablo de Acevedo, letter from the year 1556, in Laínez, Monumenta historica Societatis Iesu, 4:627. For a study of audience reaction to Jesuit drama, see Aikin, ‘And They Changed Their Lives from That Very Hour.’ The Jesuits seem to have had a very different philosophy from that of medieval theorists of drama regarding the desirability of having penitent sinners in the audience. For several examples of medieval treatises that encouraged

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169 170

171 172 173 174 175 176

177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191

192

Notes to pages 29–33 penitents to stay away from the theatre, see Olson, ‘Plays as Play,’ especially 203–4. Pedro Pablo de Acevedo, letter from 1561, Laínez, Monumenta historica Societatis Iesu, 7:446. Words spoken by Asculto. Acevedo, ‘Prólogo’ to [Dialogus] in aduentu Regis [Philippi II], fol. 53v. All emphases in this and subsequent chapters are mine unless otherwise noted. Rodríguez, ‘choro segundo,’ end of act 1, De metodo studendi, fol. 225v. Bonifacio, Comoedia quae inscribitur Solomonia, 4.3, fol. 178r. Ibid., fol. 178v. Bonifacio, monologue for Don Gómez at the beginning of Actio quae inscribitur Nepotiana Gometius [sic], fol. 129r. Bonifacio, words of Don Gómez in Actio quae inscribitur Nepotiana Gometius [sic], 5.1, fol. 135v. There was some confusion over terminology in this time period, with Jesuits often being referred to erroneously as Theatines. See Millé y Giménez, ‘Lope de Vega, alumno de los jesuitas,’ and note 132, above. Rodríguez, ‘Entreacto’ performed before act 3, De methodo studendi, fol. 244v. Ibid., fol. 232r. Ibid., fol. 232v. León, Diálogo de la Fortuna, fol. 138r. This play bears no number. Ibid., fols 138r–v. Bonifacio, Comedia quae inscribitur Margarita, fol. 97v. Bonifacio, Actio quae inscribitur Nepotiana Gometius [sic], 5.4, fol. 136v. Ioseph, Iudithis tragoedia, fol. 354r. This commentary by the chorus on the various acts actually appears at the end of the play. Bonifacio, Comoedia quae inscribitur Solomonia, 4.3, fol. 178v. Ximénez, ‘Entreacto de rebentón’ (to be performed after act 2), in Diálogo hecho en Sevilla, 1:391. Rodríguez, De methodo studendi, 3.3, fol. 238r. León, ‘choro’ at the beginning of act 2, Triumpho del Sabio, fol. 19r. This small volume only contains one play and its accompanying sainete. León, Triumpho del Sabio, 2.2, fol. 24v. Rodríguez, ‘choro segundo,’ end of act 1, De methodo studendi, fol. 225r. Pineda and Rodríguez, ‘Entreacto’ for Dialogo de prestantissima scienciarum elligenda, fol. 194v. The word dubitans and its derivatives were common hallmarks of the tomes of casuistry: see Taylor’s Ductor dubitantium. Bonifacio, words of Ponoto, Actio quae inscribitur Nepotiana Gometius [sic], 1.3, fol. 130r.

Notes to pages 34–9

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193 In this vein, René Marlé contrasts the Jesuits with the Dominicans and notes the ramifications of this distinction in terms of their respective scholarly traditions: ‘L’enseignement moral des Dominicains est resté ... plus spéculatif et plus théologique ... Celui des Jésuites est plus immédiatement pratique’ (The moral teaching of the Dominicans remains ... more speculative and more theological ... that of the Jesuits is more immediately practical) ‘Casuistique et morales modernes de situation,’ 111. 194 Griffin, ‘Virtue versus Letters,’ 9. 195 Ibid. 196 Colloquio que se represento en Seuj.a delante del Ill.mo Cardenal Don R.o de Castro quando lo hizieron protector de la Anunciata, fol. 123v. 197 Historia Filerini, fol. 86r. 198 Bonifacio, Comoedia quae inscribitur Solomonia, fol. 183r. 199 Regnum Dei, fol. 119v. 200 Fülöp-Miller, ‘The Jesuit Theatre,’ 410. 201 Schnitzler, ‘The Jesuit Contribution to the Theatre,’ 283. 202 Gouhier, ‘Approches pascaliennes de la question “Technique et Casuistique,”’ 289. 203 This phrase was made popular by Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry. 204 Fülöp-Miller, ‘The Jesuit Theatre,’ 412. 205 Ibid., 414. 206 Ibid., 413. 207 Purdie, ‘Jesuit Drama,’ 510. 1. The Vocabulary of Casuistry 1 2 3 4 5

Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry, 142. Derrida, Of Grammatology, 167. Derrida, Positions, 26. Heble, ‘Trace,’ 647. Ibid., 647. Heble warns, however, that the comparison to the footprint ‘can serve only as a provisional analogy for the production of meaning in language’ (647). 6 Lukacher, Daemonic Figures, 7. 7 Oxford Latin Dictionary, ed. P.G.W. Glare, 284. A later Latin dictionary defines casus as ‘a casu, fortuito’ (by chance, fortuitously) (Du Cange [1610–88], Glossarium mediae et infimae latinitatis, 216). A church Latin dictionary defines the same word as ‘case, peril, chance, misfortune, happening, accident, emergency’ (Stelten, Dictionary of Ecclesiastical Latin, 37).

218

Notes to pages 39–43

8 The Latin text was translated into Spanish by Pero López de Ayala (1332– 1407) as Los acaecimientos & casos de la Fortuna que ovieron muchos principes & grandes señores and circulated in manuscript form (The Text and Concordance of Giovanni Boccaccio’s De casibus virorum illustrium, translated by Pero López de Ayala [HSA Ms. B1196], ed. Eric Naylor). An early modern English translation of this text was The tragedies, gathered by Ihon Bochas, of all such princes as fell from theyr estates throughe the mutability of fortune since the creacion of Adam, vntil his time. 9 Forcione, ‘Cervantes’s Secularized Miracle,’ 350. See also 394, n. 133, in which Forcione calls the Kasus ‘the quintessential literary form of the ironic mentality.’ In the same note he describes ‘the openness or equipoise that characterizes the Kasus and its unsettling effects on the reader, who must reexamine his “hierarchy of norms.”’ On the genre of Kasus, see Jolles, Einfache Formen, 171–99. On the relation of the literary genre of Kasus to the religious phenomenon of casuistry, see especially 197–9. It is Jolles whom Forcione translates with the phrase ‘hierarchy of norms.’ 10 Covarrubias Orozco, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española, 282. 11 Calderón de la Barca, Los empeños de un acaso, 2.5, p. 202. All translations and emphases in this and subsequent chapters are mine unless otherwise noted. 12 Lope de Vega, La primera información, act 1, p. 326. 13 Álvarez, ‘El probabilismo y el teatro español del siglo XVII,’ 238. 14 Ibid., 254. 15 Ibid., 250. 16 Regalado, Calderón, 1:171, 225. 17 Moreto, La fuerza de la ley, 3.18, p. 100. 18 Alarcón, Don Domingo de Don Blas, act 3, l. 2227, p. 95. 19 Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 2.4.1600, p. 71. 20 Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, ll. 542–3, p. 472. 21 Ibid., act 1, l. 675, p. 476. 22 Moreto, La misma conciencia acusa, 1.9, p. 105. 23 Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, l. 916, p. 482; act 2, ll. 1969–70, p. 511. 24 Moreto, La misma conciencia acusa, 3.5, p. 115. 25 Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 1.10, p. 26. 26 Ibid., 2.3, p. 30. 27 Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, ll. 154–7, p. 462. 28 Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 1.7, p. 343. 29 Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, l. 179, 190, p. 463; act 2, l. 1348, p. 494. 30 Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 2.3.1387–8, p. 62. 31 Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 3, l. 2910, p. 537.

Notes to pages 43–51 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64

219

Ibid., act 2, l. 1577, p. 500. Alarcón, Quien mal anda en mal acaba, 3.6, p. 224. Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 2.10.2013–14, p. 87. Rojas Zorrilla, Del rey abajo, ninguno, act 3, p. 12. Moreto, La misma conciencia acusa, 3.3, p. 115. Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 3.17, p. 41. Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 1.10, p. 344. Ibid., 1.12, p. 345. Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, ll. 119–21, p. 461. Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 1.10, p. 26. Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 1.11, p. 344. Ibid., 1.12, p. 345. Ibid., 2.8, pp. 350, 349. Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, ll. 883–5, p. 482. Ibid., act 1, ll. 892–906, p. 482. Ibid., act 2, ll. 1390–5, p. 495. Lope de Vega, El animal profeta, act 3, p. 220. Lope de Vega, El animal profeta, act 3, p. 220. For a discussion of Aquinas’s position on vincible vs. invincible ignorance and how that position was adopted or refuted by later casuists, see Mahoney, The Making of Moral Theology, 192–3. Basically Aquinas made a distinction between ‘ignorance which is vincible, and which is therefore blameworthy since it can be overcome and corrected, and ignorance which is invincible and therefore guiltless,’ 193. Lope de Vega, El animal profeta, act 3, p. 220. Ibid., act 3, p. 220. Ibid., act 3, pp. 222, 220. Ibid., act 3, p. 223. Ibid., act 1, p. 188. Ibid., act 3, p. 212. For the context of this debate and its consequences for casuistry, see Lermeño, ‘Banned and Confiscated Books of the Jesuits,’ 93–6. Lope de Vega, El animal profeta, act 1, p. 188. Ibid., act 1, p. 188. Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 3, ll. 3056–60, p. 541. Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana, 9. Castillejo, Guía de ochocientas comedias del Siglo de Oro, 575. Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 3, l. 2313, p. 520. Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 2.2.1281–4, p. 58.

220

Notes to pages 51–7

65 See Derrida, ‘Structure, Sign and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences,’ 292. 66 Cervantes, La gran sultana, act 3, ll. 2647–50, p. 447. 67 David Castillejo notes that some scholars believe Calderón only wrote the second act of this play (Guía de ochocientas comedias del Siglo de Oro, 566). 68 Regalado, Calderón, 1:491. 69 Teatro Español del Siglo de Oro database (Proquest). 70 Lope de Vega, El animal profeta, act 1, p. 194. 71 Ibid., act 1, p. 195. 72 Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 1.1.257, 265–8, p. 14. 73 Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 2, ll. 1879–80, p. 508. 74 Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 1.19.3490–3, pp. 151–2. 75 Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 1.9, p. 344. 76 Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana, 282. 77 Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 2.8, p. 32. 78 Castro, Las mocedades del Cid, act 2, ll. 992–3, p. 53. 79 Plata, ‘On Love and Occasion.’ 80 See Lope de Vega, La ocasión perdida. 81 For a discussion of this valence of ‘occasion’ as a form of pretence or excuse, see Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 197–8. 82 Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, ll. 50, 58–9, p. 459. 83 Alarcón, Don Domingo de Don Blas, act 2, ll. 1787–8, p. 80. 84 Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 2.3.1364, p. 61. 85 Ibid., 2.5.1662–3, p. 74. 86 Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 1.8, p. 343. 87 Alarcón, El dueño de las estrellas, 3.3, p. 278. 88 Calderón de la Barca, La dama duende, act 3, ll. 2843–50, p. 155. 89 Teatro Español del Siglo de Oro database (Proquest). 90 Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 1.10.859–60, p. 40. 91 For a modern adaptation of this casuistical concept, see the Argentinian novel by Saer, La ocasión. This novel was first brought to my attention by Fernando Plata. 92 Sloman, The Dramatic Craftsmanship of Calderón, 302. 93 Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid, ms. 18.142 (dated 1636). George Ann Huck thinks this play may be by Mira de Amescua, although Cotarelo disagrees (see Huck’s Introduction to A Critical Edition of Mira de Amescua’s La tercera de sí misma, 23). 94 Another work with a similar title is Juan Ruiz de Alarcón’s Los empeños de un engaño. 95 Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, ll. 58–9, p. 459.

Notes to pages 57–66

221

96 Alarcón, Don Domingo de Don Blas, act 1, ll. 221–4, p. 32. 97 Ibid., act 2, ll. 983–4, p. 56. For a discussion of the casuistical concept of ‘necessity,’ see Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 198. 98 Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 2.5.1748–51, p. 78. 99 Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 2.8, p. 32. 100 Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 1.9, p. 344. 101 Calderón, El alcalde de Zalamea, act 2, ll. 882–4, p. 256. 102 Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 3.3, p. 37. 103 Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 2, ll. 1543–5, p. 499. 104 Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 2.6, p. 31. 105 Ibid., 3.3, p. 37. 106 Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 91. 107 Ibid., 111. 108 Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 3.17, p. 357. 109 Ibid., 3.18, p. 357. 110 Alarcón, Don Domingo de Don Blas, act 2, l. 1603, p. 75. 111 Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 1.9, p. 343. 112 On this concept in the context of English casuistry, see Mosse, The Holy Pretence. 113 Calderón, A Dios por razón de estado, p. 869. 114 Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 3.3, p. 352. 115 Ibid., 3.12, p. 355. 116 Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 1.4, p. 24. For a discussion of the passions vis-à-vis reason of state, see chapter 24 of Regalado, Calderón, 1:801–3. 117 Tirso de Molina, Amar por señas, 1.9, p. 466. 118 Derrida, Of Grammatology, 61. 119 Ibid. 120 Ibid. 121 Gasché, Inventions of Difference, 45. 2. ‘¿Qué he de hacer?’ / ‘What should I do?’ 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Miller, Casuistry and Modern Ethics, 32. Harvey, Derrida and the Economy of Différance, 164. Derrida, Of Grammatology, 63. Ibid., 65. Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry, 20. Dueñas, Remedio de peccadores, 59. Tirso de Molina, El burlador de Sevilla , act 1, p. 167. Tirso de Molina, Don Gil de las calzas verdes, act 2, ll. 1421–2, p. 184.

222

Notes to pages 66–71

9 Lope de Vega, El castigo sin venganza, act 3, ll. 2103–5, p. 328. 10 Calderón de la Barca, El médico de su honra, act 2, l. 1160, p. 130; act 3, l. 2391, p. 188; act 3, l. 2792, p. 207. Alexander Parker explains the process of the king’s casuistical reasoning (although he does not use that term) in ‘El médico de su honra as Tragedy,’ 14. Miguel Álvarez makes a convincing case for a probabilistic reading of this play, with Don Gutierre acting as the prototypical ‘personaje rigorista,’ in his dissertation ‘El probabilismo y el teatro español del siglo XVII,’ 79–92. Antonio Regalado offers a detailed probabilistic reading of Don Gutierre’s monologue, considering it so dialogical as to merit the term ‘monodialogue’: El armazón del monólogo de Gutierre en El médico de su honra queda constituido por una transposición de la retórica judicial (genus judiciale), en sí dialéctica, al interior de la conciencia de un solo personaje, de ahí que se configure como un monodiálago y una dialéctica de la conciencia basada en la búsqueda de pruebas ciertas por medio de probabilidades y conjeturas. (The framework of Gutierre’s monologue in El médico de su honra is constituted by a transposition of judicial rhetoric [genus judiciale], dialectical in itself, to the interior of the conscience of one single character; from that it is configured as a monodialogue and a dialectic of conscience based on the search for certain proofs by means of probabilities and conjectures.) (Calderón, 1:297)

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

In this reading, Calderón’s great achievement rests in ‘habiendo transformado el monólogo teatral en vehículo de la dialéctica de la conciencia’ (having transformed the theatrical monologue into a vehicle for the dialectic of conscience) (Regalado, Calderón, 1:365). Mira de Amescua, No hay dicha ni desdicha hasta la muerte, act 2, p. 45. Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 1.15, p. 28. Moreto, Antíoco y Seleuco, 3.8, p. 53. Vélez de Guevara, Reinar después de morir, act 2, ll. 423–9, p. 60. Calderón, Eco y Narciso, act 3, l. 2243, p. 50. Ibid., act 3, ll. 2246–53, p. 51. Huck, A Critical Edition of Mira de Amescua’s La tercera de sí misma, act 1, ll. 477–86, p. 62. Ibid., act 2, ll. 1524–6, 1546–7, p. 95. Ibid., act 1, ll. 597–600, p. 66. Brink, ‘Moral Conflict and Its Structure,’ 106. Lope de Vega (attributed), La estrella de Sevilla, 2.5, p. 143.

Notes to pages 71–84 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32

33 34 35 36 37 38 39

40 41 42 43 44

223

Ibid., 3.9, p. 151. Ibid., 3.17, p. 153; 3.18, p. 153. Ibid., 2.13, p. 146. Ibid., 3.10, p. 151. Ibid., 3.16, p. 152. David Castillejo, following Morley, does not believe Lope wrote this play (Guía de ochocientas comedias del Siglo de Oro, 219); but for our purposes, it does not matter who wrote it, as long as it was written during this period. Tirso de Molina, Cómo han de ser los amigos, 2.2.89–118, p. 191. Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 3.11, p. 355. Tirso de Molina, Cómo han de ser los amigos, 3.14.862–74, p. 218. H.E. Mason, ‘Responsibilities and Principles: Reflections on the Sources of Moral Dilemmas,’ in Mason, ed., Moral Dilemmas and Moral Theory, 229. This choice has received critiques from places as far-flung as the realm of Shakespeare scholarship. At one point, comparing Antigone to Measure for Measure, Melvin Seiden takes the occasion to comment: ‘There is something almost childish about the way in which Antigone tries to calculate life’s odds. This is Benthamite utilitarianism of the sort that Dostoevski’s underground man scorns so vehemently, this attempt, we might say, to put a price on children, husbands, brothers. Or, looking at Antigone’s moral arithmetic in the light of game theory, we might describe her calculation in terms of the minimax principle: because the loss of her brother is a maximum loss ... she is willing to take an equivalently maximalist risk’ (Measure for Measure: Casuistry and Artistry, 168). Calderón, Con quien vengo, vengo, 3.22, p. 252. Ibid., 3.21, p. 252. Ibid., 3.26, p. 253. Castro, Las mocedades del Cid, act 1, ll. 359, 399–410, 419–23, 428, pp. 21, 23–4. Alarcón, Los favores del mundo, 1.10, p. 5. Calderón, La estatua de Prometeo, act 1, ll. 724–47, p. 262. For a good study of casuistry in this play, see Regalado, Calderón, 2:367–9. Calderón, La estatua de Prometeo, act 2, ll. 84–6, p. 272. John Elliott believes this notion of obedience may find its roots in Golden Age neo-Stoicism (private correspondence, 21 March 2005). Calderón, La estatua de Prometeo, act 2, ll. 388–9, p. 283. Ibid., act 3, ll. 1048–58, p. 334. Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 3.15, p. 356. Moreto, La fuerza de la ley, 1.8, p. 85. Ibid.

224 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66 67

68 69 70

71 72

Notes to pages 84–94

Ibid., 2.4, p. 89. Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 3.12, p. 355. Moreto, La misma conciencia acusa, 3.9, p. 118. Ibid. Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 2.5, p. 348. Alarcón, Don Domingo de Don Blas, act 3, ll. 2162–3, p. 93. Noydens, Práctica de curas, 171. Calderón, La vida es sueño, act 1, ll. 405–12; 427–37; 457–60; pp. 41–3. Noydens, Práctica de curas, 322. Rojas Zorrilla, Del rey abajo, ninguno, act 3, p. 12. Calderón, Amigo, amante y leal, 2.7, p. 564. Regalado, Calderón, 2:520. Castro, ‘Algunas observaciones,’ p. 33. Ibid., 34. Sor Juana, Los empeños de una casa, act 3, ll. 113–28, pp. 193–4. Noydens, Práctica de curas, 85. Sor Juana, Los empeños de una casa, act 2, ll. 867–79, p. 180. Noydens, Práctica de curas, 194. Such as the Arte para bien confesar (Zaragoza, ca. 1500); for this example, see chapter 18. See also Alva, Confessionario mayor, y menor, 26; or López de Alvarado, Breve compendio de confession, 9. Caro, Valor, agravio y mujer, act 2, ll. 1806–14;1819–38; pp. 143–4. Noydens, Práctica de curas, 120. Ibid., 477. Parker, ‘El médico de su honra as Tragedy,’ 21. For another critic who uses the term ‘double bind,’ see Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 199. The ‘double bind’ involving two courses of action should be distinguished from the ‘double doubt’ concerning a single act. Edmund Leites defines the ‘double doubt’ as a moral case in which ‘the same act was both required and forbidden, both a duty and a sin’ (‘Casuistry and Character,’ 126). Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry, 312, 95. Siebers, Morals and Stories, 202. See the following representative sampling: Ibsch, ‘Der Holocaust im literarischen Experiment’; Eskin, ‘The Rhetorical Double-Bind’; Feal, ‘Feminism and Afro-Hispanism’; Britt, Conceiving Normalcy; Gracyk, ‘What Goes On: The Double-Bind of Theorizing Rock’; Valente, ‘“Neither Fish nor Flesh”: or, How “Cyclops” Stages the Double-Bind of Irish Manhood’; and Treacy, ‘Double Binds.’ Calderón, El médico de su honra, act 3, ll. 2410–13, p. 189. Calderón, La dama duende, act 2, ll. 1405–11, p. 103.

Notes to pages 94–107 73 74 75 76

77 78 79 80 81 82

83 84 85 86 87 88

89 90 91 92 93 94 95

96 97 98

225

Calderón, La dama duende, act 2, ll. 1489–93, p. 106. Ibid., act 2, ll. 1546–56, p. 108. Ibid., act 3, ll. 2843–50, p. 155. Margaret Greer quotes this passage and describes Manuel’s resolution of the problem: ‘After debating this quandary for which he finds no reasonable solution, he resorts again to reflex action dictated by noble chivalry’ (‘The [Self] Representation of Control in La dama duende,’ 102). Calderón, La dama duende, act 3, ll. 3007–32, pp. 161–2. Castro, Las mocedades del Cid, act 1, ll. 518–21, 526–9, pp. 29–30. Ibid., act 1, ll. 720–1, p. 38. Ibid., act 1, ll. 736–7, p. 39. Ibid., act 1, ll. 534–41, p. 30. Ibid., act 1, ll. 740–1, p. 39. This same metaphor of a scale or balance is found in Cervantes’s El laberinto de amor, where Julia laments: ‘¡Ay de mí, cómo me veo, / puesta en dudosa balanza’ (Oh me, how I see myself / placed in dubious balance) (act 3, ll. 2057–8, p. 513). Castro, Las mocedades del Cid, act 1, ll. 554–5, p. 31. Moreto, La fuerza de la ley, 2.7, p. 91. Ibid., act 2, p. 93. Ibid., act 3, p. 99. Lope de Vega, El castigo sin venganza, act 3, ll. 2866–85; 2897–901; 2906–12; pp. 360–3. Parker comments on the range of potential audience responses to the Duke’s dilemma: ‘At the end we sympathize with the duke because he faces unflinchingly a tragic duty, or condemn him as hypocritical when he claims to suppress all personal vindictiveness in order to act solely as God’s minister’ (‘The Spanish Drama of the Golden Age,’ 698). Noydens, Práctica de curas, 122. Cruz, Norte de confessores y penitentes, 105r. Álvarez, ‘El probabilismo y el teatro español del siglo XVII,’ 253, 313. See Fish, ‘Between the Man and the Masks’; and Shaw, ‘Masks of the Unconscious.’ McQuade, ‘Casuistry and Tragedy,’ 19. Sabat de Rivers, ‘Veintiún sonetos de Sor Juana y su casuística del amor,’ 430. For a useful discussion of this debate, with the conclusion that tragedy did in fact exist on the stage in Golden Age Spain, see Hermenegildo, La tragedia en el Renacimiento español, and his Los trágicos españoles del siglo XVI. Harvey, Derrida and the Economy of Différance, 175. Ibid. Ibid., 176.

226

Notes to pages 107–13

99 On the dialogical nature of casuistry, see chapter 8, ‘The Dialectics of Casuistry,’ in Long, Conscience and Compromise, 82–90. 3. Asking for Advice: Class, Gender, and the Supernatural 1 2 3 4

5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Levinas, ‘The Trace of the Other,’ 356. Ibid., 357. Harvey, Derrida and the Economy of Différance, 173. Álvarez, El probabilismo y el teatro español, 252. Álvarez goes on to claim that most theatrical works, however, do not in fact exhibit this pattern, giving as a reason that asking for advice in cases of honour would by definition shatter the integrity of the character’s public persona: ‘En la mayoría de las obras de teatro no se da, ya que al tratarse de casos de honra y celos, la simple consulta vendría ya en descrédito y deshonor del propio consultante’ (In the majority of theatrical works it is not given, since in cases of honour and jealousy, the simple consultation would already redound to the discredit and dishonour of the person asking advice) (253). Álvarez prefers instead to emphasize the importance of the dramatic monologue for casuistical comedias: ‘Ante esta imposibilidad, al personaje dramático no le queda otra alternativa que refugiarse en su interior, en su soledad, en su angustia mental’ (Faced with this impossibility, there remains no other alternative to the dramatic character than to take refuge in his interior, in his solitude, in his mental anguish) (253). This conclusion is simply not borne out by my evidence. As Álvarez himself admits, his study is limited to only a few plays (and he was working before the time of computer-assisted research). While the dramatic monologue is certainly important for casuistry in the comedia, scenes of advice-giving and receiving are perhaps equally so, given the inherently dialogical form of casuistry and the credence it lends to the search for multiple opinions about the desired outcome of any specific case. Long, Conscience and Compromise, 82. Lope de Vega, El animal profeta, act 2, p. 202. Ibid., act 2, p. 208. Calderón, La dama duende, Jornada primera, ll. 1044–62, p. 89. For scenes of advice-giving in a different genre of early Spanish literature, see Piccus, ‘Consejos y consejeros en el Libro del Cauallero Zifar.’ Calderón, La dama duende, act 2, ll. 1367–70, p. 102. Hammond, Conscience and Its Recovery, 6, 90. Ibid., 49. Ibid., 61. Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 8.

Notes to pages 113–22 15 16 17 18 19 20

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

43 44

227

Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, ll. 150–1, p. 462. Castro, Las mocedades del Cid, act 1, ll. 272, 274, 278–81, p. 17. Ibid., act 1, l. 293, p. 18. For a discussion of reason of state in a casuistical context with relation to the dramatist Calderón, see chapter 24 of Regalado, Calderón, 1:801–42. Moreto, La fuerza de la ley, in Comedias escogidas, 2.1, p. 88. On the role of the casuistical female servant and her advice to the heroine in this play, see Calder, ‘Contrition, Casuistry and Phèdre’s Sense of Sin.’ To my knowledge, there has been no general study of casuistry in neoclassical French literature, although such a study is much to be desired. Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 2, ll. 1006–7, p. 485. Huck, A Critical Edition of Mira de Amescua’s La tercera de sí misma, act 1, ll. 22–6, p. 49. Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 3.3, p. 37. Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, ll. 684–5, p. 476. Ibid., act 3, l. 2191, p. 516. Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 1.7, p. 25. Calderón, El médico de su honra, act 2, ll. 1795–8; 1804–5, p. 160. Ibid., act 2, ll. 1264–9, p. 135. Tirso de Molina, El burlador de Sevilla, act 1, p. 171. Ibid., act 2, p. 193. Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 2.4, p. 30. Calderón, Los encantos de la culpa, p. 407. Ibid., p. 409. Milton, Samson Agonistes, ll. 198–9, p. 556. Ibid., ll. 1044–5, p. 576. Slights, ‘A Hero of Conscience,’ 398. Perkins, A Discourse of Conscience, 78. Slights, ‘A Hero of Conscience,’ 398. Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 3.15, p. 356. Moreto, La fuerza de la ley, act 2, p. 93. Calderón, Los empeños de un acaso, 1.4, p. 194. On the doctrine of equivocation as practised by covert Jesuits in England in the sixteenth century, see A Treatise of Equivocation , ed. David Jardine. This is a nineteenth-century edition of an anonymous manuscript in the Bodleian Library at Oxford. On the doctrine of equivocation in early modern English drama, see Huntley, ‘Macbeth and the Background of Jesuitical Equivocation.’ Sloman, The Dramatic Craftsmanship of Calderón, 300. Calderón, La dama duende, act 3, ll. 3007–8, p. 161.

228 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80

Notes to pages 122–39

Regalado, Calderón, 1:299. Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 224. Lope de Vega, El laberinto de Creta, act 2, p. 74. Matthew 14:29. Moreto, La fuerza de la ley, 2.1, p. 88. Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 3, ll. 2421–8, pp. 522–3. Calderón, El alcalde de Zalamea, act 2, l. 847, p. 253. Tirso de Molina, Quien da luego, da dos veces, 2.2.68–74, p. 304. Moreto, La misma conciencia acusa, 2.8–9, pp. 111–12. Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, ll. 506–7, p. 471. Ibid., act 2, ll. 1899–902, p. 509. Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 2.8.1982–94, p. 86. Ibid., 2.12.2129–40, pp. 92–3. Ibid., 2.12.2167–8, p. 93. Alarcón, Quien mal anda en mal acaba, 1.6, p. 212. McQuade, ‘Casuistry and Tragedy,’ 20. Hammond, Conscience and Its Recovery, 102. For a discussion of this question as it relates to English Renaissance drama, see McQuade, ‘Casuistry and Tragedy,’ 91–107. Thanks to my research assistant Lauren Baird Henry for generating these statistics. Gray, Men Are from Mars. Calderón, La vida es sueño, act 2, ll. 1816–27; 1854–83; pp. 87–8. Arte para bien confesar, chapter 16. See also Córdoba, Tratado de casos de consciencia, 123. Noydens, Práctica de curas, 119. Cruz, Norte de confessores, 107r. Noydens, Práctica de curas, 119. Cruz, Norte de confessores, 99r. Calderón, El alcalde de Zalamea, Tercera jornada, ll. 39–65, p. 259. Arte para bien confesar, chapter 16. Ibid., chapter 23. Alva, Confessionario mayor, y menor, 22v–3r. Regalado, Calderón, 2:523. Alarcón, Don Domingo de Don Blas, act 1, ll. 327–50, p. 36. Thanks to Fernando Plata for consultation on this translation. On the doctrine of equivocation, see note 42, above. Alarcón, Don Domingo de Don Blas, act 3, ll. 2403–13, p. 99. Alarcón, La industria y la suerte, 3.8, p. 38. Lope de Vega, El castigo sin venganza, act 2, ll. 1836–58, pp. 315–16.

Notes to pages 139–45

229

81 Álvarez, ‘El probabilismo y el teatro español,’ 301, 303. 82 See Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry. 83 For a similar casuistical treatment of incest, see Arte para bien confesar, chapters 4, 16, and 23. 84 Noydens, Práctica de curas, 123. 85 Alva, Confessionario mayor, y menor, 22v. 86 Ibid. 87 See Arte para bien confesar (ca. 1500), chapter 28; Alva, Confessionario mayor, y menor, 22v; Cruz, Norte de confessores, 99v, 103r–v. 88 Cruz, Norte de confessores, 102v. 89 Ibid. 90 See Houle, ‘“L’Heure du berger sonne.”’ 91 See Perella, ‘Amarilli’s Dilemma.’ 92 Hammond, Conscience and Its Recovery, 115. 93 Tirso de Molina, Doña Beatriz de Silva, act 2, ll. 1475–7, p. 926. 94 There were, of course, notable exceptions to this rule, such as Ana Caro and Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. 95 Tirso de Molina, Palabras y plumas, act 3, p. 106. 96 Derrida, Of Grammatology, 71. 97 Ibid., 73. 98 Ibid. 99 Ibid., 75. 100 Lucy, A Derrida Dictionary, 145. 101 Gasché, Inventions of Difference, 45. 102 Harvey, Derrida and the Economy of Différance, 166. 4. Constructions of Conscience 1 Loyola, Ejercicios espirituales, 1. 2 Rothe, Theologische Ethik, 3:365. Thanks to Udo Vullhorst for assistance with this translation. 3 Hammond, Conscience and Its Recovery, 1. 4 Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 5. 5 Tillich, Morality and Beyond, 65. 6 Hammond, Conscience and Its Recovery, 129. 7 Foucault, ‘Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,’ 139. 8 Ibid., 140. Foucault quotes Nietzsche, The Gay Science and Human, All Too Human. 9 Nietzsche, ‘“Guilt,” “Bad Conscience,” and the Like,’ 76–81. 10 Sax, ‘Foucault, Nietzsche, History,’ 771.

230

Notes to pages 145–52

11 Regalado, Calderón, 1:171, 298–9. 12 Mahoney, The Making of Moral Theology, 185. 13 Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry, 135. Jonsen and Toulmin refer in fact to the ‘tyranny of principles’ and propose the resurrection of casuistry as a way to avoid said tyranny (5). 14 Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 59. 15 Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española, 341. 16 On the intentions and decisions preceding the action of sin, see Del Río Parra, ‘Sacerdotes contrahechos y bautismo de locos.’ 17 Foucault, ‘The Repressive Hypothesis,’ 19. 18 Tillich, Morality and Beyond, 70. 19 Similar studies have been done for English Renaissance drama; see, for example, Lukacher, Daemonic Figures. 20 Tillich, Morality and Beyond, 65. 21 Lope de Vega, El divino africano, act 1, p. 329. 22 Lope de Vega, El secretario de sí mismo, act 3, p. 89. 23 Tirso de Molina, Marta la piadosa, 1.16, p. 370. 24 Calderón, La cisma de Inglaterra, act 2, ll. 1829–38, p. 148. 25 Moreto, La cavtela en la amistad, act 1, ll. 196–7, p. 314. 26 Calderón, La desdicha de la voz, act 1, ll. 348–50, p. 13. 27 Godínez, Las lágrimas de David, act 2, ll. 1121–4, p. 84. 28 In most Renaissance formulations, a conscience without scruples is thought to be ‘seared’ or defective. See Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 53. 29 Mira de Amescua, El arpa de David, act 3, ll. 3239–40, p. 115. 30 Diamante, El defensor de el Peñón, act 3, ll. 276–8, p. 29. Digitized in Teatro Español del Siglo de Oro. A similar example appears in Calderón’s El mágico prodigioso: ‘no quiero / encargar yo mi conciencia’ (I do not want / to weigh down my conscience), act 2, ll. 118–19, p. 162. 31 Mira de Amescua, ‘El mártir de Madrid,’ act 1, ll. 796–7, p. 102. 32 Cervantes, Pedro de Urdemalas, act 1, ll. 51–5, p. 257. 33 Lope de Vega, El Argel fingido, act 2, ll. 1100–2, p. 106. 34 Tirso de Molina, Entremés famoso: La malcontenta, 741. 35 Rueda, El matón cobarde, 152. 36 Lope de Vega, La serrana de Tormes, act 3, p. 205. 37 Calderón, La cisma de Inglaterra, act 2, ll. 1794–6, p. 146. 38 Lope de Vega, El verdadero amante, act 3, p. 172. 39 Mira de Amescua, ‘La rueda de la fortuna,’ act 1, ll. 863–8, p. 129. 40 Lope de Vega, Lo que hay que fiar del mundo, 2.21.1974–5, p. 139. 41 Cervantes El rufián dichoso, act 2, ll. 1463–5, p. 187. 42 Lukacher, Daemonic Figures, 195, 43, 146. He cites, as a contemporaneous intertext for Shakespeare’s imagery, Jeremy Taylor’s Ductor dubitantium.

Notes to pages 152–9

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43 This is only one of some twenty references to conscience in the New Testament (Mahoney, The Making of Moral Theology, 185). 44 Bocanegra, Comedia de San Francisco de Borja, act 1, p. 51. 45 Calderón, Llamados y escogidos, ll. 1211–12, p. 116. 46 Lope de Vega, Loa: Mvertes enojos, agrauios, ll. 54–6. 47 Castro, Cuánto se estima el honor, act 2, vol. 2, p. 111. 48 Mira de Amescua, Ruy López de Avalos, act 2, ll. 978–81, p. 99. 49 Moreto, La cavtela en la amistad, act 2, ll. 673–8, p. 331. 50 Lope de Vega, El mejor mozo de España, act 1, ll. 400–1, p. 50. 51 Lope de Vega, El verdadero amante, act 3, p. 167. 52 Bocanegra, Comedia de San Francisco de Borja, act 2, p. 64. 53 Lope de Vega, La corona merecida, act 1, p. 641. 54 Moreto, La cavtela en la amistad, act 2, l. 808, p. 333. 55 Lope de Vega, La fuerza lastimosa, act 3, p. 382. 56 Cervantes, El trato de Argel, act 4, l. 2147, p. 905. 57 Lope de Vega, La boda entre dos maridos, act 3, p. 577. This possible action of conscience is an allusion to Romans 2:15. 58 Castro, La piedad en la justicia, act 1, vol. 3, pp. 121–2. 59 Calderón, La cisma de Inglaterra, act 2, ll. 1699–1700, p. 143. 60 Pérez de Montalbán, La monja alférez, act 1. 61 Pérez de Montalbán, Los amantes de Teruel, act 2, ll. 211–12, p. 247. 62 Castro, La piedad en la justicia, act 2, p. 142. 63 Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 101. 64 Quiñones de Benavente, Entremés cantado: Las manos y cuajares. 65 Tirso de Molina, Don Gil de las calzas verdes, 3.2.2222–3, p. 236. 66 Matos Fragoso, Callar siempre es lo mejor, act 3, p. 313. 67 Lope de Vega, El hijo de la iglesia, 110. 68 Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 101. 69 Claramonte, Púsoseme el sol, salióme la luna, act 1, ll. 858–9, p. 90. 70 Lope de Vega, El amigo por fuerça, act 1, ll. 434–6. 71 Lope de Vega, Santa Teresa de Jesús, act 3, p. 291. 72 Lope de Vega, El castigo sin venganza, act 3, ll. 2910–12, pp. 362–3. 73 In ‘In the Penal Colony,’ Franz Kafka imagines a gigantic machine that tortures criminals by writing their crimes on their bodies as it makes painstakingly slow incisions into their flesh (in The Penal Colony, 197). In contemporaneous texts from the English Renaissance, conscience is seen not so much as a scribe, but instead as a text – a text that is at once characterized as authorless and impenetrable (Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 105). 74 Lope de Vega, La nueva victoria del marqués de Santa Cruz, act 1, p. 4. 75 Castro, El Conde Alarcos, act 2, p. 466. 76 Calderón, La inmunidad del sagrado, p. 1120.

232

Notes to pages 159–64

77 Lope de Vega, Los torneos de Aragón, act 2, ll. 467–8, p. 142. In Shakespeare’s Henry VIII, the conscience is also described as soft, but this time with distinctly sexual connotations. For a discussion of the relevant passages, see Lukacher, Daemonic Figures, 214. 78 Lope de Vega, El Cardenal de Belén, act 2, ll. 792–3, p. 94. 79 Lukacher, Daemonic Figures, 197. 80 Moreto, La misma conciencia acusa, 3.18, p. 120. This image, again, is derived from Romans 2:15. 81 For a discussion of the Medusan gaze of conscience, see Gallagher’s aptly titled Medusa’s Gaze, 242. 82 Castro, La piedad en la justicia, act 1, p. 128. 83 Calderón, La fiera, el rayo y la piedra, act 1, ll. 607–8, p. 183. 84 Calderón, ¿Quién hallará mujer fuerte? ll. 832–3, p. 102. 85 Slights, The Casuistical Tradition, 20. 86 Tillich, ‘The Transmoral Conscience,’ in Morality and Beyond, 66. 87 Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 240, 80. 88 Lukacher, Daemonic Figures, 12. 89 Ricoeur, ‘The Impasse of Guilt,’ 145. 90 Lukacher, Daemonic Figures, 125, 116. 91 Castro, El nacimiento de Montesinos, act 3, p. 408. 92 See Lukacher, Daemonic Figures, 204. 93 Godínez, Los trabajos de Job, act 3, ll. 1792–4, p. 214. 94 Lope de Vega, El príncipe despeñado, act 3, ll. 2404–5, p. 186. 95 Mira de Amescua, El esclavo del demonio, act 1, ll. 711–12, p. 83. 96 Calderón, loa for the auto sacramental, El pleyto matrimonial, ll. 412–14, p. 43. 97 Shakespeare, Henry V, 4.1.179–80, p. 957. 98 Lope de Vega, El animal de Vngria, act 3, ll. 400–2. 99 Tirso de Molina, La Santa Juana, segunda parte, act 1, ll. 561–4, p. 84. 100 Pérez de Montalbán, El hijo del serafín, San Pedro de Alcántara, ll. 162–3, p. 37. 101 On the divine right of kings, see Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, 80. 102 Moreto, El Christo de los milagros, act 1, ll. 274–81, p. 70. 103 Calderón, loa for the auto sacramental, La cura, y la enfermedad, ll. 257–8, p. 193. 104 Cervantes, El rufián dichoso, act 2, ll. 1935–9, p. 208. 105 Lope de Vega, El despertar á quien duerme, 1.1, p. 345. 106 Cervantes, El gallardo español, act 1, ll. 1078–9, p. 47. 107 Calderón, Los tres mayores prodigios, act 3, p. 1584. 108 Rojas Zorrilla, La traición busca el castigo, act 1, p. 235. 109 On the problematic relationships among these concepts, see Jones,

Notes to pages 164–9

110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135

136 137 138 139 140 141

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‘Honour in the Spanish Golden-Age Drama’ and Chauchadis, Honneur, morale et société dans l’Espagne de Philippe II, especially 45–95. Cervantes, Los baños de Argel, act 2, ll. 1160–1, p. 226. Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 110. Ibid., 112. Ibid., 112–13; 213–14. Tirso de Molina, Doña Beatriz de Silva, act 2, ll. 1475–7, p. 926. Pérez de Montalbán, Los templarios, ll. 895–6, p. 74. Tirso de Molina, Don Gil de las calzas verdes, 1.2.444–6, p. 119. Tirso de Molina, Amar por razón de estado, act 3, p. 1242. Rojas Zorrilla, Lo que quería ver el marqués de Villena, act 2, p. 328. Calderón, Con quien vengo, vengo, 1.2, p. 234. Tirso de Molina, Los hermanos parecidos, ll. 570–1, p. 280. Mira de Amescua, El esclavo del demonio, act 1, ll. 520, p. 76. Castro, La piedad en la justicia, act 2, p. 136. Cervantes, El rufián dichoso, act 2, ll. 1396–9, p. 184. Moreto, El mejor amigo, el rey, 2.1, p. 607. De la Cueva, La libertad de España por Bernardo del Carpio, act 3, ll. 904, p. 28. Alarcón, La prueba de las promesas, 1.9.757–60, p. 29. Ricoeur, ‘Scrupulousness,’ 136, 128. Pérez de Montalbán, La monja alférez, Jornada tercera. Regalado, Calderón, 1:458; see his further discussion on 461–2. ‘[V]ivir / con libertad de conciencia’ (To live / with liberty of conscience) (Mira de Amescua, Lo que no es casarse a gusto, act 2). Calderón, El nuevo hospicio de pobres, ll. 1831–2, p. 204. Calderón, Psiquis y Cupido, p. 350. Calderón, El nuevo palacio del Retiro, ll. 900–1, p. 139. Regalado, Calderón, 2:524–5. In this context, see the contemporaneous engraving where the Prince of Orange, accompanied by Liberty of Conscience and Prosperity, confronts the Duke of Alba (Grierson, King of Two Worlds, Philip II of Spain, 114). Obviously, Catholics viewed this phrase with deep suspicion in the context of the Protestant Reformation. See Paterson’s note to his edition of Calderón’s El nuevo palacio del Retiro, p. 139, n. to vv. 900–1. Tirso de Molina, Los balcones de Madrid, Part 2. Lope de Vega, Las pobrezas de Reinaldos, act 3, pp. 120–1. Lope de Vega, El cuerdo loco, act 2, ll. 1183–6, p. 58. Lope de Vega, La inocente sangre, 3.7, p. 367. Alarcón, Los favores del mundo, 2.15, p. 13. Tirso de Molina, Amazonas en las Indias, act 3, ll. 2058–67.

234 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176

Notes to pages 170–6 Tirso de Molina, No hay peor sordo, 3.18, p. 1066. Tirso de Molina, Don Gil de las calzas verdes, 1.2.444–5, p. 119. Calderón, Amar después de la muerte, act 2, p. 364. Calderón, loa for the auto sacramental, El año santo en Madrid, ll. 177–8, p. 212. Calderón, loa for the auto sacramental, El gran mercado del mundo, ll. 264–77, p. 333. Matthew 9:16, Mark 2:21, and Luke 5:36. Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning, 9. Castro, La fuerza de la sangre, act 3, vol. 3, p. 262. Lope de Vega, El mejor mozo de España, act 1, ll. 240–1, p. 43. Pérez de Montalbán, A lo hecho no ay remedio, y príncipe de los montes, ll. 754–6, p. 20. Diamante, El defensor de el Peñón, act 2, ll. 678–9, p. 22. De la Cueva, La libertad de España por Bernardo del Carpio, act 3, ll. 1031–2, p. 31. Lope de Vega, Juan de Dios, y Antón Martín, act 2, p. 439. Calderón, El santo rey don Fernando, segunda parte, p. 1300. Mira de Amescua (previously attributed to Lope de Vega), El palacio confuso, act 2, ll. 1857–8, p. 56. Tirso de Molina, Marta la piadosa, 2.7, p. 380. Calderón, loa for the auto sacramental, El pintor de su deshonra, ll. 156–9, p. 363. Calderón, La cisma de Inglaterra, act 2, ll. 1683–5, p. 142. Lope de Vega, Los locos de Valencia, 1.5, p. 93. Mira de Amescua, Las lises de Francia, act 2, p. 439. Cervantes, Entremés del retablo de las maravillas, p. 802. Lope de Vega, El mejor mozo de España, act 1, ll. 807–8, p. 74. Calderón, No hay burlas con el amor, act 3, ll. 1932–3, p. 322. Lope de Vega, Jorge toledano, act 3, p. 301. Lope de Vega, El amigo por fuerça, act 1, ll. 419–20. Cervantes, La entretenida, act 2, ll. 1570–1, p. 588. Cervantes, El rufián dichoso, act 1, ll. 455–8, p. 133. Cervantes, La entretenida, act 2, ll. 1420–1, p. 584. Calderón, La viña del Señor, ll. 1176–9, p. 172. Tirso de Molina, La dama del Olivar, 2.16, p. 197. Calderón, El gran príncipe de Fez, 3.12, p. 351. Lope de Vega, La doncella Teodor, act 3, p. 267. Tirso de Molina, El burlador de Sevilla, act 1, p. 159. Claramonte, Tan largo me lo fiáis, act 1, ll. 298–9, p. 167. Tirso de Molina, Cautela contra cautela, 2.8, p. 934.

Notes to pages 177–82 177 178 179 180 181 182

183 184 185 186

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Lope de Vega, Amar sin saber a quién, 3.3.2166–7, p. 125. Lope de Vega, Porfiando vence amor, 1.10, p. 240. Lope de Vega, La inocente Laura, 3.3, p. 491. Lope de Vega, Los tres diamantes, act 3, p. 994. Calderón, El jardín de Falerina, pp. 1507–8. This discussion of the significance of what is not there, ‘the presence of absence,’ may be found in the deconstructive criticism of Jacques Derrida, who in turn finds inspiration in Heidegger on this point. Derrida writes, ‘Play is the disruption of presence. The presence of an element is always a signifying and substitutive reference inscribed in a system of differences and the movement of a chain. Play is always play of absence and presence’ (‘Structure, Sign and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences,’ 292). Lukacher, Daemonic Figures, 86. Pecora, ‘Nietzsche, Genealogy, Critical Theory,’ 109. Pecora cites Gilles Deleuze, Nietzsche et la philosophie, 3. Sax, ‘Foucault, Nietzsche, History,’ 779. Ibid., 780.

5. Casuistry and Theory 1 2 3 4 5

6

7

8 9 10

Ricoeur, ‘Scrupulousness,’ 118. Tillich, Morality and Beyond, 67. Miller, Casuistry and Modern Ethics, 8. Foucault, ‘The Repressive Hypothesis,’ 20. Hammond, Conscience and Its Recovery, 3. We should be careful with this interpretation, however, for other critics emphasize that ‘conscience is not superego,’ but instead refers to a form of interaction between ego and superego. For a sophisticated discussion of these Freudian terms, see Lukacher, Daemonic Figures, 55. Gallagher, Medusa’s Gaze, 60. Gallagher further explains, ‘The Greeks conveyed the sacred and destructive resonance of the word by identifying conscience as the internal, psychological manifestation of the Furies’ (61). Greenblatt, Shakespearean Negotiations, 112. Greenblatt notes that after the Reformation in England, the acting companies bought some of the vestments formerly worn by Catholic priests. See Aristotle, Politica 1341b32–1342a15. Cited in Orozco Díaz, ‘Sobre la teatralización del templo,’ 172. Ibid., 174. Orozco Díaz’s emphasis in this article is on the theatricality of preaching during the Golden Age and how preachers even picked up techniques of voice, gesture, and body carriage from actors in the comedias (176,

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13 14

15 16 17 18 19 20 21

22

23 24

25

Notes to pages 182–4

178). For a comparison of preaching and acting in colonial Brazil, see PretoRodas, ‘Anchieta and Vieira.’ For similar examples from Italy, see Ventrone, ‘La sacra rappresentazione fiorentina.’ Orozco Díaz, ‘Sobre la teatralización del templo,’ 183. Lope de Vega, Lo fingido verdadero, act 3, p. 107. For an excellent study of this play and others about the legend of St Genesius, see Egginton, How the World Became a Stage. Orozco Díaz, ‘Sobre la teatralización del templo,’ 177. See also Aikin, ‘And They Changed Their Lives from That Very Hour.’ Orozco Díaz, ‘Sobre la teatralización del templo,’ 179. Fothergill-Payne confirms these findings in ‘The Jesuits as Masters of Rhetoric and Drama,’ 385. Ruggerio, ‘Some Jesuit Contributions to the Use of the Term “Comedia” in Spanish Dramaturgy,’ 203, 201. Maravall, Teatro y literatura, 31–2. Wardropper, ‘Poesía y drama en “El médico de su honra” de Calderón,’ 584. Cotarelo y Mori, Bibliografía de las controversias sobre la licitud del teatro en España. González Gutiérrez, El teatro escolar de los jesuitas, 1555–1640, 226. See Menéndez Peláez, Los jesuitas y el teatro en el Siglo de Oro, 99–130. A similar synergy is beginning to be described by English Renaissance scholars. See, for example, the work of Paula McQuade, whose study ‘challenges traditional accounts of the entrenched animosity between religion and theatre’ (McQuade, ‘Casuistry and Tragedy,’ 2). Roux notes that similar ‘case studies’ had been a hallmark of the earlier Jesuit school drama: ‘Les spectateurs sont invités à se référer sans cesse à leur propre expérience, à établir une comparaison entre les personnages et euxmêmes’ (The spectators are invited to refer without ceasing to their own experience, to establish a comparison between the characters and themselves) (‘Cent ans de’expérience théatrale,’ 493). Foucault, ‘The Repressive Hypothesis,’ 19. The elite equivalent to these popular forms of casuistry in England was the establishment of the Knightsbridge Chair of Casuistical Divinity at Cambridge University in 1677, paralleled by the Regius Professorship of Case Divinity at Oxford (Jonsen and Toulmin, The Abuse of Casuistry, 160). Starr, ‘From Casuistry to Fiction,’ 20 n. 17; p. 19. The author of the Athenian Mercury, John Dunton, offered a guarantee of anonymity to potential querists (participants in the newspaper’s casuistical debates), hoping to elicit questions which were too racy for readers to feel comfortable talking to pastors or church ministers about (20). Jonsen and Toulmin note regarding his latter-

Notes to pages 184–5

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day successor, Ann Landers: ‘At their best such agony columnists as Ann Landers are capable casuists’ (The Abuse of Casuistry, 10). 26 Maravall, Teatro y literatura, 31–40. 27 The old view of the comedia’s didactic function may be summarized as follows: La discusión crítica sobre la comedia española se ha fijado en alto grado en la cuestión de su contenido ético. Prevalece la opinión de que la comedia cumple una función ideológicamente conservadora, de que sirve sobre todo para ejemplificar el sistema de valores sociales del honor y el sistema de normas morales del catolicismo de contrarreforma, llegando, a lo sumo, en algunos casos a ser cuestionado el primero por el segundo. (The critical discussion about the Spanish comedia has fixed itself in large part upon the question of its ethical content. The opinion prevails that the comedia performs an ideologically conservative function, that it serves above all to exemplify the system of social values of honour and the system of moral norms of the Catholicism of the Counter-Reformation, arriving, at the height, in some cases for the first to be questioned by the second.) (Matzat, ‘Las perspectivas del espectador,’ 53) But scholars such as Margaret Greer have broken new ground in the area of the plays’ didactic function even with respect to kings by amassing evidence that the playwrights actually considered it ‘an obligation, however delicate, of true friends of the royalty’ to offer constructive (or potentially subversive) criticisms of the monarchy: ‘Thus the ceremonial framework of the Calderonian court spectacular proclaims the text of royal power, glorifying the monarchs by linking them to divinities. The central text, however, reverses the equation and constructs the two- or three-act drama on the human frailties of those divinities, failings that not so coincidentally also characterize the royal spectators’ (‘Art and Power in the Spectacle Plays of Calderón de la Barca,’ 330–1). 28 Foucault uses the term ‘discipline’ in the sense of ‘control and transformation of behavior’ (Discipline and Punish, 125). 29 He calls the theatre a ‘civilizing’ influence and a ‘potent forum for the reformation as well as the recreation of its audience’ (Mullaney, ‘Apprehending Subjects,’ 101, 95). The actors and audience in the theatre were ‘artificial and artfully manipulated constructions ... whether they existed onstage or off, whether they were constituted by a playwright or by larger cultural forces of determination’ (113). 30 He refers to ‘the entire repertoire of cultural forces, official and unofficial,

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31 32 33

34

35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

50

Notes to pages 185–91

that shaped the ideological subject and defined his or her place in the cultural community’ (ibid., 96). Maravall, La cultura del barroco, 131–73. Maravall, Teatro y literatura, 103. Sullivan explains the commonly accepted view that ‘the Hispano-Catholic worldview refused to accord such a salient autonomy and centrality of position to the individual human subject, as post-Reformation Northern Europe had begun to do’ (‘Lacan and Calderón,’ 40). For a personally biased and highly theoretical discussion of the violence enacted on the subject in the confessional, see Foucault, ‘The Repressive Hypothesis,’ 19. Mullaney also describes as ‘paralyzing’ the ‘psychotyrrani of auricular, sacramental confession’ (‘Apprehending Subjects,’ 100, 99) and summarizes antitheatrical prejudice in terms of the authorities’ (particularly Heywood’s) fear that theatre would supplant the missing rituals of the nowabolished Catholic religion. For an even more negative view of the Spanish confessional of the eighteenth century, see Dufour, Clero y sexto mandamiento. For a less biased view of the confessional, see ‘The Influence of Auricular Confession,’ in Mahoney, The Making of Moral Theology, 1–36. See Foucault, ‘Panopticism,’ in Discipline and Punish, 195–230. Horace’s famous dictum reads: ‘aut prodesse uolunt aut delectare poetae’ (poets want to delight or instruct) (Epistvla ad Pisones, l. 333, in Horace, Epistles Book II and Epistle to the Pisones [‘Ars Poetica’], 69). See also my Introduction, n. 81, p. 211, above. Speroni, Opere, 1:357. Denores, Discorso di Iason Denores, 3:411. Speroni, Opere, 1:355. Carballo, Cisne de Apolo, 1:118. López Pinciano, Philosophia antigua poética, 1:211. Ibid., 3:28. Ibid., 3:16–17. Cascales, Tablas poéticas, 188–9. Lope de Vega, El arte nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo, ll. 298–301. Ibid., ll. 327–37. Lope de Vega, El castigo sin venganza, act 1, ll. 214–25, pp. 241–2. Cervantes, ‘Prólogo al lector’ to Ocho comedias y ocho entremeses, 9. On these lines, see Riley, ‘The Pensamientos escondidos and Figuras morales of Cervantes.’ Sullivan, ‘Lacan and Calderón,’ 46–7. For a more recent Lacanian study of the comedia in general that reaches some of these same conclusions, see Stroud, ‘Honour, Ethics, and Tragedy.’ Kurtz, ‘“Quaestiones de la sacra teología.”’

Notes to pages 191–2

239

51 Ibid., 122. Kurtz does note, however, that in some ways the auto sacramental owes its origins more to the classical rhetorical quaestio than to its more limited, dogmatic scholastic formulation: ‘The rhetorical quaestio, debated in utramque partem, thus inevitably yields a more balanced presentation of an issue than the scholastic quaestio’ (131). 52 Ibid., 123. 53 Ibid., 124. 54 Ibid. 55 Kahn, Rhetoric, Prudence and Skepticism in the Renaissance, 68–9. For an application of this principle to a literary work in the context of casuistry, see Baader, ‘Mme de Lafayette in der Schule der Salons.’ She discusses how ‘[d]ie Autorin zitiert die in der Kasuistik der Salons erprobte Symmetrie antithetischer Argumentationsschritte’ ([t]he author quotes the symmetry of the antithetical line of reasoning ... put to the test in the casuistry of the salons) (2). 56 Probabilism may be defined as opting for any probable course of action in a moral dilemma, even if it is less or even the least probable: ‘probabilism is the doctrine that, in cases of doubt, a probable opinion in favor of liberty may be followed even if the contrary opinion is stronger’ (Miller, Casuistry and Modern Ethics, 18). It is contrasted with tutiorism – ‘that a man when in doubt as to the legality of an act must do that which is safest for his soul’ – and probabiliorism (‘between two opposite opinions the more probable one is to be followed’) (Lea, ‘Probabilism and Casuistry,’ 290–1). On probabilism in Spain, see Caro Baroja, ‘Probabilidades, laxitudes y corrupciones.’ For a scathing critique of probabilism, see Pascal, Les Provinciales, 703–15. A good secondary study of this text is Bell, ‘Pascal: Casuistry, Probability, Uncertainty.’ On the difference between probabilism and probabiliorism, see Slights, The Casuistical Tradition, 14. Barbara Kurtz notes that the use of probabilism by Calderón resulted in a ‘dialogic approach to issues ... richly circumstanced by attention to individual particulars’ (‘“Quaestiones de la sacra teología,”’ 125). I would hesitate, however, to align the comedia as a genre with probabilism in the same way as I have done with casuistry, for the simple reason that the doctrine of probabilism encourages consultation of authorities to the detriment of individual moral agency or any concerted effort to develop the conscience – both elements I see at work in abundance in the comedias. For a study that attempts to do precisely this, however, see Álvarez, ‘El probabilismo y el teatro español del siglo XVII.’ On these problematical aspects of probabilism, see Malloch, ‘John Donne and the Casuists,’ especially 64–5. 57 Kurtz, ‘“Quaestiones de la sacra teología,”’ 135.

240 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69

70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91

Notes to pages 192–7

Derrida, Of Grammatology, 62 (italics in original). Derrida, ‘Freud and the Scene of Writing,’ 202. Ibid., 203. Gasché, Inventions of Difference, 45. Patricia Parker, ‘Deferral, Dilation, Différance : Shakespeare, Cervantes, Jonson.’ Friedman, ‘Deference, Différance.’ Shklovskii, Theory of Prose, 26–7. Bakhtin speaks here in the context of Greek romance. See his ‘Forms of Time and Chronotope in the Novel,’ especially 86–110. Barthes pronounces, ‘every text on pleasure will be nothing but dilatory.’ See his The Pleasure of the Text, 18. Genesis 18:16–33. Friedman, ‘Deference, Différance,’ 42. Richard of Thetford, ‘A Treatise on the Eight Modes of Dilatation.’ The purpose of this manual was to instruct young clerics on how to find material to expand and sustain their sermons. The Latin title of the treatise varies among several extant manuscripts. Friedman, ‘Deference, Différance,’ 42, 49. Ibid., 49. Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 1, ll. 514–15, p. 471. Ibid., act 3, ll. 2838, 2840–1, p. 534. Alarcón, Don Domingo de Don Blas, act 2, l. 1891, p. 83. Mira de Amescua, La mesonera del cielo, 1.5.433–4, p. 22. Cervantes, El laberinto de amor, act 2, l. 1563, p. 500. Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 2.7, p. 349. Castro, Las mocedades del Cid, act 1, ll. 610–11, p. 33. Ibid., act 3, ll. 2363–6, pp. 118–19. Ibid., act 3, ll. 278–9, p. 136. Alarcón, Quien mal anda en mal acaba, 2.10, p. 220. Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 3.3, p. 352. Moreto, La misma conciencia acusa, 2.9, p. 112. Moreto, La fuerza de la ley, 3.13, p. 99. Alarcón, Ganar amigos, 2.3, p. 347. Ibid., 3.17, p. 356; 3.20, p. 358. Tirso de Molina, Desde Toledo a Madrid, act 1, ll. 43–4, p. 101. Ibid., act 1, ll. 155–7, p. 111. Ibid., act 1, ll. 169–70, p. 111. Ibid., act 1, ll. 279–80, p. 120. Ibid., act 1, l. 345, p. 123.

Notes to pages 197–202 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106

107 108 109

110

111 112 113 114 115 116

117 118

241

Ibid., act 1, ll. 556–7, p. 136. Ibid., act 1, ll. 568–70, p. 137. Ibid., act 1, l. 577, p. 138. Ibid., act 2, l. 1648, p. 217. Ibid., act 1, l. 933, p. 163. Ibid., act 2, ll. 1023–4, 1035, p. 175. Ibid., act 2, l. 1237, p. 190. Ibid., act 2, ll. 1589–90, p. 213. Ibid., act 2, ll. 2547–8, p. 292. Lukacher also remarks upon the ‘semantic and linguistic confusion between conscience and consciousness’ (Daemonic Figures, 8). Tillich, Morality and Beyond, 67. Lukacher, Daemonic Figures, 17. Ricoeur, ‘The Impasse of Guilt,’ 143. Nietzsche, ‘“Guilt,” “Bad Conscience,” and the Like,’ 65, 59, 60. See Burckhardt, The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy, 2:514; Cantor, Inventing the Middle Ages, 182; and Sigurdson, Jacob Burckhardt’s Social and Political Thought, 198. Pico della Mirandola, ‘De hominis dignitate.’ Tillich, Morality and Beyond, 67. Descartes, Meditations on First Philosophy, 26. This is perhaps why it would be dangerous to do away with the notion of conscience altogether – would we risk then succumbing to an apathy, a numbness, the result of loss (along with conscience of sin) of all self-consciousness? As Guyton B. Hammond reminds us in the context of the Frankfurt School, ‘the critique of conscience need not lead to its dissolution’ (Conscience and Its Recovery, 4). For modern examples of some of the same mechanisms we have been describing in Golden Age drama, see Zatlin, ‘Plays of Conscience and Consciousness.’ Morón Arroyo, El ‘alma de España,’ 7, 228. Derrida, Of Grammatology, 65. Ibid., 70. Cassell’s German Dictionary. Derrida, Of Grammatology, 70. Harvey, Derrida and the Economy of Différance, 178. Harvey offers a clearer, more concise description than Freud himself. Freud’s original essay on this topic is ‘A Note upon the Mystic Writing-Pad.’ For Derrida’s commentary on Freud, see his ‘Freud and the Scene of Writing.’ Freud, ‘A Note upon the Mystic Writing-Pad,’ 19:231. Harvey, Derrida and the Economy of Différance, 179.

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Index

abduction, 131, 133 Abraham, 78, 193 Abrahán, 53, 56–7 absence, 39, 51, 63, 66, 141, 178, 199, 235n182 absolutes, 88 absolution, 33, 49, 110, 197 acaso, 51–2, 62, 189 accommodation, 62 Acevedo, Pedro Pablo de, 13, 14, 17, 18, 20, 24, 29, 214n142, 215n168, 216n169; Athanasia, 17; Bellum virtutum et vitiorum, 17; Charopus, 17, 18, 19, 25, 211n76, 214n142; [Dialogus] in aduentu Regis [Philippi II], 211n79, 216n170; Euripus, 29; Lucifer furens, 17, 211n76; Metanea (De penitentia), 17, 27, 29; Occasio, 17, 25, 27, 211n76, 214n142; Philautus, 17, 18, 19, 25, 211n76, 214n142 Acosta, José de, 7, 14 Adam, 199, 218n8 adultery, 44, 92, 101, 104, 113 Advent, 17 advice, 71, 107, 108–42, 226–9

Afro-Hispanism, 93, 224n70 agony column, 184, 237n25 Aikin, Judith P., 215n168, 236n13 Alarcón, Juan Ruiz de, 194, 200; Don Domingo de Don Blas, 55, 57, 60, 85, 134, 218n18, 220n83, 221nn96, 97, 110, 224n50, 228nn76, 78, 240n74; El dueño de las estrellas, 220n87; Los empeños de un engaño, 220n94; Los favores del mundo, 80, 223n37, 233n140; Ganar amigos, 54, 60, 75, 84, 196, 218n28, 219nn38, 39, 42–4, 220nn75, 86, 221nn100, 108, 109, 111, 114, 115, 223nn29, 42, 224nn46, 49, 227n39, 240nn77, 82, 85, 86; La industria y la suerte, 43, 44, 54, 115, 136, 218nn25, 26, 219nn37, 41, 220n77, 221nn99, 102, 104, 105, 116, 222n12, 227nn23, 26, 31, 228n79; Quien mal anda en mal acaba, 127, 219n33, 228n59, 240n81; La prueba de las promesas, 233n126 alazon, 193 Alba, Duke of, 233n135

276

Index

alcahueta, 114 Alcalá, 13, 23, 210n74; Colegio de, 15 Alcuzcuz, 170 Alejandro, 99, 100, 102, 121, 126, 195 Alejo, San, 25 Alfonso, 134–6 alguacil, 87 allegiance. See loyalty allegory, 18, 61, 95 altar, 161–2 alumni, 24 Alva, Bartholomé de, 133, 139, 224n63, 228n74, 229nn85–7 Álvarez, Miguel, 4, 40–1, 104, 108, 139, 208n7, 218nn13, 14, 15, 222n10, 225n91, 226n4, 229n81, 239n56 Amarilli, 140, 229n91 ambiguity, 93 Ambrosio, 147 America, 200 amplificatio, 193–4 anagnorisis, 85 Anarda, 80–1 Anastasio, 47, 50, 115 Anchieta, 236n10 Andalucía, 13, 215n157 angel, 162 Angela, 112 Anglican, 6, 7 animal, 20, 36, 48, 50 Antigone, 77 Antonio,166 Apetito, 171 Apicius, 18, 19 Apocalypse, 193 Apollo, 33 apostrophe, 125 Aquinas, Thomas, St, 48, 219n50

Arab, 215n157 Aragón, 13, 74, 75 arche-trace, 62, 63, 141, 193 architecture, 122, 210n63 Argentina, 220n91 Ariadne, 122 Arias, 71, 87, 116 Aristides, 18 Aristophanes, 187 Aristotle, 26, 65, 109, 181; Nichomachean Ethics, 7, 10, 187–8; Politics, 235n8; Rhetoric, 213n135 Arizona, University of, 65 Armesinda, 76 art, 163 Arte para bien confesar, 9, 10, 131, 133, 224n63, 228nn66, 72–3, 229nn83, 87 ascetic, 127, 213n134 Asculto, 216n170 Asenjo, Julio Alonso, 15, 211n76, 213nn136, 138 aside, 45, 57, 89 Association for Hispanic Classical Theater, 65 Astolfo, 129, 130–1 Astraín, Antonio, 212n108 Athenian, 122 Athenian Gazette, 184 Athenian Mercury, 184, 236n25 Athens, 26 attorney. See lawyer Aubrun, Charles, 207n1 audience, 92, 185, 215n168, 225n88, 237n29 Augustine, St, 122 Aurelino, 153 Aurora, 66, 84, 99, 100, 114, 123 autonomy, 112, 185 auto sacramental, 17, 60–1, 119, 161,

Index 168, 191–2, 213n134, 232nn96, 103, 234nn145–6, 158, 239n51 auxiliary, 147 avarice, 152 Ávila, 13, 14 Ávila, Hernando de, 14 Ávila, Juan Bautista, 27 Aymerico, 74–5 Azor, Juan, 9 Azpilcueta, Martín de (Navarrus), 9 Baader, Renate, 239n55 Baeza, 13 Bajén Español, Melchor, 14, 211n76 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 193, 240n65 Balbinus, 18, 19 Baltasar, 196–7 baptism, 140, 230n16 Barçalo, Guillermo, 14, 28, 215n167 Barcelona, 13 Baron, S.W., 208n29 baroque, 178, 182, 185, 212n101, 213n121, 236n16, 237n26 Barrientos, Lope de, 39 Barthes, Roland, 193, 240n66 Basilio, 168 bastard, 154–5 Batavo, 151 Bavaria, 215n157 beatification, 26 Beatriz, 112, 149 bed, 159 Belisa, 153 Bell, David F., 239n56 Belmonte, 13 Beltrán, 60, 116 Benthamite, 223n32 Berganza, 25–6 Bernabé, 30–1 Bible, 12, 30

277

Biblioteca Menéndez y Pelayo de Santander, 211n76 Biblioteca Nacional (Madrid), 210n74, 220n93 Bildungsroman, 19 bishop, 15 Bjurström, Per, 212n101 blame, 45, 64, 83, 104, 122, 156 Blanca, 43, 58, 67, 137 blindness, 99, 100, 118–23, 127, 132, 137 blood, 77, 97, 102–4, 138 Bocanegra, Matías de, 200, 231nn44, 52 Boccaccio, Giovanni, 39, 218n8 Bodleian Library, 227n42 body, 10, 20, 102–3, 127, 146, 161, 170, 173–4, 180–1, 231n73, 235n10 Bologna, 12 Bonifacio, Juan, 14, 211n76; Actio Nepotiana, 21, 32, 212n113, 216nn174–5, 183, 192; Comedia Margarita, 15, 20, 32, 211n76, 212n109, 216n182; Comoedia Solomonia, 30, 32, 35, 216nn172–3, 185, 217n198; Triumphus Circuncisionis, 28, 30, 215n164; Triumphus Eucharistiae, 28, 166, 215n163; Tragicomedia Nabalis, 28, 215n165 Borja, 153 Borja (Borgia), Francisco de, St, 7, 13, 215n155 Bossy, John, 209n48 Bravo, Bartolomé, 14 Brazil, 236n10 Breisemeister, Dietrich, 209n35, 215n157 Brink, David, 70, 222n20 Brito, 67 Britt, Elizabeth C., 224n70

278

Index

El Brocense. See Sánchez de las Brozas, Francisco brother, 71, 73, 97–8, 124, 132–3, 138, 223n32 Browning, Robert, 105 Burckhardt, Jakob, 199, 241n106 Burden, 123 Burgos, 13 burlesque, 31, 61 Burman, Howard V., 210n63 buscón, 25 Busto, 71–3 Cádiz, 13 Cahors, 9 Calatayud, 13 Calder, Ruth, 212n118, 227n20 Calderón de la Barca, Pedro, 4–5, 23– 4, 27, 41–2, 51, 57, 66, 105, 121–2, 168, 170, 172, 178, 184, 191–2, 205, 208nn12, 14, 209nn35, 50, 213nn124–5, 134, 136, 214nn151, 153, 215nn155, 157, 218n16, 220n68, 221n116, 223n38, 224n56, 227nn18, 43, 228nn45, 75, 230n11, 233nn129, 134, 237n27, 238nn33, 49, 239n56; A Dios por razón de estado, 60, 221n113; El acaso y el error, 52, 220n67; El alcalde de Zalamea, 124, 128, 221n101, 228nn51, 71; Amar después de la muerte, 234n144; Amigo, amante y leal, 87, 224n55; El año santo en Madrid, 234n145; La cisma de Inglaterra, 157, 230nn24, 37, 231n59, 234n159; Con quien vengo, vengo, 77, 223nn33–5, 233n119; La cura, y la enfermedad, 232n103; La dama duende, 93, 110, 122, 220n88, 224n72, 225nn73–7, 226nn8, 10,

227n44; De una causa dos efectos, 52; La desdicha de la voz, 149, 230n26; Eco y Narciso, 68, 222nn15, 16; Los empeños de un acaso, 52, 57, 121, 218n11, 227n41; Los encantos de la culpa, 119, 227nn32, 33; La estatua de Prometeo, 81, 223nn38–9, 40–1; La fiera, el rayo y la piedra, 232n83; El gran mercado del mundo, 234n146; El gran príncipe de Fez, 27, 215n156, 234n172; La inmunidad del sagrado, 231n76; El jardín de Falerina, 177, 235n181; Lances de amor y fortuna, 52; Llamados y escogidos, 231n45; El mágico prodigioso, 230n30; El médico de su honra, 66, 93, 104, 116, 222n10, 224nn67, 71, 227nn27–8, 236n17; No hay burlas con el amor, 234n164; El nuevo hospicio de pobres, 168, 233n131; El nuevo palacio del Retiro, 168, 233n135; ‘Penitencia de San Ignacio,’ 215n155; El pintor de su deshonra, 234n158; El pleyto matrimonial del cuerpo y el alma, 161, 232n96; Psiquis y Cupido, 168, 233n132; ¿Quién hallará mujer fuerte?, 232n84; ‘Resucita San Francisco veinte y cinco muertos,’ 215n155; ‘A San Francisco de Borja (Canción),’ 215n155; ‘A San Francisco de Borja (Soneto),’ 215n155; El santo rey don Fernando, segunda parte, 234n155; Los tres mayores prodigios, 232n107; La vida es sueño, 27, 85–7, 128, 168, 224n52, 28n65; La viña del Señor, 234n170 Calisto, 114 Calle de Toledo, 24 Calleja, Diego, 14 Calvinist, 6

Index Cambridge University, 236n24 Cananitis, 18, 19 Canavaggio, Jean, 214n141 Canet Vallés, José Luis, 212n114 canonization, 26 canon law, 23, 168, 213n119 Cantor, Norman F., 241n106 Capuchin, 40 ‘Capuchinos del Prado,’ 210n74 Caramanchel, 157 Caravaca, 13 Carballo, Luis Alfonso de, 186, 238n40 Cardinal Virtues, 10 Caripius, 18, 19 Carlos, 90, 124–5, 154–5 Caro, Ana, 66, 90, 205, 224n64, 229n94 Caro Baroja, Julio, 23, 213n126, 239n56 Carreño, 197 Casandra, 137–9, 140 Casa Santa, 49 Cascales, Francisco, 187–8, 238n44 Cascón, Miguel, 213n129, 214n150 case (of conscience), 5, 8, 9, 11, 12, 23, 29, 30, 40–50, 60, 62–3, 65, 85, 113–14, 184, 188–9, 190, 192 caso (de conciencia). See case (of conscience) Castiglione, Baldassare, 21, 212nn111, 112 Castilla, 13, 211n77 Castillejo, David, 51, 219n62, 220n67, 223n27 Castillo, Diego del, 9 castration, 161 Castro, Agustín de, 26, 214n149 Castro, Américo, 4, 88, 208nn4, 5, 224nn57–8

279

Castro, Guillén de, 26, 66, 203; El Conde Alarcos, 231n75; Cuánto se estima el honor, 231n47; La fuerza de la sangre, 234n149; Las mocedades del Cid, 54, 98, 113, 194, 220n78, 223n36, 225nn78–9, 80–3, 227nn16, 17, 240nn78–9, 80; El nacimiento de Montesinos, 232n91; La piedad en la justicia, 160, 231nn58, 62, 232n82, 233n122 Castro, Rodrigo de, 34 casus, 39, 217n7 casus conscientiae. See case (of conscience) Catalina, St, feast of, 11 Catalinón, 66, 117 catharsis, 181 Catholic, 6, 7, 26, 146, 168, 181, 185, 233n135, 235n7, 237n27, 238nn33–4 Catholicon, 30 La Cava, 166 Celestina, 114 Celia, 54, 58–9, 88–9, 115 Celtic Penitential Books, 7 cemetery, 17 censorship, 107, 219n57 certamen, 16, 17 Cervantes, Miguel de, 25–6, 45, 65–6, 194, 203, 214n141, 240n62; Los baños de Argel, 233n110; El coloquio de los perros, 25, 214nn145–6; Entremés del retablo de las maravillas, 234n162; La entretenida, 234nn167, 169; La fuerza de la sangre, 77, 218n9; El gallardo español, 232n106; La gran sultana, 220n66; El laberinto de amor, 42, 44–5, 50–1, 53, 55, 57, 59, 113, 115, 218nn20–1, 23, 27, 29, 219n31–2, 40, 45–7, 60, 63,

280

Index

220nn73, 82, 95, 221n103, 225n82, 227nn15, 21, 24–5, 228nn50, 54–5, 240nn72–3, 76; Ocho comedias y ocho entremeses, 190, 238n48; Pedro de Urdemalas, 150, 230n32; El rufián dichoso, 230n41, 232n104, 233n123, 234n168; El trato de Argel, 231n56 César, 154 Céspedes, Valentín de, 9, 14, 20, 182 ceteris paribus, 6 Chamizo, 151 charity, 24 Charybdis, 98, 109 chastity, 92 Chauchadis, Claude, 207n2, 233n109 Cherubino de Firenze, 9, 209n46 chewing, 157, 159, 166 Chicano, 200 child, 20–1, 85–7, 102–3 chivalry, 225n76 chorus, 22, 32, 120, 216nn171, 184, 188, 190 Christ, 49, 110 Christian, 7, 28, 36, 110, 119, 146, 148, 152, 156, 170, 172, 178, 182 Christmas, 16, 17 chronotope, 193, 240n65 church, 7, 168, 170, 182, 186, 217n7 Cicero, 7, 10, 192 Cid, 54–5, 78, 98, 113 Cigorondo, Juan de, 14 Cipión, 26 circumcision, 30, 161 circumstance, 5, 6, 10, 11, 38, 54–6, 93, 136, 187, 191 Circuncisio, 28, 30 citizenship, 77 Claramonte, Andrés de, 176; Púsoseme el sol, salióme la luna, 231n69; Tan largo me lo fiáis, 234n175

Clemencia, 150 Clemente, 150 closet drama, 114, 119 Clotaldo, 85–7, 129, 130–1 cloud apparatus, 20 Códice de Villagarcía, 211n76 Colax, 18, 19 colegio, Jesuit, 3–38, 40, 207–17 ‘collateral damage,’ 84 Collegio Romano, 7, 8, 9, 12, 13, 210nn63–4 Colloquio que se represento en Seuj.a delante del Ill.mo Cardenal Don R.o de Castro, 34, 217n196 colonial, 200, 236n10 Comargo, Hernando de, 145 comedia de santos, 182 Comedia Textlist database, 65 comedy, classical, 16 commedia dell’arte, 19 commensales, 24 communion, 28–9, 162 Compostela, 13 concertaciones, 16, 17 confession, sacramental, 12, 28–9, 30–2, 38, 47, 52, 64–5, 107–8, 112, 145–7, 162, 184, 186, 197, 238n34 confessional manuals, 9, 10, 39, 65, 85–92, 149, 184 confessionarios. See confessional manuals confessor, 10, 31, 38, 57, 63, 104, 107, 134, 146, 149, 150, 184, 209n47 confirmation, sacramental, 140 Congregación del Oratorio, 23 Congregation of Slaves of the Most Holy Sacrament of the Oratory of the Caballero de Gracia, 23 conscientia, 113, 145, 160 consciousness, 198–9, 202

Index conscire, 145 consequence, 38 Consultor, 14 convictores, 24 coplas, 214 Corbacho, Justo, 213n128 Córdoba, 11, 13, 29 Córdoba, Antonio de, 9, 13, 65, 228n66 Corneille, Pièrre, 212n118 Corneille, Thomas, 212n118 Cornelio, 115 Corpus Christi, feast of, 16, 17 Corpus del Español database, 146 corrales, 3, 184 corregidor, 162 Cortes Collection, 14, 210n74, 214nn142–3, 215n167 Cosme, 110–12 costume, 16, 19, 235n7 Cotarelo Valledor, Armando, 213n137 Cotarelo y Mori, Emilio, 220n93, 236n18 Counter-Reformation, 7, 145–6, 200, 213n120, 237n27 couplet, 15 courtroom, 101–2, 160 courtship, 93 cousin, 50, 99, 100–1, 137, 139 Covarrubias Orozco, Sebastián de, 40, 51, 54, 145, 218n10, 219n61, 220n76, 230n15 Credo, 170 Crespo, 124 crime, 73, 84–5, 87, 101, 108, 110, 131, 156–7, 160, 188, 231n73 Crotilda, 174 crucifixion, 20 Cruz, Cristóbal de la, 152, 166

281

Cruz, Felipe de la, 9, 104, 131, 225n90, 228nn68, 70, 229nn87–9 Cruz, Juan de la, St, 132 Cruz, Luis de la, 14 Cuenca, 13 Cueva, Juan de la, 233n125, 234n153 cuneiform, 201 curriculum (Jesuit school), 3–38 cynicism, 200 Dagoberto, 44–6, 55, 57, 113 Dalila, 120 damnation, 54 daughter, 87, 113, 138, 148 Daum, Paul A., 210nn63–4 David, King, 11, 149 Davies, Mark, 146 Daza y Berrio, Iuan, 145 death, 52–3, 67, 69, 71–2, 86, 88, 97, 102–4, 132–3, 170, 181, 188 debate, 16, 44, 50, 95, 191, 208n25 deceleration, 193 decidere, 93 declamationes, 11, 16 deconstruction, 39, 181, 235n182 Dédalo, 122 defence, 101–2 Defoe, Daniel, 208n3 De la Granja, Agustín, 14, 209n43, 211n76 Deleuze, Gilles, 179, 235n184 De linguarum studio, ratione et ordine, 12, 210n59 Del Río Parra, Elena, 230n16 Demetrio, 84, 114 demon, 47–8, 56, 125–7 Denores, Giason, 186, 238n38 Derrida, Jacques, 28, 51–2, 62, 64–6, 81, 105, 107–8, 141, 161, 164, 178– 9, 181, 192–3, 199, 200–2, 221n2,

282

Index

225nn96–8, 226n3, 229nn100–2, 235n182, 241nn116, 118; ‘Freud and the Scene of Writing,’ 240nn59, 60; Of Grammatology, 39, 217n2, 221nn118, 119, 120, 221nn3, 4, 229nn96–9, 240n58, 241nn112, 113, 115; Positions, 39, 217n3; ‘Structure, Sign and Play,’ 220n65 Descartes, René, 200, 241n109 desire, 62, 91, 96, 136, 146, 190, 202 determinatio, 191 determinism, 50 devil, 54, 93, 111, 169 dialogue, 11, 26, 31, 44, 106–9, 113, 120, 222n10, 226n99, 226n4, 239n56 Dialogus feriis solemnibus corporis Christi, 25, 214n143 Diamante, Juan Bautista, 230n30, 234n152 diamond, 159 Diana, Antonino, 23 dichotomy, 172, 181, 192 didactic, 237n27 Diego, 84 Díez Borque, José María, 207n1 différance, 39, 64, 107, 141, 192–8, 221n2, 225nn96–8, 226n3, 229n102, 240nn62–3, 68, 70–1, 241nn116, 118 digestion, 158–9, 166, 179 dilatio, 90, 107, 192–8, 240n62; dilatio patriae, 193 discharge, 60 discipline, 237n28, 238n35 Discordia, 83 dispensero. See pardoner disposition, 38 disputationes, 11

divorce, 148 doctor, 104 doctrine, 26, 48, 178, 227n42, 228n77 Dolus, 28 Domingo, 136 Dominican, 7, 18, 19, 39, 217n193 Donne, John, 239n56 Don Quijote, 193 Dostoevski, Fyodor, 223n32 double bind, 92–104, 106, 121, 224nn67, 70 double doubt, 224n67 double standard, 87, 134 Doubt, 101 dramaturgy, 212n117, 236n15 drunkenness, 139, 165, 188 Du Cange, Charles du Fresne, 217n7 Dubitancio, 33 dubitans, 216 ducados, 19 duel, 77–8, 164 Dueñas, Juan de, 65, 221n6 Dufour, Gérard, 238n34 Dunton, John, 236n25 Easter, 16 eating, 158–9, 166, 178–9 Eco, 68–9 Egginton, William, 210n62, 236n12 ego, 161, 180, 235n5 Egypt, 152 ejemplo. See exemplum elenchos, 160 Elizabethan, 161 Elizalde, Ignacio, 19, 211nn87, 95, 212n100, 214n150 Elliott, John, 223n39 Elvira, 66 empeño, 57, 62, 89, 100 emperor, 151

Index empire, 193 ends, 59, 62 England, 184, 227n42, 235n7, 236n24 English, 4, 17, 105, 119, 120, 140, 158, 160, 185, 218n8, 221n112, 228n62, 230n19, 231n73, 236n21 Enrique, 42, 66 Enríquez, Miguel, 14 ‘entreacto,’ 30, 216nn177, 186, 191 entremés, 61 envy, 159, 174 epilogue, 21, 35 Epimeteo, 81–3 episteme, 65 equivocation, 4, 121, 135, 202, 207n3, 227n42, 228n77 error, 137 Esbarroya, Augustín de, 145 Escobar, Luis de, 9, 209n46 Escobar y Mendoza, Antonio, 9, 14 Escosura, Patricio de, 4, 208n12 escudos, 26 Eskin, Catherine R., 224n70 espace dilatoire, 193 Estela, 91 Estrella, 71 ethics, 143, 183, 190, 194, 208nn22, 26, 221n1 etiology, 179 etymology, 160 Eubulus, 18 Eudochinus, 18 eunuch, 8 Euripides, 187 Euripo (Euripus), 29 Europe, 23 Eutrapelius, 18, 19 Eve, 199 examination of conscience, 143, 146 excuse, 60

283

exemplum, 4, 5, 190 Exile, 208n29 exorcism, 9 Experience, 35 externs (externi), 24 Extreme Unction, 170 eye, 102–3, 129–30 Fabio, 115 faith, 174 Falacio, 31 family, 8, 77–9, 85, 87–8, 98, 104, 191 fatalism, 200 fate, 86, 124, 132–3 father, 77–8, 84, 98–9, 113, 124, 131– 3, 138, 188 fault, 45, 84, 136 Faustina, 162 Feal, Rosemary G., 224n70 Febo, 68 Federico, 109 Fedra, 122 Félix, 87–8, 121 feminism, 3, 93, 224n70 Feniso, 152 Fernando, 54, 60, 75, 84, 91, 194 Ferrara, 102 Ferrer, Juan, 184 Filerino, 35 fire, 69, 99, 100, 160 fireworks, 20 Fisberto, 69 Fish, Thomas E., 105, 225n92 Flor, 45 Flora, 75–6 Florence, 236n10 flying machine, 20 Fomperosa y Quintana, Pedro, 14 Fontaine, Jean de la, 140 food, 51, 159, 179

284

Index

footprint, 62 Forcione, Alban, 39, 218n9 forelock, 55 fortuna. See fortune fortune, 31, 39, 52, 98, 218n8 Fothergill-Payne, Louise, 236n14 Foucault, Michel, 144, 146, 178–9, 180, 185–6, 192, 200, 229nn7, 8, 10, 230n17, 235nn185–6, 4, 236n23, 237n28; Discipline and Punish, 238n35; ‘Panopticism,’ 238n35; ‘The Repressive Hypothesis,’ 238n34 Fourth Lateran Council, 7 fraile mercedario. See Mercedarian friar France, 174 Franciscans, 7, 23 Frankfurt School, 241n109 free will, 50 French, 17, 39, 114, 140, 198, 212n118, 227n20 Freud, Sigmund, 39, 107, 180, 201–2, 235n5, 240nn59, 60, 241nn116, 117 Friedman, Edward, 193–4, 240nn63, 68, 70–1 friend, 74–7, 84–5, 113, 172–3, 191 Fülöp-Miller, René, 36, 212nn99, 101, 217nn200, 204–6 Furies, 235n6 Gallagher, Lowell, 113, 122, 143–5, 158, 160, 164, 207n3, 208n27, 209n53, 220n81, 221nn97, 106–7, 224n67, 226n14, 228n46, 229n4, 230nn14, 28, 231nn63, 68, 73, 232nn81, 87, 233nn111, 112, 113, 235n6 Gallardo, 175–6 game theory, 223n32

Gandía, 13; Colegio de, 13 García, 87, 134–5 García Soriano, Justo, 14, 17, 18, 27, 210nn65–6, 68–9, 70–1, 211nn78, 80–4, 89, 90, 92–4, 214n144, 215n161 Garden of Eden, 199 Gasché, Rodolphe, 221n121, 229n101, 240n61 Gastón, 74–5 genealogy, 144–7, 178–80, 192, 198, 200–1, 235n184 gender, 76, 92, 107, 127–42 General Congregation, 7 Genesis, 240n67 Genesius, St, 236n12 Geophilus, 18, 19 German, 39, 143, 201, 241n114 Gerona, 13 Gil, 165 Giles, St, 21–2 Ginés, 182 God, 20, 32, 43–4, 48, 57, 60–1, 65, 68, 72–3, 83, 89, 90, 96–7, 102– 3, 110, 112, 116, 126, 136, 140–1, 151, 153, 158–9, 161–2, 164, 166, 169, 174, 176, 191, 193–4, 197 225n88 Godínez, Felipe: Las lágrimas de David, 230n27; Los trabajos de Job, 232n93 godsister, 139 Gómez, 216nn174–5 Gommorah, 193 Gonçalo, Arias, 113 Góngora, Luis de, 213n138 González Gutiérrez, Cayo, 14, 209nn56–7, 210n74, 211n76, 213nn129, 136, 214n152, 215nn157–8, 167, 236n19

Index Gospel, 18, 19 Gouhier, Henri, 36, 217n202 grace, 48–9, 172, 177–8 gracioso, 51, 170 Gracyk, Theodore, 224n70 grammar, 15, 24, 30, 165 Granada, 13, 14 Gray, John, 228n64 Graz, 20 Great Britain, 201 Greek, 22, 145, 160, 181, 235n6, 240n65 Greenblatt, Stephen, 172, 181, 234n148, 235n7 Greer, Margaret, 225n76, 237n27 Gregory I, Pope, 93 Grierson, Edward, 233n135 Griffin, Nigel, 8, 19, 34, 209n33, 210n58, 211n96, 217nn194–5 Grisanto, 172 Groult, P., 215n157 Guarino, Giambattista, 140 Guillén, 175–6 guilt, 44, 51, 85, 102, 112, 136, 167, 180–1, 194, 198–9, 200, 241nn104–5 gusto, 96, 172. See also pleasure Gutierre, 116, 222n10 Guzmán, Pedro, 184 Hail Mary, 170 Hamlet, 181, 198 Hammond, Guyton B., 112, 127, 140, 143–4, 208n18, 226nn11, 12, 13, 228n61, 229nn92, 3, 6, 235n5, 241n109 hanging, 20, 131 Hapsburgs, 139 Harvey, Irene, 107–8, 221n2, 225nn96–8, 226n3, 229n102, 241nn116, 118

285

heaven, 43, 47, 67, 78–9, 81–2, 86, 94– 5, 100, 123–5, 127, 129, 130–1, 134– 5, 163–4, 174, 197 Heble, Ajay, 39, 217nn4, 5 Heidegger, Martin, 235n182 Heliodorus, 18 hell, 29, 47, 54, 126, 127 Henry, Lauren Baird, 228n63 Henry V, King, 162 Henry VIII, King, 148–9, 151, 157 heresy, 148 Hermenegildo, Alfredo, 212n115, 225n95 Hesse, Everett, 4, 208n11 heterodoxy, 170 heuristics, 7 hexameter, 10 Heywood, Thomas, 238n34 Hispanic, 201, 238n33 Historia Filerini, 35, 217n197 Holocaust, 93, 108, 224n70 Homer, 193 homicide. See murder Honorio, 172 honour, 3, 43, 71–3, 77–9, 80, 84–8, 93, 96–9, 100–3, 109, 116, 123, 129, 130–4, 137, 164, 176, 189, 190–1, 197, 207n2, 208nn4, 5, 226n4, 233n109, 238n49 Horace, 21–2, 186, 212n110, 238n36 Hornedo, Rafael, 24, 213nn129, 130– 1, 214n150, 215n160 hospitality, 98 Houle, Martha M., 229n90 Huck, George Ann, 212–13n119, 220n93, 222nn17, 18, 19, 227n22 Huete, 13 humanism, 16, 192, 198–9, 211n78, 212n114 hunger, 11, 51

286

Index

Huntley, Frank, 207n3, 227n42 husband, 104 hypothetical, 51–2 Ibsch, Elrud, 224n70 iconography, 55 ignorance, 188; invincible, doctrine of, 48, 219n50 impalement, 182 incest, 50, 102, 104, 115, 137, 139, 140, 229n83 inconvenience, 58–9 indemnity, 48 Inés, 66–8, 83 Infamy, 102, 104 Infausto, 30–1 infertility, 93 Ingenuity, 124 Ingolstadt, 27, 209n35, 215n157 innocence, 85, 181, 194 Inquisition, 23 Instituto de San Isidro, 24, 213n128 intention, 38, 59, 60, 62–3, 136–7 interest, 85 interiority, 105–6 intern, 24 interpres, 15, 21 in utramque partem, 192, 239n51 Ioseph, Padre, 216n184 Irene, 114 Irish, 93, 224n70 Isabel, 95, 132 Isérn, Juan, 214nn150, 153, 215n155 Isocrates, 187 Italian, 8, 15 Italy, 236n10, 241n106 Iudithis tragoedia, 32 Jansenist, 212n118 Janus, 65

Jardine, David, 227n42 Jáuregui, Juan de, 26 jealousy, 67, 119 Jerez, 13 Jerome, St, 160 Jesuits, 3–37, 183–6, 202, 207–17, 236nn14, 15, 19, 20, 22 Jesus, 18, 21–2, 47–8, 122, 171–2 Jesús, Tomás de, 145 Jewish, 172, 208n29 Jezabel, 20, 153 Jimeno, 118, 119 Job, 161 Jocundo, 29, 33 John of the Cross, St, 13 joke, 36, 190 Jolles, André, 218n9 Jones, C.A., 207n2, 232–3n109 Jonsen, Albert, 10, 38, 65, 93, 208n29, 209n51, 217nn203, 1, 221n5, 224n68, 229n82, 230n13, 236nn24–5 Jonson, Ben, 240n62 Jorge, 174 joust, 17, 44 Juan, 44–5, 55, 57–9, 89, 90, 92, 116– 17, 129, 135–7, 149 Juana, 66, 106 Juana, Santa, 162 judge, 101, 120, 126–7, 131, 160, 178 Julia, 125, 225n82 Julián, 47–9, 50, 52, 109–10 justice, 92, 174 Kafka, Franz, 159, 231n73 Kagan, Richard, 211n77 Kahn, Victoria, 239n55 Kallendorf, Craig, 209n58 Kantorowicz, Ernst, 232n101 Kasus, 39, 218n9

Index king, 5, 11, 35, 66, 71–6, 83–8, 102, 113–14, 120, 122, 134–6, 154, 160, 162, 174, 190–1, 194, 196, 222n10, 232n101, 233n135, 237n27 1 Kings, 30 kinship, 77 Kistner, A.L. and M.K., 207n3 knight, 72 Knightsbridge Chair of Casuistical Divinity, 236n24 Kurtz, Barbara E., 191–2, 238nn50–4, 56–7 La Roche, Josette R., 213n135 labyrinth, 96–7, 106, 118–23, 127 Lacan, Jacques, 238nn33, 49 Lafayette, Mme de, 239n55 Laínez, Diego, 7, 78, 113, 215n168, 216n169 Landers, Ann, 184, 237n25 lasciviousness. See lust Last Judgment, 153, 193 Latin, 10, 11, 15, 16, 22, 31, 39, 51, 145, 193, 211n77, 217n7, 218n8, 240n69 Latin America, 93, 200 Latino, 200 laughter, 187 Laurencia, 110 law, 73, 77, 85–7, 98, 101–4, 123, 158, 160, 167–8, 198 lawsuit, 58 lawyer, 34, 101–3, 160 Lea, Henry Charles, 239n56 Ledesma, Diego de, 7, 9 legalism, 172, 193 Leites, Edmund, 143, 224n67 Lelio, 166 Lent, 28 León, 13

287

León, Salvador de, 14; Diálogo de la Fortuna, 31, 216nn180–1; Triumpho del Sabio, 32, 216nn188–9 Leonor, 88, 90, 116 Lérida, 211n76 Lermeño, Guillermo, 219n57 Lesbos, 122 letrado, 149, 156, 165 Leucosirus, 28 Levinas, Emmanuel, 108, 201, 226nn1, 2 lexicography, 39, 54, 145 liberal arts, 210n60 libertinism, 134 liberty of conscience, 168, 176–7, 233nn130, 135 Libro del Cauallero Zifar, 226n9 linguistics, 66, 141, 160, 197–8, 241n101 Litterae annuae, 13 liturgy, 6 loa, 161, 232nn96, 103, 234nn145–6, 158 Loçano, 113, 194 locus amoenus, 178 logistics, 67 logos, 141 Logroño, 13 Long, Edward, 6, 109, 208nn19–21, 24, 226nn99, 5 López, Marcos, 24 López de Alvarado, García, 9, 10, 209n49, 224n63 López de Avalos, Ruy, 153 López de Ayala, Pero, 218n8 López Grigera, Luisa, 213n135 Lord’s Prayer, 170 Lotti, Cossimo, 20 love, 36, 52, 62, 67–9, 70, 72–3, 75–7, 80–1, 84–6, 88, 96–9, 100–4, 114,

288

Index

116, 121, 126, 132, 138, 158, 191, 225n94 loyalty, 69, 70, 73–4, 76, 78–9, 86–8, 168, 202 Loyola, Ignatius (Ignacio), St, 7, 13, 26–7, 214nn150, 153, 215n155 Lucrecia, 115 Lucy, Niall, 229n100 Luis, 55, 94–8, 112 Lukacher, Ned, 39, 152, 159, 160, 178, 207n3, 217n6, 230nn19, 42, 232nn77, 79, 90, 92, 235nn183, 5, 241nn101, 103 Luke, Gospel of, 234n147 lust, 53, 80, 124, 152, 184 Lyceum, 26 lying, 90, 92, 121 Macarrón, 166 Machiavelli, 135, 157 Madrid, 14, 24–6, 148, 197, 210n74, 214nn142–3, 147; Colegio Imperial de, 13, 24, 26 magic writing pad, 201–2, 241nn116, 117 Mahoney, John, 208n30, 209n31, 219n50, 230n12, 231n43, 238n34 Málaga, 13 La Malcontenta, 150 Maldonado, Juan, 7 Malloch, A.E., 239n56 Mallorca, 13 Manfredo, 42, 45–6, 51, 53, 194 Manrique, 73–4, 76 Manrique de Lara, Jerónimo, 24 Mansilla, Cristóforo, 14 Mantua, 115 Manuel, 93, 95–8, 110–12, 122, 225n76

Maravall, José Antonio, 183, 185; La cultura del barroco, 238n31; Teatro y literatura, 236n16, 237n26; 238n32 Marchena, 13 Marcos Villanueva, Balbino, 213n134 Margarita, 124 María, 53, 125–6 Mariana, Juan de, 7, 184 Mark, Gospel of, 234n147 Marlé, René, 217n193 marriage, 92, 99, 116, 131, 139–40 Mars, 128 martyr, 182 Marxism, 3 Mason, H.E., 223n31 masque, 3 mass, liturgical, 158 master, 69, 70–1, 88–9, 113–18, 141 ‘matchmaker’ character, 36 Matos Fragoso, Juan de, 231n66 Matthew, Gospel of, 228n48, 234n147 Matzat, Wolfgang, 237n27 mayor (alcalde), 116 Mayor, 196–7 Mazedo, Francisco de, 26, 214n149 McCabe, William, 17, 211nn78, 88, 98, 212nn107, 118 McConaughy, James L., 212n106 McCready, Amy, 207n3 McKendrick, Melveena, 207n1, 214n141 McNeill, John, 6 McQuade, Paula, 105, 127, 225n93, 228nn60, 62, 236n21 means, 58–9, 62 medicine, 179 medieval, 193, 215n168, 241n106 Medina del Campo, 13, 14 meditatio scenica, 8

Index Medrano, 197 Medrano, Sebastián Francisco, 26 Medusa, 160, 232n81 Megadorus, 18 Melampelo, 28 Melibea, 114 memento mori, 182 memory, 39, 102–3, 107, 201–2 Mencía, 66, 93, 104 Menéndez, Baltasar, 14 Menéndez Peláez, Jesús, 14, 209n55, 210n73, 211nn76, 87, 236n20 Mercader, 32 Mercedarian friar, 23 mercenary, 8 Messina, 12 metaphysics, 141 Mexican, 200 Miguel, 25 military, 8, 9 Miller, Richard B., 6, 64, 208nn22, 26, 221n1, 235n3, 239n56 Millé y Giménez, Juan, 24, 213nn129, 132–3, 216n176 Milton, John, 119, 207n3, 227nn34–5 Minerba, 82–3 Minos, 122 Minotaur, 122 Mira de Amescua, Antonio, 23, 26–7, 66, 204, 212–13n119, 220n93; ‘A las profecías de San Francisco Javier,’ 214n153; El arpa de David, 149, 230n29; El esclavo del demonio, 161, 232n95, 233n121; Las lises de Francia, 174, 234n161; Lo que no es casarse a gusto, 168, 233n130; El mártir de Madrid, 230n31; La mesonera del cielo, 51, 53, 56–7, 125, 218nn19, 30, 219nn34, 64, 220nn72, 74, 84–5, 90,

289

221n98, 228nn56–8, 240n75; No hay dicha ni desdicha hasta la muerte, 222n11; Obligar contra su sangre, 57; El palacio confuso, 234n156; La rueda de la fortuna, 151, 230n39; Ruy López de Avalos, 231n48; La tercera de sí misma, 115, 212–13n119, 220n93, 222nn17, 18, 19, 227n22 misogyny, 140 mistress, 94, 97–8, 115 mnemonics, 10 Mohler, Frank C., 210n63 Moir, D.W., 207n1 Moisés, 34 Molière, 212n118 Molina Meliá, Antonio, 209n44 monarch, 15, 57, 61, 73, 87–8, 184 monk, 30 monologue, 52, 57, 68, 71, 73, 79, 80– 1, 89, 92, 95, 104–8, 112, 120, 129, 197, 216n174, 222n10, 226n4 Monserrate, 26 Monterrey, 13 Montilla, 13 Montmartre, 7 Monzón, 15 Moorish, 127 Morales, Pedro de, 14 moralidad, 17, 18 moralité, 17 Moreto, Agustín, 23, 66, 205; Antíoco y Seleuco, 222n13; La cavtela en la amistad, 154–5, 230n25, 231nn49, 54; El Christo de los milagros, 232n102; La fuerza de la ley, 42, 62, 84, 99, 114, 121, 123, 195, 218n17, 223nn43–4, 224n45, 225nn84–6, 227nn19, 40, 228n49, 240n84; La fuerza del natural, 62; El mejor amigo,

290

Index

el rey, 233n124; La misma conciencia acusa, 42, 84, 124, 159, 195, 218nn22, 24, 219n36, 224nn47–8, 228n53, 232n80, 240n83; La ocasión hace el ladrón, 56; Quien da luego, da dos veces, 124 morisco, 170 Morón Arroyo, Ciriaco, 200, 241n111 mortal sin, 49, 87, 90, 92, 104 Mosse, George L., 221n112 Mothersill, Mary, 208n25 motive, 105 Mouse Trap, 181 Mullaney, Steven, 185, 237n29, 238n34 El Mundo, 35 Munich, 209n35, 215n157 Murcia, 11 murder, 4, 5, 8, 49, 50, 54, 71, 73, 83– 4, 102, 104, 147–8, 156, 176, 188, 196–7 music, 171 mystic writing pad. See magic writing pad Nabal, 28 Nabuchadnezzar, 20 Nadal, Jerónimo, 8 Narciso, 68–9 National Endowment for the Humanities, 146 Nativity. See Christmas Nature, 36, 76–7 Navalcarnero, 13 Navarra, 73 Navarrus. See Azpilcueta, Martín de Naylor, Eric, 218n8 necessity, 58, 62, 84, 221n97 ‘nec recitata,’ 15, 211n79

neoclassical, 227n20 Neoplatonism, 193 neo-Stoicism, 223n39 Neri, Philip, St, 26 New Criticism, 3, 184 Newels, Margarete, 207 New Historicism, 3, 181, 185, 192 newspaper, 236n25 New Testament, 146, 231n43 New World, 200 niece, 139 Nieremberg, Eusebio, 26, 214n149 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 144–5, 178– 9, 198–9, 201, 229nn7, 8, 10, 235nn184–6, 241n105; The Gay Science, 229n8; ‘ “Guilt,” “Bad Conscience,” and the Like,’ 229n9; Human, All Too Human, 229n8 Nise, 42 northern Europe, 20, 238n33 notary, 34 novel, 45, 240n65 Noydens, Benito Remigio: Decisiones prácticas, 9; Práctica de curas, 9, 85, 87, 89, 90, 92, 104, 131, 139, 224nn51, 53, 60, 62, 65–6, 225n89, 228nn67, 69, 229n84 obedience, 75, 80, 82–3, 89 Oberammergau, 20 obligation, 45, 57–63, 68, 70, 73–7, 84, 87, 89, 90, 93, 100, 111, 131, 136–7, 168 Ocaña, 13 occasion, 52–6, 62–3, 84, 95–6, 111, 126, 129, 130, 136, 138, 167, 194, 197 octavas, 27 Octavio, 176 Odysseus, 193

Index Œnone, 114 Oldani, Louis, 212n107 Old Testament, 78, 160, 193 Olson, Glending, 216n168 O’Malley, John, 8, 209nn32, 38–9, 40–1, 209n54, 210n61 One Thousand and One Arabian Nights, 193 onto-phenomenology, 141 Oñate, 13 Operario, 14 Orange, Prince of, 233n135 Oranteo, 122 Original Sin, 178 Oropesa, 13 Orozco Díaz, Emilio, 182, 213n121, 235nn9, 10, 236nn11, 13, 14 orthodoxy, 170, 191 Ortiz, Sancho, 71–3 Oviedo, 13 Oxford University, 184, 227n42, 236n24 Pablos, 25 Padberg, John W., 210n58 Padilla, Antonio de, 23 pagan, 39 painting, 162–3 Palacio, 34 Palas, 81–2 Palencia, 13 Palinodus, 28 Pamplona, 13 Panopticon, 186 Pantoja, 51 papal dispensation, 50, 57, 137 parable, 18 Paradise, 199 paradox, 64, 93, 180 Paradoxos, 28

291

paratheatrical school exercise, 11 pardon, 110 pardoner, 165 parent, 48, 50, 53, 76–7, 102–3 Parker, Alexander, 5, 22, 92–3, 207n1, 208n15, 212n118, 222n10, 224n67, 225n88 Parker, Patricia, 193, 240n62 Parliament, 148–9 parricide, 48, 110 partiality, 85 Pascal, Blaise, 9, 209n45, 239n56 Pasife, 122 Passion play, 20 passions, 36, 62, 73, 84–5, 136–7, 221n116 Pastrana, Juan de, 30 Paterson, Alan, 233n135 pathology, 179 patron, 24 Paul, St, 152, 159–60 Paul III, Pope, 7 pauperes, 24 Pecora, Vincent, 178, 235n184 Pedro, 89, 150, 156 penance, sacrament of. See confession, sacramental penitence, 27, 29, 35, 64–5, 104, 133, 139, 147, 152, 163, 166, 215– 16n168 Pentecost, 16 Peñarroxa, Geronimo de, 23 Peransules, 113–14, 194–5 El peregrino en su patria, 25 Perella, J., 229n91 Pérez de Montalbán, Juan, 26; A lo hecho no ay remedio, y príncipe de los montes, 234n151; Los amantes de Teruel, 231n61; El hijo del serafín, San Pedro de Alcántara, 232n100; La

292

Index

monja alférez, 231n60, 233n128; Los templarios, 233n115 Pérez Pastor, Cristóbal, 213n124 Pérez Ramírez, Juan, 14 periochae, 14 Perkins, William, 120, 227n37 Perlín, Juan, 26, 214n149 perplexity, 93 ‘personality development,’ 36 personification, 125 Peter, 122 Petrona, 158 phallus, 161 phantasm, 63 pharmakon, 141 Phèdre, 115, 212n118, 227n20 Philip II, King, 15, 207n2, 233nn109, 135 Philistine, 120 Phillippy, Patricia, 212n112 philology, 193 Philo of Alexandria, 160 philosophy, 9, 53, 198, 200, 212n114 phronesis, 65 picaresque, 25 Piccus, Jules, 226n9 Pichl, R., 208n28 Pico della Mirandola, Giovanni, 199, 241n107 Picón, V., 14, 15, 211n76 piety, 84 pilgrimage, 49 Pinciano, Alonso López, 187, 238nn41–3 Pineda, Juan de, 14, 24, 26, 213nn138–9, 214n149; Dialogo de prestantissima scienciarum elligenda, 33, 216n191 plague, 11 Plasencia, 13, 20

Plata, Fernando, 55, 220nn79, 91, 228n76 Plato, 26, 186 Plautus, 16 pleasure, 84–5, 127, 140, 240n66 plebeian, 184 poetics, 64, 128, 186–91 poetry, 105 Polo, 150 Ponoto, 216n192 pope, 49, 110, 157 Porcia, 50–1, 59, 70, 124–5 Poza, Juan Bautista, 26, 214n149 praise, 64 preaching, 31, 117, 156, 182, 193, 235–6n10 Prepósito, 14 presence, 51, 63, 66, 141, 178, 199, 235n182 Preto-Rodas, Richard A., 236n10 priest, 3–38, 40, 64–5, 107–8, 112, 184, 212n119, 230n16 Pring-Mill, Robert, 4 prison, 75, 80–1, 91, 93, 116, 136, 157 privado, 71 probabiliorism, 239n56 probabilism, 4, 5, 40, 139, 192, 208n16, 213n120, 218nn13, 14, 15, 222n10, 225n91, 226n4, 229n81, 239n56 Prodigal Son, 18, 19 prologue, 15, 161, 190, 216n170, 238n48 Prometeo, 81, 83 promise, 93 prophecy, 50, 70 prosecutor, 101–2, 160 Prosperity, 233n135 protagonist, 107

Index Protean, 150 Protestant, 6, 7, 19, 168, 184, 233n135 prudence, 26, 34–5, 43, 53, 187, 239n55 Pseudolus, 18, 19 psychoanalysis, 3, 107, 161 psychology, 118, 128, 160, 173, 178, 235n6 psychoterrani, 238n34 pulpit, 20 punish, 73, 83, 101–2, 104, 116, 144– 5, 177, 196, 231n73, 237n28, 238n35 puppet, 20 Purdie, Edna, 212nn102, 105, 217n207 purgatory, 29, 47–9 quaestio, 191–2, 238n50, 239nn51–4, 56–7; quaestio finita, 191; quaestio infinita, 191; quaestiones cognitionis, 192; quaestiones actionis, 192 Quevedo, Francisco de, 24–5, 213nn135, 137–8; ‘Respuesta al Padre Juan de Pineda,’ 213n139; Vida del buscón don Pablos, 214n140 quintillas, 215n155 Quiñones de Benavente, Luis, 231n64 rabbinical disputation, 7 Racine, Jean, 114, 212n118 Ramírez, Román, 127 Ramiro, 134 rape, 131–4 Ratio studiorum, 7, 11, 36, 209– 10n58 Real Academia de la Historia (Royal Academy of History), 14, 25, 210n74, 214nn142–3, 215n167

293

Reales Estudios de la Compañía de Jesús, 26 Reason, 101–3 reason of state, 60–2, 84, 114, 221n116, 227n18 Rector, 14 Reformation, 7, 146, 233n135, 235n7, 238n33 Regalado, Antonio, 4, 5, 23, 41–2, 52, 88, 122, 134, 168, 208n14, 209n50, 213n125, 218n16, 221n116, 223n38, 224n56, 227n18, 228nn45, 75, 230n11, 233nn129, 134 Regius Professorship of Case Divinity, 236n24 Regnum Dei, 35–6, 217n199 relics, 170 Renaissance, 21, 39, 105–6, 158, 181, 185–6, 193, 198–9, 208n3, 212n114, 225n95, 228n62, 230nn19, 28, 231n73, 234n148, 236n21, 239n55, 241n106 Rennert, Hugo, 207n1 reparation, 60 Republic, 87, 186 Return, 208n29 revenge, 8, 41, 55, 79, 101, 195–6 revenge tragedy, 41–2 rhetoric, 15, 143, 168, 191–4, 224n70, 236n14, 239n55; classical, 7, 239n51; judicial, 222n10; medieval, 10 Ribadeneira, Pedro de, 20, 184, 212n108 Ricardo, 190 Richard of Thetford, 193, 240n69 Ricoeur, Paul, 161, 167, 180, 198, 208n29, 233n127, 235n1, 241n104 rigorism, 222n10 Riley, E.C., 238n48

294

Index

ritual, 181 rock music, 93, 224n70 Rodrigo, 54, 89, 90, 98, 166 Rodríguez, Andrés, 14; De methodo studendi, 30–3, 216nn171, 177–9, 187, 190; Dialogo de prestantissima scienciarum elligenda, 33, 216n191 Rodríguez Marín, Francisco, 214n141 Rojas, Fernando de, 114 Rojas Zorrilla, Francisco de: Del rey abajo, ninguno, 87, 219n35, 224n54; Lo que quería ver el marqués de Villena, 233n118; La traición busca el castigo, 164, 232n108 romance, 240n65 romance, 26, 215n155 Romance languages, 198 Roman jurisprudence, 7, 208n29 Romans, St Paul’s letter to the, 159, 231n57, 232n80 Rome, 12, 13, 15, 49, 110, 210n63 Rosamira, 44–5, 113 Rosaura, 85, 129, 131–2 Rothe, Richard, 143–4, 146, 229n2 Roux, Lucette Elyane, 16, 22, 211nn85–6, 212n116, 236n22 Rueda, Lope de, 13; El matón cobarde, 150, 230n35 Ruggerio, Michael J., 182, 212n117, 236n15 Ruiz, Francisco, 26, 214n149 Ruiz, Juan, 24 Ruiz Ramón, Francisco, 207n1 Rusticidad, 34 Sabat de Rivers, Georgina, 106, 225n94 El Sabio, 32 Saer, Juan José, 220n91 sainete, 216n188

saint, 36, 50, 110, 156, 161, 170 Salamanca, 9, 13, 14, 18, 19, 23; University of, 16 Salas, Pedro de, 14 Salas, Pellicer de, 26 Salutati, Coluccio, 39 Samson, 119–20 Sánchez de las Brozas, Francisco (El Brocense), 16 San Hermenegildo, Colegio de (Sevilla), 13, 14, 25, 214n142 San Ignacio, Colegio de, 9, 210n74 San Miguel, Colegio Imperial de (Granada), 213n119 Sancho, 78 Sansón, 153 Santo Oficio. See Inquisition Saussure, Ferdinand de, 39 Sax, Benjamin, 145, 229n10, 235nn185–6 Scaduto, M., 19, 211n97 Scaglione, Aldo, 210n60 scale, 98, 225n82 scenery, 16, 19, 20, 213nn134, 136, 214nn151, 153, 215n155 scepticism, 239n55 Scheherazade, 193 schismatic, 168 Schnitzler, Henry, 217n201 scholasticism, 10, 31, 191, 239n51 ‘scholastici nostri,’ 24 school drama, Jesuit, 3–38, 207–17, 236nn19, 22 scribe, 159, 178, 208n29, 231n73 scruples, 88, 149, 155, 167, 208n29, 230n28, 233n127, 235n1 scruple shops, 184 Scylla, 98, 109 secretary, 159 sectarian, 146

Index secundani, 37 seduction, 87, 150 Segovia, 13 Segura, 13 Segura, Florencio, 209n33, 210nn67, 72, 212nn103–4, 213nn134, 136, 214nn151, 153, 215n155 Seiden, Melvin, 223n32 self-fashioning, 172, 234n148 self-flagellation, 158, 182 self-love, 86 self-preservation, 76 Selig, Karl Ludwig, 214n145 Selius, 18 semantics, 241n101 Seminario Romano, 210nn63–4 sermon, 21–2, 182, 240n69 servant, 69, 71, 88–9, 112–18, 141, 153, 196, 227n20 Seven Deadly Sins, 10 Sevilla (Seville), 13, 14, 20, 25, 34, 71, 73, 214nn141–2 sex, 36, 139–40, 193, 232n77 sexton, 30 Shakespeare, 152, 161, 230n42, 235n7, 240n62; Henry V, 162, 232n97; Henry VIII, 232n77; Macbeth, 207n3, 227n42; Measure for Measure, 223n32 shaman, 179 Shame, 102, 104 Shaw, W. David, 105, 225n92 Shklovskii, Viktor, 193, 240n64 Siebers, Tobin, 93, 224n69 sign, 39 signified, 141 signifier, 141 Sigurdson, Richard, 241n106 Silvio, 68 sin, 28, 35, 85, 87, 89, 90, 92, 104, 115,

295

133–4, 137, 139, 145, 149, 151–2, 155–7, 163, 165, 173, 178, 180, 188, 198–9, 207n2, 209n48, 212n118, 215n168, 224n67, 227n20, 230n16, 241n109 Singleton, Charles, 21, 212n112 Sirera, Josep Lluís, 214n150 sister, 71–2, 77, 96–8, 112, 122 sleep, 176, 178, 181 Slights, Camille Wells, 6, 120, 160, 207n3, 208n23, 227nn36, 38, 232n85, 239n56 Sloman, Albert E., 121, 220n92, 227n43 Smith, Dawn, 215n159 snake, 158, 166 social class, 30, 107–42 Society of Jesus. See Jesuits Sodom, 193 Sol, 44–5, 54, 58, 115, 136 Solercio, 31–2 soliloquy, 80, 104–7, 120, 123–7 Solomon, King, 30, 32 son, 77–9, 102–3, 137, 140, 154 sonnet, 106 sophistry, 31 Sophobulus, 18 Sophocles, 77, 223n32 sorcery, 127, 168 Soria, 13 Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, 200, 225n94, 229n94; Los empeños de una casa, 57, 88–9, 224nn59, 61 Sotela, 32 Soto, Francisco de, 145 soul, 31, 67, 91, 98–9, 100, 102–3, 121, 127, 129–30, 132, 138, 146, 159–61, 166, 171, 173, 177, 180–1, 190, 198–202 ‘soy quien soy,’ 185

296

Index

Speroni, Sperone, 186, 238nn37, 39 ‘splitting the difference,’ 4, 82 Spur, 201 Starr, G.A., 208n3, 236n25 state, 87 Stelten, Leo F., 217–18n7 stipendiati, 24 Stroud, Matthew D., 238n49 student, 3–38, 47 Suárez, Francisco, 9, 23 subaltern, 76 subjectivity, 198 subornation, 73 subplot, 107 substantiation, 44 subversion, 107, 164, 185, 192 suelta, 214n147 sugar-coated pill, 21 suicide, 110, 198 Sullivan, Henry, 5, 23, 190–1, 208n16, 209n44, 213nn120, 122–3, 238nn33, 49 summa, 31, 38, 209n47 superego, 180, 235n5 supernatural, 42, 47, 107, 123–7, 141 surveillance, 184 sword, 35, 44, 78–9, 85, 97–8, 101, 157–8, 163–4 syllogism, 31, 115 symbolic economy, 185 symptomatology, 179 syneidesis, 145, 160 synonym, 57 synteresis, 113, 160 Talavera, 13 Tanisdorus, 27 taxonomy, 6, 164 Taylor, Jeremy, 216n191, 230n42 teacher, 3–38

teatro concionatorio, 17 Teatro Español del Siglo de Oro database, 40, 146, 220nn69, 89, 230n30 teatro pedagógico, 17 teeth, 157–8 teleology, 63, 198 temple, 182, 235nn9, 10, 236nn11, 13, 14 temporality, 64, 105 temptation, 93 Ten Commandments, 10, 90, 170, 209n48 Tenorio, Pedro, 176 Tentler, Thomas, 209n47 Teodosio, 147 tercera, 114 Terence, 16 Teresa, 158 Teresa of Jesus, St, 26, 158 Teseo (Theseus), 122 Theatines, 24, 30–1, 216n176 theft, 56, 83–4 theology, 7, 23, 26, 47, 49, 52, 106, 143, 148–9, 165, 194, 208n30, 217n193, 219n50, 229n2, 230n12, 231n43, 238nn34, 50, 239nn51–4, 56–7 Theophilus, 18, 19 Tillich, Paul, 144, 146, 180, 199, 229n5, 230nn18, 20, 232n86, 235n2, 241nn102, 108 Time (Tiempo), 35, 79, 125 1 Timothy, 120, 152 Tirso de Molina (Gabriel Téllez), 23– 4, 27, 66, 200, 204; ‘A San Isidro Labrador,’ 27; Amar por razón de estado, 62, 233n117; Amar por señas, 62, 221n117; Amazonas en las Indias, 233n141; Los balcones de Madrid, 233n136; El burlador de Sevilla, 27,

Index 66, 116, 176, 215n157, 221n7, 227nn29, 30, 234n174; Cautela contra cautela, 234n176; Cómo han de ser los amigos, 73, 76, 223nn28, 30; La dama del Olivar, 234n171; Desde Toledo a Madrid, 196, 240nn87–9, 90–1, 241nn91–100; Diálogos teológicos, 215n154; Don Gil de las calzas verdes, 66, 129, 157, 221n8, 231n65, 233n116, 234n143; Doña Beatriz de Silva, 229n93, 233n114; Entremés famoso: La malcontenta, 230n34; Los hermanos parecidos, 233n120; Marta la piadosa, 230n23, 234n157; La mujer que manda en casa, 27, 215n159; No hay peor sordo, 234n142; Palabras y plumas, 229n95; Quien da luego, da dos veces, 228n52; La Santa Juana, segunda parte, 162, 232n99 titles, casuistical, 52, 56, 87 Toledo, 13, 197, 210n74 Toledo, Francisco de, 7 Tomás, 151 Tomitano, 31 tongue, 161 Toulmin, Stephen, 10, 38, 65, 93, 208n29, 209n51, 217nn203, 1, 221n5, 224n68, 229n82, 230n13, 236nn24–5 Toulouse, 9 Torres, Jerónimo de, 7 trace, 37–9, 52, 62–6, 70, 81, 105, 107–8, 139, 141–2, 147, 152, 179, 192–3, 200–2, 226nn1, 2 Tragaedia Jezabelis, 27 La tragedia de San Hermenegildo, 20, 211n76, 213nn136, 138 tragedy, 12, 15, 16, 20, 22, 28–9, 41, 71, 73, 106, 112, 182, 187–8, 194,

297

208n3, 212n115, 218n8, 222n10, 224n67, 225nn88, 93, 95, 228n62, 236n21, 238n49 tragicomedia, 3, 16, 22, 183 tramoya, 20 treachery, 75, 77, 83–4, 97, 99, 134, 138 Treacy, Mary Jane, 224n70 treason. See treachery A Treatise of Equivocation, 227n42 trial scene, 160 tribunal, 48 Tricongius, 18, 19 Trigueros, 13 Truth, 101 Tuscan dialect, 15 tutiorism, 239n56 twentieth century, 200 Übermensch, 198–9 Ulysses, 119 Understanding, 119 United States, 200 Urraca, 54 Usón, Juan Antonio, 26, 214n149 utilitarianism, 223n32 uxoricide, 4, 5, 8, 104 Valencia, 13, 15, 18, 19, 174 Valente, Joseph, 224n70 Valladolid, 9, 13; Colegio de, 13 Vásquez, Pedro, 24 Vega Carpio, Lope de, 23–4, 26–7, 49, 50, 66, 73, 159, 203, 207n1, 213nn129, 138, 214n150, 215n160, 216n176; ‘A San Ignacio de Loyola cuando colgó la espada en Monserrate,’ 26; Amar sin saber a quién, 235n177; El amigo por fuerça, 231n70, 234n166; El animal de

298

Index

Vngria, 232n98; El animal profeta, 47, 52, 109, 219nn48–9, 51–6, 58–9, 220nn70–1, 226nn6, 7; El Argel fingido, 230n33; El Arte nuevo, 3, 22, 182, 188, 238nn45–6; La boda entre dos maridos, 231n57; El Cardenal de Belén, 232n78; El castigo sin venganza, 66, 102, 137, 188–9, 222n9, 225n87, 228n80, 231n72, 238n47; La corona merecida, 231n53; El cuerdo loco, 233n138; El despertar á quien duerme, 232n105; El divino africano, 230n21; La doncella Teodor, 234n173; La estrella de Sevilla, 222n21, 223nn22–7; La fuerza lastimosa, 231n55; El hijo de la iglesia, 231n67; La inocente Laura, 235n179; La inocente sangre, 233n139; Isagoge a los Reales Estudios de la Compañía de Jesús, 26, 214n148; Jorge toledano, 234n165; Juan de Dios, y Antón Martín, 234n154; El laberinto de Creta, 122, 228n47; Lo fingido verdadero, 182, 236n12; Lo que hay que fiar del mundo, 152, 230n40; Loa: Muertes enojos, agrauios, 231n46; Los locos de Valencia, 174, 234n160; El mejor mozo de España, 231n50, 234nn150, 163; La nueva victoria del marqués de Santa Cruz, 231n74; La ocasión perdida, 55, 220n80; Las pobrezas de Reinaldos, 233n137; Porfiando vence amor, 235n178; La primera información, 218n12; El príncipe despeñado, 232n94; Santa Teresa de Jesús, 158, 231n71; El secretario de sí mismo, 230n22; La serrana de Tormes, 151, 230n36; Los torneos de Aragón, 232n77; Los tres diamantes, 235n180;

La Vega del Parnaso, 214nn147–8; El verdadero amante, 230n38, 231n51 Vélez de Guevara, Luis, 26; Reinar después de morir, 67, 83, 222n14 vendetta. See revenge venereal disease, 8 Venice, 9 Ventrone, Paola, 236n10 Venus, 128 verification, 43–4, 89, 90, 111, 114 verisimilitude, 15 vernacular, 12, 15, 146 verse, 15 vice, 11, 25–6, 30, 81–5 Vieira, Antonio, 236n10 Villacastín, Tomás de, 14 Villagarcía, 13, 14 Violante, 77 virginity, 126–7, 132–3 virtue, 11, 25–6, 81–5, 189, 207n2, 209n33, 211n96 Volseo, 157 voyeurism, 93 Vullhorst, Udo, 229n2 Wardropper, Bruce, 17, 183, 211n91, 236n17 Wars of Religion, 8 wave imagery, 118–23, 127 wedding, 92, 197 Wenley, R.M., 208n17 whoredom, 54, 127 wife, 28, 87, 99, 101–2, 104, 190 wife-murder. See uxoricide Wilks, John S., 208n3 will, 102–3 Wilson, Edward M., 207 Wilson, Margaret, 207n1 wine, 11

Index witness, 101, 159–60, 178 woman, 11, 15, 30, 32, 36, 76, 92–3, 111, 114, 120, 127, 227n20 Works of Mercy, 10 worm, 161, 178, 200 Xavier, Francis, St, 26–7 Ximena, 54, 78, 99 Ximénez, Francisco, 14; Diálogo hecho en Sevilla, 28, 32, 215n162, 216n186

299

Yanitelli, Victor R., 212n114, 213n127 yoke, 161 Zabaleta, Juan de, 182 Zaragoza, 13 Zatlin, Phyllis, 241n110