The Configuration of the Spanish Public Sphere: From the Enlightenment to the Indignados 9781789202366

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THE CONFIGURATION OF THE SPANISH PUBLIC SPHERE

Studies in Latin American and Spanish History Series Editors: Scott Eastman, Creighton University, USA Vicente Sanz Rozalén, Universitat Jaume I, Spain Editorial Board: Carlos Illades, Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana, Mexico Mercedes Yusta, Université Paris 8, France Xosé Manoel Núñez-Seixas, Ludwig-Maximilians München Universität, Germany Dominique Soucy, Université de Franche-Comté, France Gabe Paquette, Johns Hopkins University, USA Karen Racine, University of Guelph, Canada David Sartorius, University of Maryland, USA Claudia Guarisco, El Colegio Mexiquense, Mexico Natalia Sobrevilla Perea, University of Kent, United Kingdom This series bridges the divide between studies of Latin America and peninsular Spain by employing transnational and comparative approaches that shed light on the complex societies, cultures, and economies of the modern age. Focusing on the cross-pollination that was the legacy of colonialism on both sides of the Atlantic, these monographs and collections explore a variety of issues such as race, class, gender, and politics in the Spanish-speaking world. Volume 5 The Configuration of the Spanish Public Sphere: From the Enlightenment to the Indignados Edited by David Jiménez Torres and Leticia Villamediana González Volume 4 The Brazilian Truth Commission: Local, National and Global Perspectives Edited by Nina Schneider Volume 3 José Antonio Primo De Rivera: The Reality and Myth of a Spanish Fascist Leader Joan Maria Thomàs Volume 2 Conflict, Domination, and Violence: Episodes in Mexican Social History Carlos Illades Volume 1 Metaphors of Spain: Representations of Spanish National Identity in the Twentieth Century Edited by Javier Moreno Luzón and Xosé M. Núñez Seixas

The Configuration of the Spanish Public Sphere From the Enlightenment to the Indignados

Edited by

David Jiménez Torres and Leticia Villamediana González

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published in 2019 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2019 David Jiménez Torres and Leticia Villamediana González All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Jiménez Torres, David, 1986- editor. | Villamediana González,   Leticia, editor. Title: The configuration of the Spanish public sphere : from the   Enlightenment to the indignados / edited by David Jiménez Torres and   Leticia Villamediana González. Description: New York : Berghahn Books, 2019. | Series: Studies in Latin   American and Spanish history ; volume 5 | Includes bibliographical   references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019007905 (print) | LCCN 2019011825 (ebook) | ISBN   9781789202366 (ebook) | ISBN 9781789202359 (hardback : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Political participation--Spain--History. | Social   participation--Spain--History. | Public opinion--Spain--History. |   Communication in politics--Spain--History. | Mass media--Political   aspects--Spain--History. | Political culture--Spain--History. |   Spain--Politics and government. | Spain--Social conditions. Classification: LCC JN8341 (ebook) | LCC JN8341 .C656 2019 (print) | DDC  323/.0420946--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019007905 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-78920-235-9 hardback ISBN 978-1-78920-236-6 ebook

Contents

å List of Illustrations vii Introduction  A Spanish Public Sphere? David Jiménez Torres and Leticia Villamediana González

1

Part I  The Eighteenth Century Chapter 1  Spain and Habermas’ Public Sphere: A Revisionist View 25 Sally-Ann Kitts Chapter 2  Benito Jerónimo Feijoo in the Initial Stages of the Spanish Public Sphere: Some Considerations Noelia García Díaz

44

Chapter 3  ‘Of National Politeness’: Civility and National Character in Spanish Travel Accounts to Great Britain Mónica Bolufer Peruga

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Part II  The Nineteenth Century Chapter 4  News, Censorship and Propaganda in the Gazeta de Mexico during the Summer of 1808 Francisco A. Eissa-Barroso

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Chapter 5  The Role of the Military in the Development of a Spanish Liberal Public Sphere (1820–23)   Appendix: The Sources Richard Meyer Forsting

109 123

Chapter 6  The Shape of the Public Sphere in Spain (1860–99): A Dream of Generalities Andrew Ginger

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vi

Contents

Part III  The Twentieth Century Chapter 7  New Women for the Public Space: Aurora Rodríguez Carballeira and the Eugenic Mother (1879–1956) Alba González Sanz Chapter 8  Miguel de Unamuno’s Notion of Public Sphere Stephen G.H. Roberts

155 174

Chapter 9  Spanish Modern Times: A Cinematographic National Sphere in the First Third of the Twentieth Century 192 Marta García Carrión Chapter 10  What Was Public Opinion in the Francoist ‘New State’? Information, Publics and Rumour in the Spanish Postwar Era (1939–45) Francisco Sevillano

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Part IV  The Twenty-First Century Chapter 11  The Political Cartoonist as Intellectual: Cultural Hegemony and Consensus in Crisis Daniel Mourenza

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Chapter 12  The Old, the New and the Possible: Challenging Discourses and the Narrative Breach in Post-Neoliberal Crisis Spain 258 Federico López-Terra Chapter 13  The 15-M Movement: Reinvigorating the Public Sphere in Spain Georgina Blakeley

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Conclusion 300 Leticia Villamediana González and David Jiménez Torres Further Reading 303 Index 311

Illustrations

å Figures Figure 11.1

El Roto, Hermano Lobo, 202, 20 March 1976, p. 14. Figure 11.2 El Roto, Hermano Lobo, 201, 22 May 1976, p. 6. Figure 11.3 Ramón, Hermano Lobo, 191, 3 January 1976, p. 4. Figure 11.4 Ramón, Hermano Lobo, 202, 20 March 1976, p. 14. Figure 11.5 Chumy Chúmez, Hermano Lobo, 194, 24 January 1976, p. 3. Figure 11.6 El Roto, El País, 18 May 2011. Figure 11.7 Manel Fontdevila, Público, 11 April 2010. Figure 11.8 Manel Fontdevila, eldiario.es, 14 January 2013. Figure 11.9 El Roto, El País, 16 January 2014. Figure 11.10 Bernardo Vergara, eldiario.es, 4 April 2013. Figure 11.11 El Roto, El País, 14 September 2011. Figure 12.1 Evolution of Spanish employment rates. Figure 12.2 Evolution of Spaniards’ perception of the economic ­situation. Figure 12.3 Bernardo Vergara, eldiario.es, 5 June 2014.

239 239 241 242 242 247 248 249 251 252 253 266 266 270

Table Table 5.1 Political affiliation, editors and military involvement in selected Madrid and Cadiz newspapers.

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Introduction A Spanish Public Sphere? David Jiménez Torres and Leticia Villamediana González

å Public opinion has been circulating for many days and even years without a real meaning, it having proved impossible until today to fix one . . . everyone has understood it in their own way and according to how it may benefit their particular interests and opinions. —La Abeja española, 1813

What is the public sphere and how has it operated in Spain from the Enlightenment to the present day? These are the two core questions that drive the focus of this book and of its individual chapters. They are also two questions that are clearly interrelated. How we conceptualise such an ambiguous and multifaceted phenomenon as the ‘public sphere’ will determine how we chart its presence and historical evolution in the Spanish case. And tracing this presence and evolution will, in turn, throw up empirical data that will help us refine our understanding of the public sphere at a transnational level. Our aim in this introduction is to flesh out the approach that this book takes towards both these issues, and what value this approach has in furthering our understanding of them. Here we will also expand into a number of issues that make the Spanish case interesting to debates over the nature of the public sphere, before foregrounding the content of the rest of the volume. It is worth pointing out that Spain has a peculiar relationship with the idea of the public sphere. When the German philosopher Jürgen Habermas developed his formulation of this concept, he did so by analysing the historical evolution of three European nations (Great Britain, France and Germany) as well as an American one (the United States). It was there that Habermas observed the rise of the coffee houses, the early periodical press and other forms of communication and sociability that he saw as crucial in the configuration of a bourgeois public sphere. Thus, the most influential account of what the public sphere ‘was’ (or, more accurately, ‘was meant to be’) and

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how it came about during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries left Spain out of its empirical framework. When discussing the rise of the bourgeois public sphere, then, leading scholars did not see Spain as an important point of reference. For instance, while Barker and Burrows’ Press, Politics and the Public Sphere in Europe and North America (1760–1820) provides a fascinating, albeit incomplete, look at the role of the press in politics in Western culture in the Revolutionary Era, Spain is not included in the study. For the most part, this omission is a result of the historiography of the Spanish eighteenth century, a period that was wrongly – as the three first chapters of this volume will demonstrate – considered by some critics as an infertile parenthesis between the Spanish Golden Age and the Romantic period. Nowadays, however, the story is very different. Much of the popular and academic discourse surrounding our contemporary public sphere highlights the increasingly important role played by online media and resources. It is generally accepted that the onset of the digital age has transformed the Western public sphere in a number of ways. And, when it comes to discussing the first tangible sociopolitical repercussions of this transformation of the public sphere, most authors will refer to the demonstrations that took place in Spain in 2011 (what is generally referred to as the indignados or 15-M movement) and the repercussions that this has had over the years in the country’s political makeup – particularly given the rise of new political parties Podemos and Ciudadanos. There is, indeed, a smooth progression from TIME magazine’s naming of ‘You’ (meaning the individual content generator in the World Wide Web) as the 2006 Person of the Year and its designating ‘The Protester’ – with explicit reference to the Spanish i­ ndignados – as its Person of the Year for 2011. In a world where the public sphere is being redefined by the openness and connectivity fostered by the Internet, the type of mobilisation this has allowed (wide-reaching, publicity-oriented, content-generating and diffusely led) is, many accounts suggest, best exemplified by a citizens’ movement in Spain. Even more recently, online connectivity has proven fundamental in the mobilisation of pro- and anti-independence Catalans throughout the ongoing standoff between separatists in that region and the central government and other state structures. We can thus see how the nation that was marginalised from accounts of the public sphere that hinged on bourgeois sociability and print media is now a fundamental point of reference in accounts of the public sphere during the digital age. That this change could have taken place is, in one sense, a testimony of the transformations in Spain over the past 300 years and of the ways in which they have been interpreted. From the beginning of the

Introduction

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eighteenth century, Spain has participated in all the major movements and transformations that we have come to associate with European modernisation: a transitioning away from the structures of the ancien régime to those of a modern liberal polity, a transformation from a primarily rural and agricultural society to an urban and service-based one, a gradual increase in literacy rates until the achievement of full alphabetisation in the second half of the twentieth century, the concomitant appearance of mass culture(s), technological transformations from the railroad to the digital revolution, a transformation in gender roles towards greater equality among the sexes and greater openness to nonheteronormative options, etc. It has experienced many of the political regimes we have come to associate with modernity, such as nineteenth-century liberal constitutionalism, parliamentary republics, military dictatorships (in some cases, as in the long rule of General Francisco Franco, with significant borrowings from totalitarianism) and, in recent decades, full Western democracy – with all its caveats, limitations and discontents. However, many of these transformations have taken place in a later, less recognisable and more fractious manner than how they happened in other countries, particularly France, Great Britain, Germany or the United States. This has given rise to a recurring theme in scholarship on modern Spain: the question of this country’s normality-or-not as regards processes whose normative forms are deemed to be found elsewhere. Political and economic historians have thus asked themselves whether there was a bourgeois revolution in Spain in the same way that literary scholars have wondered whether there was a Spanish Enlightenment/Romanticism/Realism/Modernism. Of course, this is a selective understanding of ‘normality’, whereby the leading industrialised countries are taken to be representatives of a normative version of modernity. But beyond the problems that this logic may pose, it casts an influential shadow over the issue of the public sphere in Spain. Habermas’ linking of a robust bourgeois public sphere with the processes of European modernisation makes the study of the former a sensible fulcrum for questions over Spain’s adherence to the latter. Thus, it is easy to find claims that present the formation of a Spanish public sphere in Spain as faulty or incomplete. In his discussion of eighteenth-century Spanish academies, for example, and in comparing them to their British or French equivalents, Ruiz Torres (2008: 322–27) argues that: [R]oyal patronage was necessary for the survival of these tribunals of reason, and this speaks volumes about the as-yet difficult separation

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between the private public sphere and the realm of power of the absolute monarchy. In the United Kingdom, where the political system allowed for a greater degree of liberty, things were very different, but in Spain academies underwent a similar process to that which had taken place in France under the reign of Louis XIV. They became institutions under the patronage and protection of the king . . . ­outside of them there could be intellectuals who were independent and critical of servile attitudes towards the king, like Voltaire and the other French ‘philosophers’, but this attitude barely manifested itself in Spain. The subordination of the private public sphere to the governmental one had a negative impact among us on the development of a public opinion which was not mediated by political power.

The study of the public sphere in Spain is thus strongly related to some of the paradigms through which Spanish history has been studied – something that many of the chapters in the present volume will attest to in their engagement with existing scholarship on their topic. But if the public sphere says something about Spain, we should also consider that Spain says something about the public sphere. In other words, the particularities of the Spanish case also highlight the very polysemy and adaptability of the term itself. Habermas famously defined it (in his 1962 classic Strukturwandel der Öffentlichkeit, translated into English as The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere) as a realm between the individual and the state, a space of free inquiry and discussion where differences of social status were bracketed, in which private citizens gathered to form a cohesive public, and that was fundamental in fostering the type of social modernisation that marked the passage from the structures of the ancien régime to advanced bourgeois democracies. Although Habermas himself (as Kitts reminds us in Chapter 1 of this book) was referring to an ideal conception of the public sphere rather than a historical reality, the pretended normativity of his definition has come under sustained criticism over the past few decades. The book was born in controversy and has continued to spark it since then. Scholars have examined how the ideal of the public sphere actually operated in historical practice, while also projecting the concept into the present and using it to inform new research and new critical theory. Critics such as Nancy Fraser have pointed out that the public sphere, as conceived by Habermas, fails both as a normative ideal and as the description of a historical process: in the first instance, because ‘a’ public sphere would be less preferable than a multiplicity of competing publics, where previously ‘subaltern counterpublics’ could challenge dominant discourses. Moreover, Landes (1988) and Fraser (1992), among many others, have argued that the ideal of the

Introduction

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bourgeois public sphere served, historically, as a legitimation of new and/or continued forms of class and gender domination. The long and often polemical afterlife of Habermas’ thesis is thus proof that, while we find it useful to talk of a ‘public sphere’ as a feature of modern Western societies, the precise definition of this term and the conceptual tools we should draw on to study it remain a point of disagreement. Moreover, study of the Spanish public sphere also sheds a unique light on some of these problems, such as the relationship between public sphere and nationalism, the role of religion in the public sphere, the issue of who and through what social dynamics ends up occupying a central role in public debate, and the links between the public sphere and civil rights.

The Public Sphere and Nation-Building The concept of the public sphere dovetails strongly into one of the main sources of interest in modern Spain: nationalism and nation-building. Contemporary scholarship on the issue has in recent decades been strongly influenced by the ‘weak nationalisation’ thesis, according to which Spain’s nation-building process from the end of the eighteenth century through to the beginning of the twenty-first century – with particular emphasis on the ‘age of nationalism’ in the nineteenth century – would have been substantially weaker than those in other countries. This would explain why Spanish nationalism and the Spanish liberal state had not achieved the success of, say, their French counterparts in terms of nationalising the masses. And this would serve as an explicative key for many of the presumed particularities in contemporary Spanish history, such as the country’s fractious evolution towards liberal democracy, the persistence of civil conflict well into the twentieth century, the difficult emergence of a state whose legitimacy was based on secular values and citizens’ rights, the complicated relationship with internal linguistic and cultural plurality, etc. This is relevant to examinations of the Spanish public sphere if we consider that two of the leading theorists of studies on nationalism and nation-building, Ernest Gellner and Benedict Anderson, emphasised that nationalism needs a ‘national culture’. The latter would, in effect, operate as a nationalised space in which communication would be both possible and frequent, both in practical and in symbolic terms. To a certain, extent, then, one could argue that the process of nationalisation would overlap with the process of forming a national public sphere. But this raises the crucial question of the relationship

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to political power. One of the main strands in contemporary imaginations of the Spanish nation has been the sense of a disconnect between political elites and the Spanish ‘people’, understood as the repository of national essences. We might, for example, think of the success of Ortega y Gasset’s metaphor of an España oficial and an España vital, which would lead two separate existences; a metaphor that influenced different prescriptions of nationalisation from above (from those of the Partido Reformista in the 1910s to those of the Falange Española in the 1930s). Ortega’s metaphor posited that one of Spain’s failures was the incapacity of the public sphere to channel the arguments of the España vital into the policies of the España oficial. The public sphere’s separation from the realm of political power would thus be deleterious for national modernisation and for the modern project of a truly and organically ‘nationalised’ state; in Ortega’s words, the problem was the existence of ‘dos Españas que viven juntas y que son perfectamente extrañas’ (two Spains that live together and yet remain perfectly separate from one another) (Ortega y Gasset 1966: 273). Again, the issue here is what is the right degree of separation between the nation-state and the public sphere: even going beyond the question of influence on political actors, would state-sponsored initiatives to foment a nationalised sphere of communications, by improving infrastructures or by favouring one official language over others, not be considered an important part of the process whereby a public sphere is formed? Indeed, while most of the ‘weak nationalisation’ thesis is based on the presumed failure of Spanish institutions such as the army or the educational system in their drive to generate social cohesion across the national territory, or on the failures of successive governments in terms of creating modern infrastructures that would make the ideal of a shared national space a reality, much emphasis is also placed on the Spanish state’s inability to establish a linguistically homogeneous public sphere throughout the country, or in the failure at successfully integrating within its institutions and frameworks those communities whose mother tongue differed from that of the central state. This links very clearly with the issue of minority cultures and languages such as Basque, Catalan and Galician, and the role they have played throughout the centuries in the Spanish public sphere. At times marginalised and stigmatised by central government policies that favoured Castilian as ‘the’ national language, and at times vigorously vindicated by local elites and civil organisations in more propitious political circumstances – such as the early twentieth century or the post-1978 Estado de las Autonomías – they form a fascinating case study for the question of whether, in plurilingual societies, we can

Introduction

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truly speak of ‘a’ public sphere or of a multiplicity of publics instead. Publications and rites of sociability carried out in Basque, Catalan and Galician have often set themselves up as separate from those carried out in the wider, Spanish-speaking context. To the extent that they have, at certain moments and in the hands of certain historical actors, attempted to operate as the basis for cultural and political projects that would be distinct from those in Spain as a whole, we could consider them to operate as ‘counter-publics’. Nancy Fraser’s point that ‘participation means being able to speak in one’s own voice’ adopts a particularly pertinent and thought-provoking character in these cases (Gripsrud et al. 2010). Indeed, in their vindication of the use of minority languages as vehicles for communication and culture, movements like the Catalan Renaixença or the Galician Rexurdimento postulated the existence of public spheres that would in some ways be separate from the wider, Castilian-language one. However, it remains difficult to consider the Basque Country, Catalonia or Galicia as functioning in the modern period within their own, hermetically sealed public spheres. On the one hand, a large number of Basque, Catalan and Galician authors and thinkers have participated in the same public debates as those from the rest of Spain, and, indeed, had great hand in shaping them: Miguel de Unamuno, Emilia Pardo Bazán, Eugenio d’Ors, Fernando Savater, Jon Juaristi and Josep Ramoneda are good examples of this. On the other hand, the bilingual social reality of these communities (particularly in the twentieth century) as well as the reach of national means of mass communication such as newspapers, radio and television make it difficult to think of hermetically sealed public spheres in those communities. This is particularly the case with Basque, with its low rate of native monolingual speakers even in the nineteenth century, and where even the more radically identity-based movements have operated fundamentally in Spanish. It is therefore more plausible to think of linguistically distinct spheres that nevertheless overlap and communicate in fundamental ways, and that are hard to extricate from one another. Thus, in the case of literature written in Catalonia, Martí Monterde (2013: 68–70) has argued that ‘in Catalonia there are, and have been for a very long time . . . two completely different literary systems’; yet this makes Catalonia ‘an interliterary community’, or what he later reformulates as a ‘doubly interliterary community’. Most recently, Vila-Sanjuan (2018) has vindicated the centuries-old tradition of Castilian-language Catalan culture. Another interesting point in this regard is the relationship between the public spheres in minority languages and the relationship to power.

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To the extent that Basque, Catalan and Galician were sidelined and stigmatised during the Franco period, for example, and thus largely confined to the domestic sphere, we could consider them as having gone through a process of nonpublicness as a result of the actions being undertaken by political leaders. Later, the policies of linguistic ‘normalisation’ (i.e. promotion of the public use of these languages) pursued during the democratic period have linked a revitalised public use of these languages to powerful devolved governments and administrations, who have sponsored their use through public subsidies and other state-sponsored initiatives. While there are currently more cultural products, media outlets and avenues of monolingual communication open for Basque, Catalan and Galician speakers than probably at any other point in Spanish history, this dependence on public policy questions the tenet that a public sphere must be separate from political power. Again speaking about the Catalan case, Josep Antoni Fernández (2008: 17) has spoken of a double discontent that would be ‘constitutive of the contemporary Catalan cultural camp’: discontent at Catalan culture’s presumed subaltern status to Spanish culture and discontent at culture’s subordination to political power. Authors like Valentí Puig (2012, 2014, 2015) have even questioned whether institutional projects to create a mass culture in a minority language do not generate their own problems in terms of reducing overall quality and creating a thematic solipsism around issues that concern public bodies, such as the benefits of independence from Spain. It is also worth noticing that powers that affect the public sphere in these communities do not necessarily have to be institutional or to be fundamentally linked to linguistic issues. Indeed, one of the fundamental issues affecting the Basque public sphere between the 1960s and the 2010s was the spectre of violence cast by the terrorist group Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA), which targeted not only Spanish police but also journalists and intellectuals who expressed views contrary to those of radical Basque nationalism. An important driver for research into contemporary Basque culture and society has thus been the effect that the existence of terrorist violence has on public discussion and social dynamics. There are other historical instances in the Spanish case that throw up interesting questions over the public sphere’s relationship to nationhood and nation-building. We might consider, for example, the importance of the exile communities that Spain’s fractious political history has generated, from the austracistas who supported the Habsburg candidacy to the Spanish throne in the War of Spanish Succession, to the liberals who had to seek refuge in London following absolutist restoration in the first half of the nineteenth century, to the Republicans

Introduction

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who had to leave Spain following the Francoist victory in 1939. Many of these exile communities created their own publications and their own sites of sociability, yet there are also numerous instances of exchanges between them and the Spain they had left behind, as well as plenty of cases of integration of their works and their ideas into national culture once the circumstances that forced their exile changed. The issue of public spheres beyond the borders of peninsular Spain also points to the important relationship between Spanish culture and politics and those of Spanish America. This is worthy of consideration not only during the period prior to the achievement of political independence (the early nineteenth century in the majority of cases and the 1890s in the case of Cuba and Puerto Rico), but also in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The frequent intellectual exchanges between Spain and its former colonies, as well as the presence and participation of public intellectuals (such as Ortega y Gasset, Max Aub, Gabriel García Márquez and Mario Vargas Llosa) in more than one national public sphere at the same time, once again bring into question whether we can think of singular, cohesive public spheres or, rather, of realms of discursive exchange that transcend national boundaries. This is particularly pertinent when we examine the various projects for pan-Hispanic cultural identity that were taken up by various cultural and political groups throughout the years, and that were often predicated on a strengthening of intellectual and cultural exchanges among Spanish-speaking countries and the creation of a truly pan-Hispanic sphere of shared discussion.

Reason and Religion Modern Spanish history also provides ample evidence of one of the primary tension points in the idea of the public sphere: its relation to religion. The strong link that Habermas established between the appearance of a public sphere and the ideals of the Enlightenment (and, specifically, the idea that public discussions should be carried out on the basis of ‘reason’ rather than faith or dogma) posits a framework that equates the emergence of a public sphere with a substantive, and increasing, secularisation of society. The Spanish state’s strong relationship with Catholicism throughout the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as well as the role that the Church played – both formally and informally – in regulating what could and could not be discussed in Spanish society, would thus have been an impediment to the development of a public

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sphere. Ruiz Torres (2008: 471), in reference to the late eighteenth century, has argued that ‘the negative effects of orthodox Catholicism’s predominance in the formation of an enlightened public sphere are evident’. This type of argument could be extended well through the first two-thirds of the twentieth century if we consider the role that Church censors played in the regulation of public discussion during the Franco dictatorship. And yet, if we take the wider view, we might see the strong presence of Catholicism in Spanish society throughout the modern era as in some ways acting as a stimulus on the public sphere. For one of the most sustained and intense debates in modern Spain has been the public role that religion should have in a society whose state was officially Catholic and in which the Church wielded enormous power and authority. Indeed, the privateness or publicness of religion has in itself been one of the strongest spurs to public debate in Spain, in a similar way to what happened in neighbouring countries such as France or Italy, and in a manner that complicates the neatness of the distinction between private matters and matters of general interest. We might think of the strong public controversies occasioned by literary works that dealt with the intersection between religion, private conduct and public life, such as Leopoldo Alas’ La regenta (1884) or Benito Pérez Galdós’ Electra (1901). Or we might think about the work of influential lay Catholic intellectuals like Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo or Ramiro de Maeztu, whose interventions in public debates explicitly hinged on their faith as the basis for arguments regarding the present and desired future of Spain. We might also consider the importance of figures and organisations like Ángel Herrera Oria and the Asociación Católica Nacional de Propagandistas, whose decision that Catholicism needed to have a vigorous presence in the public sphere (through periodicals, public lectures and sites of sociability) helped adapt Catholic social identities to the political frameworks of pluralistic societies. Lastly, Antonio Cazorla Sánchez (2013) has shown how young priests steeped in the ideas of Vatican II were instrumental in bringing issues that had for decades remained ‘unsayable’ into the public sphere in several rural areas during the later years of the Francoist regime. Another of the ways in which religious issues affected the vitality of the public sphere in Spain is in the configuration of what we might again term ‘counter-publics’. The stability of the Spanish liberal state was from the beginning questioned by the Carlist movement, which believed in a traditionalist state whose legitimacy was directly derived from religion rather than from the liberal concept of public opinion. In certain regions, such as Navarre, Carlism configured itself as a cultural

Introduction

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and social force in its own right – one that remained critical of, and self-consciously separate from, the emerging liberal national culture of the nineteenth century. Álvarez Junco (2001: 361) has even stated that Carlism was possibly ‘the most important Spanish socio-political movement of the nineteenth century’. Over the years, the movement developed its own publications, cultural practices and sites of sociability, fomenting a separate public sphere that proved remarkably durable. And the Carlist counter-public was replicated on the other side of the political spectrum in the anti-clerical movement, often linked with Republican political culture, and remained a significant feature of public life right up to the end of the twentieth century. Some of the most important sites of progressive sociability in modern Spain, such as the Residencia de Estudiantes, were directly linked to efforts to generate alternatives to Catholic-influenced forms of bourgeois sociability.

Participation in the Public Sphere: Are Some More Equal than Others? The complex relationship between public and counter-public(s) is not circumscribed to political affiliation or to position vis-à-vis specific issues such as the social role of religion. It also engages with questions of class, gender and the social dynamics through which cultural legitimacy is created (or contested). Indeed, one of the more problematic issues with the public sphere is how we might reconcile its supposed openness to all citizens with the fact that debate has often been monopolised by very small, and very particular, groups of individuals. The most conspicuous case in this regard is the exclusion of women and the working class from the emerging forms of bourgeois sociability that have been identified as the models for a functioning public sphere. The Spanish academias that sprung up in the eighteenth century, for example, were mostly restricted to male members, and even then remained quite reticent to accept men without a nobiliary title or a university degree (Ruiz Torres 2008: 428). Scholars have also questioned whether the separation between ‘private matters’ and ‘matters of public interest’ did not simply serve to shut out of public discussion issues that affected women’s lives (Bolufer Peruga 2006). Indeed, one of the more important battles in the modern emancipation of women was the reframing of public discourse in order to shed light on issues (such as domestic abuse) that had been previously considered ‘private’. Pamela Radcliff’s study on women and associationism

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during the Francoist period has shown, in this regard, that the idioms of domesticity had to be reformulated before issues important to ordinary women were able to achieve publicity (Radcliff 2011). As for class, nineteenth- and twentieth-century Spain witnessed the rise of a working-class culture that was often built in direct opposition to that of the bourgeoisie, and in which publications or sociability played a very important role in generating contestatory politics (such as those of the unions). In the later decades of the twentieth century, this division between publics according to class seemed to become paved over by the triumph of postmodern popular culture and the ‘culture of consensus’ of the new democratic Spain, but it has come to the fore again in recent years following the post-2008 political, social and economic crisis. Another issue that has attracted considerable scrutiny is that of the mechanisms through which certain individuals end up having a central and recurrent role in the public sphere. While the ideal of the public sphere is that it should be open to anyone and thus impossible to monopolise, its study inevitably leads to the study of figures who either by trade or inclination make their presence in the public sphere an important element of their careers. In the Spanish case we might look at the line that runs from the novatores of the seventeenth century to the hombres de letras (man of letters) of the eighteenth, the escritores (writers) of the nineteenth century and eventually the intelectuales of the twentieth century. Indeed, according to Santos Juliá (2004: 10), intellectuals are cosubstantial with the public sphere: ‘intellectuals exist, then, from the moment in which a public sphere is formed which those who are “specialists in the handling of symbolic goods” may access as individuals, free from corporativist ties or from ecclesiastical or nobiliary bonds of patronage’. In Juliá’s view, a modern capitalist society generated the type of spaces and ventures that allowed intellectuals to reach a wide public and to live both in and off the public sphere. But while the existence of intellectuals would, in one sense, prove the existence of a thriving Spanish public sphere, it also forces upon us a number of questions. First, through what means do some participants in the public sphere achieve more notoriety and importance than others? In other words, what ‘makes’ an intellectual, or what leads his or her fellow citizens to recognise them as somebody worth paying attention to? The intuition that the mechanisms that determine success in this regard are not restricted to the formulation of superior or more persuasive arguments (as the idealised notion of the public sphere would have it) has generally produced fruitful suggestions, such as Bourdieu’s emphasis on ‘distinction’ and cultural capital. And,

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in the concrete Spanish case, there has been no shortage of literature on the ways in which certain intellectual groups (like the supposed generación del 98 or the figures associated with the post-Franco cultura de la Transición) or individuals (such as José Ortega y Gasset) have created and retained their prominence in public discussions. A related issue would be whether these presumed central actors of the public sphere really address a totality of the public or whether they merely address an elite that self-selects on the basis of education and shared cultural referents, and that is disproportionately represented in cultural or intellectual history. In a nation that struggled for a long time with low educational rates and with very fragmented national communications, who, we might ask, were the real publics of figures such as Larra or Unamuno?

The Public Sphere and Civil Rights Another central feature in the idea of the public sphere is its relation to the development of civil liberties. Like all liberal policies, nineteenthand twentieth-century Spain developed a gradual (if discontinuous) increase in the legal guarantees for rights related to participation in the public sphere: the right of assembly, the right of publication, the right to free speech, etc. The vitality of the Spanish press, for example, has been historically marked by important pieces of legislation such as the Ley de imprenta of 1883 and the Ley de prensa e imprenta (or ‘Ley Fraga’) of 1966. However, these rights were, at least until 1978, always exercised under the watchful tutelage of the state, which could – and indeed often did – act in a number of ways to restrict them. This is very clear in the case of the eighteenth century, in which the twin powers of the Consejo de Castilla and the Inquisition gave both king and Church great powers to restrict debate; the effect of this, according to Ruiz Torres (2008: 436), was to ‘apenas dejó espacio para una opinión pública independiente’ (it hardly left any space for an independent public sphere). Dependence on state patronage also meant that new sites of sociability were strongly linked to political power, and the Inquisition retained its role as a bulwark against heterodox social and political ideals coming from elsewhere in Europe until its final abolition in 1834. Even after this, two important mechanisms remained in place that heavily restricted what could be said in Spain, at least in print form: both the exercise of prior censorship of publications and the government’s prerogative to suspend the publication of specific periodicals if they were deemed to pose a threat to public order. This

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later prerogative was liberal and discretionally used, even during outwardly democratic regimes such as the Second Republic of 1931–36. Institutions based on public and open debate like Madrid’s Athenaeum were also occasionally shut down by authoritarian regimes, such as the Primo de Rivera dictatorship (1923–30). And the restrictions on civil liberties during General Franco’s rule have often been understood to have had a deeper social effect than that of simply impeding specific publications during the 1939–75 period. Indeed, the ‘weak nationalisation’ thesis has found a curious partner recently in the ‘weak democratic culture’ paradigm, which would point to the idea that civil society in democratic Spain has been weak in comparison to those of other Western democracies, precisely due to the negative after-effects of low participation in the public sphere during the Franco dictatorship. Much literature in this sense does not explicitly refer to the public sphere, preferring instead terms such as ‘civil society’ and ‘democratic participation’, but it clearly replicated some of the main characteristics of the ideal of the bourgeois public sphere: an intermediate space between ‘private life’ and ‘the state’, made up of citizens’ associations and spaces of public discussion, in which citizens could participate irrespective of social status, in which direct or mediated discussion would be both a means and an end, and where emerging consensuses could either check or influence political action. The idea here would be that even after the achievement of civil liberties that allow for participation in the public sphere, Spanish society would have been incapable of using them effectively. We could, however, also look at this issue from the opposite angle, focusing on the successes instead of the restrictions. It is evident, for example, that the existence of strong censorship mechanisms did not block the proliferation of a vigorous print culture in Spain during the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth centuries. According to Habermas, the bourgeois public sphere institutionalised a practice of rational-critical discourse on political matters (Calhoun 1993: 9), and this critical reasoning entered the press during the eighteenth century, creating a new genre of periodicals. In the Spanish case, these periodicals and moral weeklies provided the ideal forum for the debates in the revitalisation of Spain and its Atlantic colonies, working to shape public opinion about issues important to Spain’s interests, both at home and abroad. Nor should we overlook the fundamental role during the same period of sites of sociability that, while often linked to leisure activities, could also function as places of discussion and even of contestatory politics, such as the Sociedades de Amigos del país (Economic Societies), theatres, coffeeshops, tertulias (social

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gatherings), concert halls, public gardens and promenades, stadiums, rural and urban casinos, athenaeums and even bullfighting arenas. It is also worth examining the enormous role that a public sphere that had already grown significantly independent of state control during the 1960s played in Spain’s successful transition to democracy, as well as the role that civic associations created during the second half of the Francoist regime played in socialising citizens in democratic modes of participation, thus paving the way for their acceptance of the new constitutional regime once this became a possibility. Whichever way we decide to look at this issue, then, we can see that the ideal of a public sphere of open entry and free discussion, and that remained significantly detached from the reach of political power, existed, for the period contained within this volume, in a tense equilibrium between the prerogatives of state power and the enormous drive and creativity of civil society.

The Aims and Overview of the Present Volume Therefore, the historical development of the ideal of the public sphere has been full of tensions, many of which manifest themselves in a clear fashion in the Spanish historical experience. It is because of all this that the present volume refrains from any rigid and a priori understanding of what the public sphere ‘is’ or ‘should be’, of how it ‘began’ or where and under what circumstances it ‘arrived’ in Spain. For even if the definition of this term were not as contentious as it generally is, it would be foolhardy to apply it to as long a timespan as 300+ years and to as complex and multifaceted a social, cultural and political entity as modern Spain. Thus, rather than compiling a volume that would pretend to act as an encyclopaedia, we have preferred to bring together a number of case studies covering the period that goes from the Enlightenment to the present day and that refer to the many phenomena that are commonly taken, both in academic and in popular discourse, to be associated with the public sphere. These range from the historical development of print media to the social role of rumours, from the theories and activities of public intellectuals to the fluctuating currency of specific linguistic terms, and from the pressure exerted by professional interest groups on early nineteenth-century liberal governments to the organisation of citizen protests against early twenty-first-century economic policies. As the reader will observe, some of the authors engage with Habermas’ theses directly, while some prefer to utilise it as a source

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of terminology with which to discuss specific social, cultural and political phenomena. We believe that both approaches are not only valid but also interdependent: the public sphere is at its most useful when it functions as a loose umbrella term that allows us to inquire, from many different perspectives, into a range of topics related to our common social, cultural and political life, and that share a focus on social communication. This allows for a bottom-up approach to the question of the public sphere in general and of its Spanish variant in particular. This is why we prefer to talk about the ‘configuration’ of the public sphere rather than its ‘emergence’, so as to signal an openended and multifaceted process that is difficult to grasp in its totality, but that lends itself to suggestive case studies. In short, the Spanish public sphere that emerges from this volume is a radically complex phenomenon that resists neat interpretations and categorisations, ­gesturing instead to its irreducible density and dynamism. The volume’s opening chapter is a thorough examination by SallyAnn Kitts of the application (and applicability) of the Habermasian paradigm to the study of eighteenth-century Spain. This chapter provides an exhaustive and useful overview of scholarship related to the Spanish public sphere and suggests a Spanish ‘double normality’ when it comes to the Habermasian model. In other words, Spain would be ‘normal’ insofar as its development of spaces and practices of bourgeois sociability and a modern press fit Habermas’ understanding of a public sphere, and it is also ‘normal’ in the ways in which it offers empirical support to the many criticisms and refinements that have been made of the Habermasian model (mainly in relation to the groups that were shut out of the bourgeois public sphere, thus giving the lie to its pretence of universality of access). The Spanish case, Kitts proposes, supports our usage of Habermas’ notion of the public sphere as a strongly caveated heuristic with which to understand the development of eighteenth-century European societies. Noelia García Díaz’s chapter focuses on the Benedictine monk Benito Jerónimo Feijoo, one of the most prominent Spanish ilustrados whose enormously popular Teatro crítico universal (1726–39) and Cartas eruditas y curiosas (1742–60) represented a milestone in the Spanish public sphere. The chapter analyses Feijoo’s privileged relationship with the Bourbon monarchy, which explicitly endorsed his works over those of his critics, yet also made clear what the limits of his writings could be, thus questioning to what extent the emergence of a public sphere in Spain really operated (and, indeed, was even liable to operate) in a way that was independent of political power.

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Another element closely linked to the development of this bourgeois public sphere was the concept of politeness and the notion of civil society. How to behave properly constituted a filter or essential requirement to enter the new social and ‘public’ spaces, and codes of behaviour became more generalised between upper classes in eighteenth-century Europe. Taking this as a starting point, Mónica Bolufer Peruga’s chapter studies these notions of politeness, good manners, civility and urbanity throughout Spanish travellers’ accounts in Great Britain – the Count of Fernán Nuñez, Antonio Ponz, the Marquis of Ureña and Leandro Fenández de Moratín – comparing how cultivated behaviour was conceived in both countries. The analysis of these travellers’ discourses and descriptions of the English character shows how these codes were used to define and oppose national and social identities as well as to measure the social progress of nations during the Enlightenment. Francisco A. Eissa-Barroso engages in novel ways with the enormous consequences that the Napoleonic invasion of Spain, and the subsequent uprising known as the Peninsular War or Guerra de la Independencia, had for the Spanish public sphere. This chapter provides an interesting examination of how news of the uprising was handled in one of the territories that would soon cease to be part of the Spanish Empire: New Spain, or contemporary Mexico. In so doing, it provides not just a glimpse of the many semi-autonomous public spheres that had been generated in the diverse parts of the Spanish Empire, but also a convincing account of how they experienced their own share of the tensions between a rising bourgeois public and an ancien régime political structure that was undergoing radical challenge and redefinition. Richard Meyer Forsting’s chapter is focused on a professional group that was fundamental to the various developments of the Spanish nineteenth century: the military. Focusing on the Liberal Triennium of 1820–23, the author examines the role played by the Spanish army in creating a liberal public sphere and advancing the cause of early Spanish liberalism. Through an analysis of the various newspapers associated with military factions and leaders, the chapter explores the association of the army with liberalism and what effect this had on its divisions, its appeal to the masses and ultimately its failure to establish a stable liberal state. His work shows a substantial fragmentation among the periodicals published by members of this profession, often in relation to events affecting the entire country, thus pointing to the growing complexity of the Spanish public sphere and to the difficult separation between sectoral and national discussions. Moreover,

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this case study allows us to understand the paradoxical relationship between a theoretical commitment to free discussion and the reliance on an institution predicated on force, hierarchy and discipline – an issue common to a number of nascent liberal policies and that lies at the heart of some of the discrepancies between idealised notions of the public sphere and the reality of specific decades and societies. Andrew Ginger’s chapter, for its part, provides a novel take on the question of how the public sphere was conceived in mid to late nineteenth-century Spain. Ginger employs a quantitative linguistic approach in order to, as he claims, ‘work outward from the notion of the public itself’ and into the question of how Spaniards understood the public sphere and their own relationship to it. Remaining thoughtfully aware of all the methodological and conceptual problems involved in this type of enquiry, he unpicks the evidence available in published texts to helps us understand what people had in mind when they addressed ‘public’ matters. The recurrence of terms like España, nacional, derecho, ley, escuela and higiene provide a sound footing from which to examine broader issues of nationalism versus universalism and the dynamic relationship between state- and society-formation. Alba González Sanz’s chapter on Aurora Rodríguez Carballeira bridges several divides: that between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, that between a male-dominated public sphere and the reformist efforts being put forward by women, and that between the public and private realms. It does this by examining Rodríguez Carballeira’s project to create a ‘new woman’ through eugenics and particularly through her remarkable daughter Hildegart Rodríguez. González Sanz’s chapter shows how something that, in the Habermasian paradigm, had belonged to the private realm – motherhood and home-study – could be utilised by reform-minded women as a way of intervening in public discussion. This case study offers a practical demonstration of how the role and activities of women during the nineteenth century complicate neat public/private distinctions, which are, in turn, so important to considerations of what a ‘public sphere’ might be. Stephen G.H. Roberts’ chapter, for its part, highlights how the notion of a public sphere was – at least in the early twentieth century – often predicated on a dynamic theory of the nation, one that focused on how the latter’s energies should be channelled into the former by the figure of the intellectual. Or we might also flip the dynamic around and consider that some modern ideas of the Spanish nation were predicated on the existence of a common space of debate and d ­ eliberation – and, indeed, in some cases did not imply much beyond this – that closely mirrors Habermas’ concept of the public sphere. Roberts highlights

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these dynamics and relationships through the fundamental figure of Miguel de Unamuno, somebody who not only forged one of the most successful and most influential models of a public intellectual in Spain, but who also developed – both discursively and through his actions – a public sphere in constant tension with both the state and the individual. It is not only that Unamuno seems to have lived quite comfortably in the public sphere of his time; he also conceptualised the public sphere as a space to live in. This introduction of the nation as a potentially overlapping category with that of the public sphere, but that also exists in a dynamic and symbiotic relationship with it, links perfectly with Marta García Carrión’s chapter. Her study provides a detailed and thoughtful examination of how we can introduce as significant a phenomenon as the rise of the film industry and its insertion into the cultural landscape of the early twentieth century into our understanding of an evolving public sphere as well as a national cultural politics. As she explains, the appearance of a mass leisure industry took place within efforts to nationalise the public sphere, while, at the same time, the latter was becoming more democratic and ‘the masses’ (the same masses who were beginning to flock to picture shows) were becoming a significant political actor. This not only placed a certain demand on the role that cinema was to play in the public sphere of the twentieth century, but also pushed for a new understanding of the private/public divide. Indeed, while most historical accounts of the public sphere focus on classic spaces for leisure and sociability (cafés, theatres, bourgeois social spaces) or on the three main modes of journalism (the printed press, the radio and the television, with a growing focus on online and digital communication), this chapter emphasises the importance of the cinema both as a site of sociability in its own right and also as an instrument through which a large ‘public’ was given certain cohesion, and was exposed to cultural and political interpellation. This importance was clearly seized upon by the Francoist regime, which utilised the cinema (through its propagandistic newsreels No-Do) as a space in which large sections of the public could be exposed to government-sanctioned messages on everything from current affairs to national identity. This division is also questioned in Francisco Sevillano’s chapter, which takes us to the other side of the Spanish Civil War and into the long dictatorship of General Franco. The cultural stigmatisation of the very idea of public discussion that took place in the immediate postwar period forces us to sharpen our understanding of the way in which public opinion is generated. The animosity of Francoist ideologues towards an unrestrained and empowered ‘public’ throws

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into sharp relief the historical and ideological link between notions of the public sphere and the kind of classic liberalism that Francoism was determined to eradicate. However, the regime’s obsession with rumours served to update this animosity and incorporate it into the fight against a more contemporary enemy: communism. Throughout, the author places the Spanish experience into the broader conceptual and methodological frame from which we might study concepts like public opinion or social communication in repressive contexts. Daniel Mourenza’s chapter brings us out of the years of dictatorship and into the democratic period. It does so by exploring the creation of a social, political and cultural consensus during the Transition (the country’s adoption of a democratic system following the death of General Franco in 1975), as well as the unravelling of this consensus in the early 2010s. Mourenza links the two moments through the figure of political cartoonist Andrés Rábago, known mostly through his pen name ‘El Roto’. Employing a Gramscian framework, the author explores Rábago’s function as a public intellectual and the complex dynamics of consensus and dissent that have characterised the democratic period. He also examines an important form of public pronouncement, that of the cartoon in print media, thus rounding out our understanding of the different media through which a public can be interpellated and have its opinions shaped or questioned. The concluding chapters by Federico López-Terra and Georgina Blakeley, in turn, offer complementary evaluations of how the economic, social and political crisis that began in 2008 has affected the Spanish public sphere and has deepened our understanding of it. López-Terra delves into the notions of consensus and disruption through a semiotic analysis of the various notions of ‘crisis’ that are shaping Spanish public discourse. This case study thus allows us to see a twenty-first-century public sphere in action, with its aspect of self-­reflexivity, its questions over qualitative – as opposed to purely formal – discursive freedom, and the clash between competing narratives that would shape the very understanding that citizens have of their place in society and their relationship to the public sphere. Blakeley, for her part, focuses on the 15-M or indignados movement and on the various issues involved in assessing its impact. She delves into the question of whether, as has sometimes been argued, the influence of the indignados has been circumscribed to public discussion and the media agenda, while remaining incapable of affecting real institutions and policies. This, in turn, addresses the issue of how the public sphere interacts with and affects politics in a twenty-first-­century social and communicative context.

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To bring this introduction to a close, a note of limitation is in order. It is unavoidable that any book that is ambitious in its scope will be culpable of glaring omissions. We accept that this is the case with this volume and hope that the reader will understand that including all angles related to the Spanish public sphere would have stretched this project to unwieldy limits. We hope that, for those topics that are either absent or dealt with insufficiently in the present volume, the curious reader will be able to find good leads in the thematically ordered ‘Further Reading’ section. And we can only hope that future projects and publications will address and develop both those angles that are fully engaged-with in the volume and those that only appear in the background. It could hardly be otherwise, given our aim of rendering visible the richness and complexity of the Spanish public sphere during the last three centuries. David Jiménez Torres obtained his Ph.D. from the University of Cambridge and was Lecturer in Contemporary Spanish Cultural Studies at the University of Manchester. He is currently Profesor Asociado at the Universidad Camilo José Cela, Spain. His research interests include Spanish-English cultural transfers during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Spanish imaginaries of – and writings on – the First World War, and the idea of the intellectual in contemporary Spanish culture. He is the author of the monograph Ramiro de Maeztu and England: Imaginaries, Realities and Repercussions of a Cultural Encounter (Boydell & Brewer, 2016), as well as numerous articles in scholarly journals such as Revista de Occidente, the Bulletin of Spanish Studies, the Hispanic Research Journal and Historia y Política. He is also a columnist, essayist and novelist, his most recent work of fiction being Cambridge en mitad de la noche (Entre Ambos, 2018). Leticia Villamediana González is Senior Teaching Fellow in Hispanic Studies at the University of Warwick. Previously she taught at Queen’s University, Belfast, where she completed her Doctoral studies in 2013. Her research interests lie in the fields of eighteenth-century Spanish literature, culture and intellectual history, Anglo-Spanish cultural transfers and Spanish periodical press. Her monograph Anglomanía: la imagen de Inglaterra en la prensa española del siglo XVIII is forthcoming with Tamesis Books in 2019 and focuses on the study of anglomania and anglophobia in the Spanish press and their contribution to Spain’s programme of Enlightenment reform. Her research has also appeared in academic journals such as Cuadernos de Ilustración y Romanticismo and Dieciocho: Hispanic Enlightenment, and she

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contributes to the Year’s Work in Modern Language Studies, reviewing the section on ‘Spanish Studies: Literature, 1700–1823’.

References Álvarez Junco, J. 2001. Mater dolorosa: la idea de España en el siglo XIX. Madrid: Taurus. Bolufer Peruga, M. 2006. ‘Del salón a la asamblea: sociabilidad, espacio público y ámbito privado (siglos XVII–XVIII)’, Saitabi: revista de la Facultat de Geografia i Història 56: 121–48. Calhoun, C. (ed.). 1993. Habermas and the Public Sphere. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Cazorla Sánchez, A. 2013. ‘Did You Hear the Sermon? Progressive Priests, Conservative Catholics, and the Return of Political and Cultural Diversity in Late Francoist Spain’, Journal of Modern History 85(3): 528–57. Fernández, J.A. 2008. El malestar en la cultura catalana: la cultura de la normalització, 1976–1999. Barcelona: Empúries. Fraser, Nancy. 1992. ‘Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy’, in Craig Calhoun (ed.), Habermas and the Public Sphere. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 109–2. Juliá, S. 2004. Historias de las dos Españas. Madrid: Taurus. Landes, J. B. 1988. Women in the Public Sphere in the Age of the French Revolution. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Martí Monterde, A. 2013. ‘Interliterariness and the Literary Field: Catalan Literature and Literatures in Catalonia’, in J.R. Resina (ed.), Iberian Modalities: A Relational Approach to the Study of Culture in the Iberian Peninsula. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, pp. 62–80. Ortega y Gasset, J. 1966. Obras completas, vol. 1. Madrid: Revista de Occidente. Puig, V. 2012. ‘La cultura como parque temático’, El País, 16 December. ——. 2014. ‘Nota en los manuales de literatura’, El País, 6 April. ——. 2015. ‘La cultura es lo de menos’, El País, 7 December. Radcliff, P. 2011. Making Democratic Citizens in Spain: Civil Society and the Popular Origins of the Democratic Transition, 1960–1978. Basingstoke: Palgrave-Macmillan. Ruiz Torres, P. 2008. Reformismo e Ilustración. Barcelona: Crítica. Vila-Sanjuan, S. 2018. Otra Cataluña: Seis siglos de cultura catalana en castellano. Barcelona: Destino.

Part I

The Eighteenth Century

å

Chapter 1

Spain and Habermas’ Public Sphere A Revisionist View

Spain and Habermas’ Public Sphere: A Revisionist View

Sally-Ann Kitts

å Introduction Since it was first published in 1962, and especially since it appeared in English translation in 1989, Habermas’ The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere has had a huge influence on historians’ understanding of how the gradual increase in public involvement in all aspects of society and politics came about from the late seventeenth century.1 Habermas’ critical examination of the conditions under which there developed in Western societies rational-critical public discussion of wide-ranging cultural and political subjects, as Jacob (1994: 95) writes, ‘drew attention to the structural transformation toward modernity signalled in the eighteenth century by the increasingly common invocation of “the public”’. It has brought to the fore hitherto underrepresented or neglected voices from early periods of the modern world; we now pay closer attention to a much wider range of cultural sources that reveals to us the ‘lived experience’ of eighteenth-century people, ‘the web of voluntary association and informal sociability found in salons, scientific societies, coffee houses, literary and philosophical societies, theaters’ (Jacob 1994: 96) and, adding to her list specifically for the Spanish case, tertulias (regular social gatherings) and Economic Societies. We have at our disposal a useful heuristic that can account persuasively for and extend our understanding of how individual ideas and voices have been able to play an increasingly important role in the development of modern societies in Europe and the Americas. In Spain, however, Habermas’ heuristic has been little used and alternative concepts have largely provided the methodology for accounts of the development of public opinion and modern society there.2 Pérez-Díaz (1998: 276), for example, offers a confident reading of the nature and development of the public sphere in Spain without any reference to Habermas, based instead on a concept of ‘civil

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society’ that contrasts Oakeshott’s nomocratic and teleocratic models of statehood, ‘or their equivalents, “civil association” and “enterprise association”’. His conclusion reiterates a very traditional view that sees Spain’s ‘dreams of a vita civile . . . lagging far behind’ those of England. Also without recourse to Habermas, Fernández Sebastián (2015) traces the usage of the phrase ‘public opinion’ by contemporary sources, concluding that the phenomenon itself does not really come into being until the first third of the nineteenth century. Bolufer Peruga (2006) employs the concept of ‘sociability’ to provide a thoughtful and detailed discussion of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century public sphere in France and Spain, which describes ‘the emergence of many types of sociability’ in eighteenth-century Spain. She briefly describes Habermas’ concept and notes that it has raised a number of critical responses; however, she dismisses it due to what she describes as ‘his restrictive identification of the enlightened public sphere solely with the bourgeois and antiabsolutist model’ (Bolufer Peruga 2006: 126–27). Her argument, based on the critiques of van Horn Melton (2003), Pérez Cantó and de la Nogal (2005), Landes (1988) and Jacob (1994), is that it is unsuited to the reality of the majority of European countries and its colonies, which developed more complex critical relationships between the nobility, the clergy and the middle classes than those described by the Habermasian account. She sees it as idealist and abstract, and argues that it fails to recognise that the new spaces of sociability were restricted, exclusive and far from egalitarian. For Bolufer Peruga then, the Habermasian public sphere is a reference point to be acknowledged, but then rejected as irrelevant to Spain. Valero (1999), on the other hand, has found Habermas’ theory to be useful in accounting for the development of sociedades patrióticas (Patriotic Societies) in the 1830s. He argues that Spain did not have an authentic public sphere, but rather ‘a simulacrum of publicity in which a constant effort takes place to empty it of political antagonism’ (1999: 197), seeing the interdependence of state and public sphere as a negative factor that limits its development in Spain. He describes the Spanish public sphere as ‘atrophied’ and in a state of ‘permanent limitation and precariousness’ in the eighteenth century, with no real significance until the period of the Liberal Triennium and the rise of Patriotic Societies (1820–23) (Valero 1999: 200, 203). Plenty more examples could be added to these, many offering illuminating research on the development of the public sphere without recourse to Habermas, some specifically rejecting his theories as not applicable to Spain, and others using aspects of them to conclude that



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the public sphere in Spain was inferior when compared to its apparently more progressive and enlightened northern neighbours.3 So how relevant is Habermas’ theory to our understanding of the social, cultural, intellectual and political life of eighteenth-century Spain? Is there anything of positive value to be had in using Habermas’ ideas as an heuristic to help us to explain and understand the Spanish case? My contention is that there definitely is and I approach his text as Landes does: while rightly critical of a number of its features, she nonetheless describes it as ‘a gifted historical-sociological account’, ‘a narrative of modernity’: a tale of the rise of the public sphere (against great political obstacles posed by censorship and other forms of political despotism practiced by the absolutist state); its triumph (in the vibrant institutions of a free press, clubs, philosophical societies, and the cultural life of early liberal society, and through the revolutionary establishment of parliamentary and democratic regimes). (Landes 1995: 92–93)

Likewise, I believe Habermas’ account can be used productively to help us understand the early development of the Spanish public sphere as neither a failure nor a pale imitation of others, but rather as an integral part of the European and pan-American Enlightenment. In the same way as Astigarraga’s recent volume seeks to reconsider Spain’s place in Western historiography, rejecting marginalised and distorted evaluations of the Spanish Enlightenment as ‘“imported from abroad, mainly neighbouring France, or [as] “inexistent”, “insufficient”, “limited” or “weak”’ (2015: 4), it is vital that we review Habermas’ suggestive and influential account of the public sphere. We need to consider both how it might help to illuminate the complex period of the Spanish Enlightenment and the problems that can arise through unchallenged or prescriptive readings of Habermas based on its pervasive influence and domination. It is important that we actively reject what MartíLópez has referred to as the continued othering and marginalisation of Spain, the ‘geographic, political, and cultural eccentricity’ with which it is ‘perceived and constructed by the bourgeois “northern Europe”’ by bringing the Spanish perspective to bear on such a central theory (Martí-López 2002: 45). We can do this by reflecting on how it applies to Spain while at the same time critically engaging with the concept itself from a Spanish perspective and thereby contributing to its continued refinement and adaptation. This is the aim of the present chapter. After a brief account of the key aspects of Habermas’ theory of the origins of the public sphere, it will consider its application to the Spanish case, indicating Spain’s

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common beginnings and similarities to other European countries before examining aspects of difference. Using the notion of the Kuhnian paradigm as a methodology (Kuhn 2012), it will explore how an understanding of the particularities of the Spanish case can further the development and refinement of Habermas’ theory as an heuristic to show how increasing numbers of ordinary educated Spanish people, in spite of many obstacles, came together and expressed themselves in ways and in discourses characteristic of modernity from the late seventeenth century onwards.

The Habermasian Public Sphere Habermas’ account of the development of the bourgeois public sphere has been incisively described as ‘an historically saturated discourse theory of society’ (Landes 1995: 93). He seeks to understand the processes by which modern forms of government, involving a critical relationship between public and state, developed from the absolutist regimes of the early modern period to involve, by the nineteenth century, a wide range of individuals from the educated upper and middle classes. His focus is on the crucial role that is played in this by rational language in the form of communications of very varied types. While he defines this ‘new domain of a public sphere’ as one ‘whose decisive mark was the published word’, he describes it through a multiplicity of formal and informal social institutions, gatherings and activities as well as publishing houses, lending libraries, journals and the periodical press (Habermas 1989: 16). He explores how these forms, and the nature of the opinions expressed within them, changed and developed between the seventeenth and the early nineteenth centuries, using examples from the different national experiences of Britain, France and Germany to illustrate and exemplify his ideas. While noting that these many different institutions varied greatly in terms of such specifics as their composition, their proceedings and their subject matter, Habermas argues that they all shared certain key characteristics: first, the sole arbiter was reason, with the better argument and not the status of the individual concerned being the deciding factor; second, they opened up new areas for debate, with no subject deemed to be unacceptable; and, third, they were in principle inclusive and open to all members of the bourgeoisie: However exclusive the public might be in any given instance, it could never close itself off entirely and become consolidated as a clique;



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for it always understood and found itself immersed within a more inclusive public of all private people, persons who – insofar as they were propertied and educated – as readers, listeners, and spectators could avail themselves via the market of the objects that were subject to discussion. (Habermas 1989: 37)

It is important to note here the blend of both the historical and the ideal in Habermas’ argument. These are ideal universal principles not specific historically verifiable descriptions, as he makes clear: ‘Not that this idea of the public was actually realized in earnest in the coffee-houses, the salons, and the societies; but as an idea it had become institutionalized and thereby stated as an objective claim. If not realized, it was at least consequential’ (Habermas 1989: 36). He recognises that in practice, they did not generally take these forms and the key notion that we should draw from this is the idea of a new mentality, a new sense of the possibilities of the individual and the nature of his or her associations with others that altered that individual’s own perspective. A further ideal was the increasing separation of state and society, which Habermas sees as emerging as the nature of the relationship between the state and the public changed and developed, and as the bourgeois public sphere came into being. He sees ‘the emergence of society as a realm distinct from the state’ as a corollary of the early modern rise of the nation-state, as van Horn Melton (2003: 4–5) explains: ‘The modern state, with its monopoly of force and violence, would become the sphere of public power, while society came to be understood as a realm of private interest and activity.’ Previously during the Middle Ages, Habermas argues, such a distinction did not exist as power was largely distributed in a much more local and devolved way and thus the political and social were intimately connected. With the consolidation of power in the authority of an absolute monarch, which characterised the development of the nation-state, ‘civil society came into existence as the corollary of a depersonalized state authority’ (Habermas 1989: 19). What changed, then, as the bourgeois public sphere came into existence was the relationship between the state and the public. It was initially one that Habermas (1989: 5, 10) calls ‘representative publicness’ or ‘publicity of representation’, whereby the absolute ruler (continuing in and expanding upon the personal displays of power of the feudal lord) demonstrated his authority through ceremonial and public displays of the court that his subjects passively witnessed. However, because this public representation of authority depended on the presence of an audience to witness it, this audience was thereby constituted as private, in the sense of not holding an official position or

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public office and ‘for the first time private and public spheres became separate in a specifically modern sense’ (Habermas 1989: 11). As van Horn Melton (2003: 5) explains: ‘It was within this private social realm, the embryo form of modern “civil” society, that the bourgeois public sphere would emerge.’ It was the rise of early capitalism that Habermas (1989: 15) argues led to the eventual dissolution of this power structure through the rise of the bourgeois public sphere. The key factors of ‘the traffic in commodities and news’ led to the development of what Ettinghausen (2015: 11–12) terms ‘the pre-periodical press’ and characterises as ‘a pan-European phenomenon’. In fact, this traffic was transoceanic as Borreguero Beltrán’s fascinating account (2010) of the communications network established by Philip II has shown. The growing need and desire for information saw the early irregular communications turn, by the middle of the seventeenth century, into publications with a regular weekly and then daily periodicity. This form quickly became of interest and use to the state authorities, leading to a new form of representativeness for a new form of public and the creation of the first ‘public sphere’. As this new commodity of the periodical developed, it took on new forms and engaged with increasing commodification of culture, leading to the learned article that informed the public about other new publications, and the moral weeklies that sought to raise new topics of interest and to educate its members. This was the stage in the development of what Habermas (1989: 23) labels the ‘literary public sphere’ and marked the moment at which ‘the public concern regarding the private sphere of civil society was no longer confined to the authorities but was considered by the subjects as one that was properly theirs’. It was the time that saw the development, in parallel and in conjunction with the press, of the other institutions and activities described above. It is important to note the transformation in attitudes about the self that this development reveals to be taking place; Crossley and Roberts (2004: 3) argue that it was as a result of a ‘new concept and experience of individuality and privacy’ that people came to understand their relationship to the state and to each other in new ways that would eventually lead them to seek to take personal control over them. Habermas (1989: 29) calls it ‘the training ground for a critical public reflection still preoccupied with itself – a process of self-clarification of private people focusing on the genuine experiences of their novel privateness’. The other important thing to note is its rational quality, the recognition by increasing numbers of people that they could make critical use of their own reason to discover themselves and the world they inhabited.



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The final stage of the development of Habermas’ bourgeois public sphere saw it take on political dimensions in terms of a shift in focus from the literary and cultural world to the overtly political. What he means by ‘political’ in this context is an important question. While he writes at one stage that ‘[t]he political task of the bourgeois public sphere was the regulation of civil society’, a broad definition that was very much the concern of the ‘moral weeklies’ that he locates at the heart of the literary (i.e. prepolitical) public sphere, he later goes on to explain it in more specifically conflictive terms: A political consciousness developed in the public sphere of civil society which, in opposition to absolute sovereignty, articulated the concept of and demand for general and abstract laws and which ultimately came to assert itself (i.e. public opinion) as the only ­legitimate source of this law. (Habermas 1989: 52, 54)

This notion of the political has several important particular features and implications. The first is that it involved the idea of a clear split between state authority and the public sphere such that they were ‘in opposition’ to each other. The second is that it was characterised by what Bauman (1987: 74) has described as features of ‘enlightened radicalism . . . the drive to legislate, organize and regulate, rather than disseminate knowledge’. The third is that it was characterised by the fullest expression of the three ideals previously discussed: rational debate, complete freedom from censorship such that any subject could be discussed, and complete inclusivity and equality of participants. The fourth is that it appears from Habermas’ examples (1989: 67, 71) to be something that only arose in relation to specific national upheavals such as during the Civil War in Great Britain, the French Revolution (although he describes such a public in France as existing from around the middle of the eighteenth century, he argues that ‘it could not effectively institutionalise its critical impulses’ prior to 1789), and in Germany ‘only in the train of the July Revolution [1830], and then only for a brief period, in the capitals of a few southern and southwestern German territories’. These are features that we will return to as important for evaluating Habermas’ theory as a valid and useful heuristic for Spain.

Habermas’ Theory and the Spanish Case Perhaps the greatest strength of Habermas’ theory is that it brings together in a coherent way myriad voices and ideas from a wide variety

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of spaces of sociability and forms of communication, and offers a comprehensive account of how this led to a widespread change in the ways in which power and government would operate across Europe and the Americas by the nineteenth century. Jacob’s notion of the public sphere as a mental landscape is particularly pertinent and illuminating here, as she writes of Habermas’ work as providing: an imaginative resource for explaining the new consciousness of the individual self defined in relation to a universe beyond the family, separate from the state, and discovered through reading, polite conversation, and especially the social interaction required by commercial life . . . With this expansive reconceptualization of the Enlightenment, the challenge for contemporary historiography becomes describing the richness of enlightened cultural practices, identifying their origins and turning points, and relating them to the late-eighteenth-century political transformations that articulate Western democratic ideals and institutions. (Jacob 1994: 95–96)

The rich and varied social and cultural practices that developed in eighteenth-century Spain are in many ways well accounted for by Habermas’ theory. Spain follows the pattern described by the theory: from the mid seventeenth century, there was an incipient periodical press, and the work of the novatores (innovative Spanish scientific and medical practitioners) and the establishment of the first medical society in the declining years of the Habsburg dynasty is well documented (Sánchez-Blanco 1999; Pérez Magallón 2002). Maravall (1975: 102) argues that as early as the 1620s, a varied and self-conscious public that crossed class boundaries existed, while Ettinghausen (2015) has shown us just how extensive in Spain were the early communications that Habermas’ model has identified as creating the incipient modern public sphere. Once the new Bourbon dynasty was established in Spain, during the middle decades of the eighteenth century an educated bourgeois public developed, grew and socialised. It was involved in rational debate of varied cultural, intellectual and social ideas, in the periodical press, pamphlets, salons, tertulias, societies, institutions and cafés, and this educated bourgeoisie became increasingly politicised as the century drew to a close (Glendinning 1984: 160; Fernández Sebastián 2000). This politicisation led to the intense debates in liberal tertulias and institutions, and to the polemical press coverage of events that would lead, in 1812, to the promulgation of a constitution that defined sovereignty to reside in the nation and the nation to be composed of all free men. As Habermas (1989: 67) describes in the cases of Great Britain, France and Germany, this was linked to national upheaval, in



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the Spanish case the Peninsular War, which saw a pre-existing public ‘institutionalise its critical impulses’ as the country passed through what Muñoz Sempere (2000: 60) describes as ‘a revolutionary period when the press takes on a polemic nature, very different from the pedagogic, reformist or erudite character that it had in the eighteenth century’. Having said that the greatest strength of Habermas’ theory is its ability to explain how the many institutions and activities of educated society were able to develop, grow and impact on the civil and political development of modern European countries like Spain, this is also perhaps its most contentious quality. For it is precisely in the act of bringing together, seeking to account for and ascribe meaning to the plethora of particular instances that an all-encompassing theory can be inaccurate and distortive. Where Spain does not seem to fit so well is in areas that also in fact apply to other countries: the composition of the bourgeois public sphere (gender, class, nobility, clerics), the fundamental principle Habermas describes as pertaining to the discourse of the bourgeois public sphere as being open and egalitarian, and the idea that the relationship between the public sphere and the state was oppositional. There has been much criticism of Habermas’ theory in these first two aspects, and here the Spanish situation can add evidence to what is a strong case relating to the need to refine his theory based on evidence from a wide range of countries (Hohendahl and Silberman 1979; Landes 1988, 1995; Fraser 1990; Calhoun 1992; Eley 1992; van Horn Melton 2003). We know that in Spain the dominant public sphere was composed of a wider range of classes, genders and social groupings than that described specifically by Habermas’ theory, a situation well exemplified when we remember that the most powerful voice to first articulate the principles of open, wide-ranging, rational debate in Spain was that of the noble-born cleric Feijoo.4 There was not the apparently straightforward separation between nobility and bourgeoisie that Habermas states, a situation that also existed in other countries; van Horn Melton (2003: 11) notes that there were ‘substantial numbers of nobles’ forming part of the public sphere in England and that ‘most middle-class men of letters in France’ derived their income ‘from offices received or purchased from the crown’. In a work researched and published prior to the publication of either the French or Spanish translations of Habermas’ work, Egido López (1971) reveals the complexities of the early public sphere in Spain and in particular of the relationship between the nobility, the state and other classes in a context affected by dynastic changes and powerful interest groups. His analysis of

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varied source material – early press (state-approved and clandestine), pamphlets, letters recounting discussions in gatherings such as salons and tertulias, etc. – exposes ‘the parallel development of our eighteenth-century with the generic movement across Europe’ that is, in a number of ways, in line with Habermas’ views, while at the same time revealing much about the peculiarities of the early Spanish public sphere and the complexities of governmental opposition (Béthencourt Massieu 1971: 13). Similarly in the case of gender, the participation of women in the public sphere is an area where the Spanish case supports the sorts of refinements outlined in the work of Landes (1995), Fraser (1990) and others in the edited collection by Meehan (1995). While recognising that Habermas’ theory is describing an ideal and is neither claiming that it ever actually existed in this idealised form nor rejecting the existence of other public spheres, they nonetheless argue cogently that Habermas’ particular model and approach have tended to obscure the workings of other competing publics. More importantly, they argue that the theory actually masks the gender and class biases that were inherent in the incipient public sphere through the reinforcement and perpetuation of which it was able to establish itself as the dominant model. That the bourgeois public sphere was, as Habermas (1989: xviii) writes, ‘a historical constellation that attained dominance’ is well illustrated by the Spanish case when we consider the role of gender, since there is substantial evidence from the many articles in the periodical press that women were trying to claim a position within many of the institutions that constituted the early public sphere and were being heavily criticised for doing so (Kitts 1995). Similarly, the idealised discourse of universal rationality and consequent rights that dominates Spanish enlightened publications and institutions in this period fits with Fraser’s (1990: 60) notion of being ‘a strategy of distinction’ that marks out this idealized bourgeois public sphere and is ‘differently deployed in different circumstances and contexts’. While fully applicable to men from the educated classes, as Kitts (2010) has argued, it was only to be employed by women in relation to roles, tasks and activities that were defined and limited by their biology. Fraser (1990: 61) describes how attempts by alternative groups to enter the bourgeois public sphere were met with great hostility and frequent attempts to ‘block broader participation’, an apt description that could be used to describe the well-known debate over the admission of women to the Madrid Economic Society (Kitts 1995). As Fraser points out (1990: 73), even when such groups were permitted access, ‘their participation may be hedged by conceptions of economic privacy and



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domestic privacy that delimit the scope of the debate’. Both Fraser and Landes argue cogently that the definition of ‘public’ that is created by the bourgeois public sphere reinforces and extends a particular understanding of the private that then becomes associated with women, leading van Horn Melton (2003: 13) to the conclusion that ‘the public sphere, far from emancipating women, perpetuated a public/private dichotomy that sanctioned their political subordination’. This is again supported with evidence from the Spanish case of the setting up of the Madrid Economic Society’s Junta de damas (Ladies Council), the outcome of the debate over the admission of women; it was a limited forum of upper-class women, charged with dealing only with matters considered suitable for the female sex and meeting apart from the main body (Kitts 1995: 170). The work of Fraser (1990) and Landes (1988, 1995) reveals the extent to which Habermas’ bourgeois conception of the public sphere ‘was also a masculinist ideological notion that functioned to legitimate an emergent form of class rule’ (Fraser 1990: 62). However, rather than abandon it, their approach has been to recognise his theory as ‘a conceptual resource’ that is ‘indispensable to critical social theory’, while nonetheless ‘need[ing] to undergo some critical interrogation and reconstruction’ (Fraser 1990: 57–61). The notion of the Kuhnian paradigm may be helpful for us here in thinking about how these critics have approached and understood Habermas’ theory and established a fruitful model going forward. If we think about it in Kuhnian terms, we should accept it as ‘an object for further articulation and specification under new or more stringent conditions’, understanding that, when it first appears, a paradigm can be both imprecise and limited in its range and possibilities (Kuhn 2012: 23). Kuhn notes that while a paradigm comes to have this status as a result of its ability to provide the best current response to a series of key, pressing questions – in Habermas’ case, we could say that this is to understand how a mixed public, engaged in rational-critical debate, came to develop and have political significance and impact – it is initially more of ‘a promise of success’ (Kuhn 2012: 24) based on a limited number of examples. It then goes through a period of further development and refinement, with the addition of greater numbers of examples and adjustments to the basic paradigm itself: Normal science consists in the actualization of that promise, an actualization achieved by extending the knowledge of those facts that the paradigm displays as particularly revealing, by increasing the extent of the match between those facts and the paradigm’s predictions, and by further articulation of the paradigm itself. (Kuhn 2012: 24)

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Thus, the actualisation of the promise of Habermas’ theory, following widespread questioning of the gendered and class assumptions that underpin it, lies in reconceptualising the bourgeois public sphere as one of many competing spheres that established dominance over others. When we make adaptations to the theory to bring these new perspectives to bear, we can see that they are both supported by evidence from the Spanish case regarding the more varied makeup of the dominant public sphere and the relationship to it of women, and equally reveal the strength of the recast theory in terms of explaining the Spanish case and revealing its similarities with other countries. We expand the concept in fruitful ways that lead to a more refined and valuable tool, surely a solid approach with which those of us in Spanish Enlightenment studies should also seek to engage. Perhaps the area where the development of the public sphere in Spain offers the greatest challenge to Habermas’ theory lies in the definition of the relationship between the public sphere and the state as one that is oppositional. This is another area that has received critical attention from scholars of other countries for its idealised quality: van Horn Melton rejects the teleological idea of a bourgeois class ‘struggling to burst the bonds to which absolutism and a feudal order had shackled it’, arguing that ‘[i]n the process it assigns the public sphere a role that was implicitly oppositional and thus implacably hostile to the traditional society and institutions of the Old Regime’ (2003: 11). His view is that this was not the case; rather, the story is a more subtle one of adaptability, of the state mobilising support through using the public sphere, and that the impact of dissolving boundaries between the nobility and bourgeoisie, far from being subversive, in fact ‘widened the distance between propertied and plebeian’ (van Horn Melton 2003: 12). Zavala presents a similar view of adaptability as the key to understanding the changes that came about in the Spanish eighteenth century, noting that: the eighteenth century is not about a rupture or rift from the past, rather a new way to assess and understand problems. The eighteenth century . . . should be seen through its movement, its contradictions, in all aspects of its ruptures and laws. (Zavala 1984: 2)

Zavala’s perception is very much supported by the work of Medina Domínguez in the insightful Espejo de sombras, who argues (2009: 31) that there is a plebeian public sphere in Spain that is quickly understood by the incoming Bourbon dynasty as in need of control as part of a national project that seeks to reject the dominant conception



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of Spain by other European states as backward, steeped in superstition and radically Other. He suggests (2009: 34) that Spain is the model against which other states define themselves as modern; marginalised and othered by the rest of Europe, both as a result of the Black Legend and in order to keep a Bourbon domination from happening, the Spanish government was pushed by this into a defensive attitude. His view is supported by Valero (1999: 197), who writes, quoting Stiffoni (1989: 79), that following the War of Succession: the notion begins to take shape that cultural intervention could be ‘an important weapon for the construction of a consensus, which necessarily had to be wider and more socially open to enable reformist programs to turn from theory into reality’ [Stiffoni 1989: 79]. The priority task in the construction of a new cultural project could only be an exercise of historical interpretation, of definition of the present by opposition to an immediate past that had to be overcome.

This in turn leads to a cultural and political imperative to work to align absolutist monarchical government with a new concept of the nation that sought to erase its ‘difference’ from Europe stemming from an inconvenient past and develop a refreshed project of national citizenship and community (Medina Domínguez 2009: 34). In terms of the development of the bourgeois public sphere, this idea offers us a suggestive explanation for what has rightly been seen as a strong alliance throughout the century between the state and a growing bourgeois public sphere, an alliance that reflects a shared aim to project Spain as a modern nation amongst others in Europe. As Godzich and Spaddacini have argued, the individuals that form the early public sphere in Spain, individuals often referred to simply as ilustrados (enlightened people), are to be found most frequently from: among the higher echelons of the State apparatus. Thus their insistence on the constitutive role of the State in the sphere of culture must be seen for what it is: the securing of the base of one’s power, indeed its consolidation and extension. (1987: 18)

However, rather than interpret this as a failure of the Spanish bourgeois public sphere to develop ‘correctly’ according to Habermas’ chronology from a literary into a political public sphere that was fundamentally oppositional, I suggest that it should be understood contextually. The nature of the relationship between state and public should be viewed in terms of the particular circumstances of eighteenth-century Spain, as a particular quality of its early bourgeois public sphere, and

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explored in a Kuhnian way in order to refine and extend the scope of the Habermasian paradigm. The state’s interests were aligned with those individuals who wanted to see rational, critical argument come to Spain as it would enable its entry into European modernity. Having seen above – in the work of Maravall (1975) and Ettinghausen (2015), for example – how the early public sphere was developing in Spain prior to 1700 along the lines suggested by Habermas’ theory, the research of Egido López (1971) and Medina Domínguez (2009) reveals how, after the War of Succession and the subsequent dynastic changes, a set of circumstances peculiar to Spain led to a programme of controlled Enlightenment that produced an alignment between the needs of the state and the desire of ilustrados to introduce rational-critical debate, but also a tension that saw this debate as being in need of control and management. The priority for both the government and the people after thirteen years of war and the establishment of a new dynasty was to find coherence and definition as a nation both at home and abroad, and this therefore dominated Spain at this time, subordinating everything else to it. As such, the discourses of the various institutions that made up the public sphere were dominated by this agenda of how to make Spain a modern nation able to partake in a modern Europe. As Medina Domínguez writes: The political and administrative process of unification and centralization of the country necessitates a parallel one that is symbolic and cultural. . . . The political project of the Bourbons will, thus, be accompanied by a significant transformation of the cultural and symbolic space: urban planning, theatre, the emergence of the written press, the creation of cultural networks such as the ‘Societies of Friends of the Country’ will be elements of this strategy. (2009: 38)

These are all cultural institutions associated with the new public sphere that Habermas has described, and the fact that the state came to realise so quickly the potential that control of this new intellectual and social realm offered them indicates that it already existed in Spain at this time as an important institution, and also represents a different way of thinking about the political aspects to the early public sphere in terms of its relationship with the state. This also raises a question about the characterisation that Astigarraga (2015: 1–2) gives of Spain as imitative rather than original in its Enlightenment. While recognising the significance of the perspective of ‘creative reappropriation’ that underpins this important collection of studies, when it



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comes to the development of the public sphere, rather than ‘circulating, adapting and applying . . . new concepts’ that come from ‘the remarkable process of ideological renovation that was led by a small group of European countries’ that did not include Spain, the work of Ettinghausen, Maravall, Egido López and Medina Domínguez lends support to the idea that the Spanish public sphere develops from a longstanding tradition of critical public engagement in an original manner as a crucial part of a national discourse of modernization. Eley (1992: 18–19) notes that Habermas was specifically interested in understanding ‘the “free space” of society rather than a state-­ centered approach to public authority or political development’ and rightly describes it as ‘a welcome shift in perspective’. This shift has yielded much; however, it also restricts the relationship with the state to something that is always understood as repressive, problematic and limited. As we know from Spain and, as Gestricht (2000: 3) has argued, from Germany too, this was not always the case. Neither was the public sphere free from other forms of control, albeit ones that are less overtly visible: as we have already discussed, the bourgeois public sphere was, as Fraser (1990: 60) puts it, ‘anything but accessible to everyone’, with participation linked to the wealth, status, gender and social background that requires such essentials as an education, the wherewithal to purchase material culture, the leisure time to spend debating, and the clothes and cleanliness that enable access to the societies (Fraser 1990: 60; Eley 1992: 19).

Conclusion Hohendahl and Silberman (1979: 92) describe Habermas’ model of the public sphere as both ‘provid[ing] a paradigm for analyzing historical change, while also serving as a normative category for political critique’. Perhaps because of his presentation of the ‘The Model Case of British Development’, the idea of Habermas’ account of the public sphere as a normative category has tended to dominate over its possibilities as a paradigm. This has led, in turn, to a propensity either to ignore Habermas’ theory as not applicable to Spain or to see the public sphere in Spain as a failure due to an apparent lack of fit with the bourgeois model. In both cases this can lead to a misunderstanding about how and why the public sphere developed in Spain in the way that it did. If we shift our focus and instead explore Habermas’ theory of the origins of the bourgeois public sphere in Kuhnian paradigmatic terms, we are able to appreciate it as an important model that has

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opened up new fields of research regarding the intersections between political, cultural and social life in the early modern period. It can serve as an heuristic to reveal to us something of the challenges, difficulties and complexities of living in eighteenth-century Spain, through its focus on a fascinating and wide variety of networks, institutions, intellectual and social spaces, political, economic, literary and cultural occurrences and artefacts. It can reveal how Spanish people dealt with the powerful national challenge of how to combine tradition and modernity into a coherent Spanish identity, and how to forge a positive place and role for Spain in Europe and the world; how they experienced and sought to understand changing conceptions about the roles of men and women in society locally and within an increasingly diverse global context; and how they came to see themselves and others as having agency as part of a critical public. As a model, Habermas’ theory has both strengths and weaknesses regarding its applicability to the historical realities in different countries and, with regard to Spain, it can be used both to reveal the similarities of the Spanish case to those of other European countries and to reveal its differences. Understanding Habermas’ theory in Kuhnian terms, as a paradigm that is extended and refined by the exploration of new examples, we can see how there are some areas, such as in the understanding of the gender and class of the participants of the public sphere, where some of the more fundamental assumptions need to be rethought in order to reveal better the role of competing publics and the discourses of control that led to the dominance of a bourgeois model. Here the Spanish case very much aligns with those of other countries in providing historical evidence to support such fundamental revisions. A more particular adaptation is required when it comes to developing how the paradigm explains the relationship between the public sphere and the state, where the specifics of countries like Germany and Spain suggest a more flexible account would provide a more accurate model. Either way, the most important thing for us as historians of Spain is that we engage actively in exploring both the strengths and limitations of this powerful and fruitful heuristic in a continued effort to reject the othering and marginalisation of Spain from Europe. Sally-Ann Kitts is Senior Lecturer in Hispanic and Catalan Studies at the University of Bristol, United Kingdom. She has published widely on eighteenth-century Spanish literature, culture and history of ideas, as well as the connections between Spain and England in the Napoleonic period and beyond, with a particular focus on the life and writings



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of Elizabeth Vassall Fox, Lady Holland. Her most significant recent publications include an article in the U.S. journal Dieciocho exploring ‘Action and the Modern Self in Vicente García de la Huerta’s Raquel’ and an in-depth scholarly edition of Leandro Fernández de Moratín’s La mojigata (The Female Hypocrite, Castalia, 2015). At press are also an introduction, ‘The Art that Moves and Persuades’ to a new translation by Robert Fedorchek of two of Moratín’s plays, The New Play and A Girl’s Yes (Juan de la Cuesta) and a chapter exploring ‘The Role of Holland House in the Diffusion, Exchange and Transformation of Spanish Enlightened Ideas, 1793–1845’ in the Routledge Companion to the Hispanic Enlightenment. She is currently writing a new biography of Lady Holland, in which she seeks to privilege Elizabeth’s own voice so as to broaden our understanding of female engagement with the privileged social, cultural and political world she inhabited. She is also a member of a Spanish government-funded project on ‘Humour from the Enlightenment to the Present Day’, in which she will be exploring the use of satire in José Clavijo y Fajardo’s El pensador (1762–63, 1767).

Notes 1. The original is Jürgen Habermas, Strukturwandel der Öffentlichkeit (Darmstadt and Neuwied: Hermann Luchterhand Verlag, 1962). It was published in French as L’espace public (Paris: Payot, 1978), in Spanish as Historia y crítica de la opinion pública (Barcelona: Gustavo Gilli, 1981) and in English as The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1989). References are to this English edition. 2. A notable exception is the excellent article by Hontanilla (2004). 3. See, for example, the edited collection of papers resulting from the ‘XII Encuentros de la Ilustración al Romanticismo’ conference held in 2004 at the University of Cadiz (Cantos Casenave 2006). 4. His vast collection of essays is available at http://www.filosofia.org/bjf (last accessed 9 September 2018).

References Astigarraga, J. 2015. ‘Introduction: admirer, rougir, imiter – Spain and the European Enlightenment’, in J. Astigarraga (ed.), The Spanish Enlightenment Revisited. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, pp. 1–17. Bauman, Z. 1987. Legislators and Interpreters: On Modernity, Postmodernity and Intellectuals. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Béthencourt Massieu, A. de. 1971. ‘Prólogo’, in T. Egido López, Opinión pública y oposición al poder en la España del siglo XVIII (1713–1759). Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid, pp. 11–22.

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Bolufer Peruga, M. 2006. ‘Del salón a la asamblea: sociabilidad, espacio público y ámbito privado (siglos XVII–XVIII)’, Saitabi 56: 121–48. Borreguero Beltrán, C. 2010. ‘Philip of Spain: The Spider’s Web of News and Information’, in B. Dooley (ed.), The Dissemination of News and the Emergence of Contemporaneity in Early Modern Europe. Farnham: Ashgate, pp. 23–49. Calhoun, C. 1992. ‘Introduction: Habermas and the Public Sphere’, in C. Calhoun (ed.), Habermas and the Public Sphere. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 1–48. Cantos Casenave, M. (ed.). 2006. Redes y espacios de opinión pública. Cadiz: University of Cadiz. Crossley, N., and J.M. Roberts. 2004. After Habermas: New Perspectives on the Public Sphere. Oxford: Blackwell. Egido López, T. 1971. Opinión pública y oposición al poder en la España del siglo XVIII (1713–1759). Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid. Eley, G. 1992. ‘Nations, Publics, and Political Cultures: Placing Habermas in the Nineteenth Century’, in C. Calhoun (ed.), Habermas and the Public Sphere. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 289–339. Ettinghausen, H. 2015. How the Press Began: The Pre-periodical Printed News in Early Modern Europe. Janus [online], Anexo 3 (2015), 11–12, published 14/10/2015. Retrieved 29 November 2018 from http://www.janusdigital.es/ anexo.htm?id=7. Fernández Sebastián, J. 2000. ‘The Awakening of Public Opinion in Spain: The Rise of a New Power and the Sociogenesis of a Concept’, in P.-E. Knabe (ed.), Opinion. Berlin: Berlin Verlag, pp. 45–80. ——. 2015. ‘From the “Voice of the People” to the Freedom of the Press: The Birth of Public Opinion’, in J. Astigarraga (ed.), The Spanish Enlightenment Revisited. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, pp. 213–33. Fraser, N. 1990. ‘Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy’, Social Text 25/26: 56–80. Gestricht, A. 2000. ‘The Early Modern State and the Public Sphere in 18th Century Germany’, in P.-E. Knabe (ed.), Opinion. Berlin: Berlin Verlag, pp. 1–14. Glendinning, N. 1984. ‘Cambios en el concepto de la opinión pública a fines del siglo XVIII’, Nueva Revista de Filología Hispánica 33(1): 157–64. Godzich, W., and N. Spaddacini. 1987. ‘From Discourse to Institution’, in W. Godzich and N. Spaddacini (eds), The Institutionalization of Literature in Spain. Minneapolis: Prisma Institute, pp. 9–38. Habermas, J. 1962. Strukturwandel der Öffentlichkeit. Darmstadt and Neuwied: Hermann Luchterhand Verlag. ——. 1978. L’espace public. Paris: Payot. ——. 1981 Historia y crítica de la opinion pública. Barcelona: Gustavo Gilli. ——. 1989. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere. Cambridge: Polity Press. Hohendahl, P.U., and M. Silberman. 1979. ‘Critical Theory, Public Sphere and Culture: Jürgen Habermas and His Critics’, New German Critique 16: 89–118.



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Hontanilla, A. 2004. ‘El Pensador y el sistema de exclusiones del espacio público ilustrado’, Dieciocho 27(2): 365–82. Jacob, M.C. 1994. ‘The Mental Landscape of the Public Sphere: A European Perspective’, Eighteenth-Century Studies 28(1): 95–113. Kitts, S.-A. 1995. The Debate on the Nature, Role and Influence of Woman in Eighteenth-Century Spain. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. ——. 2010. ‘Ignacio López de Ayala and the Paradoxical Nature of Women’s Rights Discourse in Eighteenth-Century Spain’, Dieciocho 33(2): 361–82. Kuhn, T.S. 2012. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Landes, J.B. 1988. Women and the Public Sphere in the Age of the French Revolution. Ithaca, NY : Cornell University Press. ——.1995. ‘The Private and the Public Sphere: A Feminist Reconsideration’, in J. Meehan (ed.), Feminists Read Habermas: Gendering the Subject of Discourse. New York: Routledge, pp. 91–116. Maravall, J.A. 1975. La cultura del barroco. Barcelona: Ariel. Martí-López, E. 2002. Borrowed Words. Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Presses. Medina Domínguez, A. 2009. Espejo de sombras: Sujeto y multitud en la España del siglo XVIII. Madrid: Marcial Pons Historia. Meehan, J. (ed.). 1995. Feminists Read Habermas: Gendering the Subject of Discourse. New York: Routledge. Melton, J. van Horn. 2003. The Rise of the Public in Enlightenment Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Muñoz Sempere, D. 2000. ‘Sociabilidad, prensa y conspiración en la reacción antiliberal a las Cortes de Cádiz’, Cuadernos de Ilustración y Romanticismo 8: 59–70. Pérez Cantó, P., and R. de la Nogal. 2005. ‘Las mujeres en la arena pública’, in I. Morant (ed.), Historia de las mujeres en España y América Latina, vol. 2. Madrid: Cátedra, pp. 757–89. Pérez-Díaz, V. 1998. ‘State and Public Sphere in Spain in the Ancient Regime’, Daedalus 127(3): 251–79. Pérez Magallón, J. 2002. Construyendo la modernidad: la cultura española en el tiempo de los novatores (1675–1725). Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Sánchez-Blanco, F. 1999. La mentalidad ilustrada. Madrid: Santillana. Stiffoni, G. 1989. Verità della storia e ragioni del potere nella Spagna del primo ’700. Milan: Franco Angeli. Valero, J.A. 1999. ‘Intellectuals, the State, and the Public Sphere in Spain: 1700–1840’, in T. Lewis and F.J. Sánchez (eds), Culture and the State in Spain: 1550–1850. New York: Garland, pp. 196–224. Zavala, I. 1984. ‘Prólogo.’ Nueva Revista de Filología Hispánica 33(1): 1–3.

Chapter 2

Benito Jerónimo Feijoo in the Initial Stages of the Spanish Public Sphere Some Considerations Noelia García Díaz

å On 12 September 1745, five years before a Royal Decree was issued ratifying Feijoo’s protection under the king’s authority, Father Burriel vindicated the former’s public presence in a letter to Gregorio Mayans. In this letter, Burriel highlighted Feijoo’s role as a populariser of knowledge, his service to the nation and his influence over a great number of people: It seems true to me that Feijoo and Martínez have lent a great service to the nation, for they more than anyone else have stimulated its good taste; who cares if Tosca’s doctrines are more profound? He counts his readers by the hundreds, whereas these two count theirs by the million, and this million has in turn been stimulated by them to read Tosca. I am sorry to hear you say that their books are only for the common folk, and more so that you said it in the critical text you published in Leipzig. Is it really the case that if a book has nothing new to teach you then it must be only for the common folk? Must any book that is not filled with recondite and abstruse erudition be looked down upon, though it may be written as lightly and skillfully as these are? If only the common folk in Spain were such that these books could be for them! The sad truth is that many (I speak not of the lowest sort) neither appreciate nor understand them any more than the dean of Ciudad Rodrigo. (Mayans 1972: 110)

Indeed, the trademarks of Feijoo’s work were service to the nation, the creation of a public and the dissemination of knowledge, all through a clear and enjoyable style that was far from ‘recondite erudition’. It was a project that was in tune with that of the Bourbon monarchy and that, thanks to the latter’s support, contributed to the country’s



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modernisation. In this chapter I will reflect on the development of the Spanish public sphere over the century in which it was born – that is, the eighteenth – and through one of the essential figures in its gestation, the Benedictine friar Benito Jerónimo Feijoo. In order to do this, I will engage with Habermas’ theses in order to explore the relationship between the political power incardinated in the Bourbon monarchy and the literary public sphere, which is here represented by Feijoo’s works. Yet it is worth noting that the aspects that Habermas points out as characteristic of literary publicity can be found, however timidly, before the publication of Feijoo’s works, namely in the first discussion groups (tertulias) and in the first medical societies, which would soon obtain royal charters. First, I will analyse the apparent contradiction between Habermas’ proposed ideal of the public sphere as a space that exists in opposition to power, and the inexistence of such a space during the initial stages of the Spanish public sphere. This (in my view, only apparent) contradiction can be explained through Spain’s historical conditions, and thus helps us to understand the Spanish public sphere’s appearance and articulation. Second, I will delve into Feijoo’s figure and its historical importance in Spain, linking it to the political context that conditioned it, something that current scholarship has tended to overlook.1 Third, I will look at the links between the Bourbon monarchy and Feijoo’s project, devoting particular attention to the former’s reaction to an essay by Feijoo on matters of State praxis. I will here draw on a number of letters from his private correspondence. In The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, Jürgen Habermas famously outlines the evolution of the private and public spheres, and how these contributed to the appearance of public opinion. Though his starting point for the separation of private and public space is the Greek polis, he locates what he labels public space in the eighteenth century, and primarily in France and England. He also links it to a bourgeois class that is at that moment on the rise in Western Europe and that is set in clear opposition to the absolutist state. Habermas presents this first public space as a sphere for debate that is set between the state and civil society, in opposition to the former and with the aim of checking it. The elements or dynamics that propel and articulate this space are the coffee houses in the United Kingdom and the salons in France, as well as the growing relevance of the press, which appears – in Britain above all, and particularly in The Tatler and The Spectator, which Feijoo himself cited in his essays – as a critique to established power and with the aim of monitoring it. This is why Habermas discusses the mechanisms involved in this ‘literary

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public sphere’ – which are also the ones this chapter will examine – as these were the forms and the vehicles for the great diffusion of the exercise in rationality that marks public opinion as a feature of the Enlightened century. For Habermas, the ‘bourgeois public sphere’ is the motor of change; it is this sphere that has to articulate itself, thus creating a new public space. Yet the application of his theory to the Spanish case runs into a number of problems. First among these is the different role played by these spheres in Spain; second, and derived from the first, is Habermas’ designation of the ‘bourgeois public sphere’ as the creator of a public sphere that would, by definition, appear in opposition to – and with the aim of checking – power (Habermas 1982: 51). Habermas assigns this function to the bourgeoisie because this is the group that would be pushing for change and modernisation, for a break with established structures. This is a perfectly valid assumption, in an ideal sense, as regards the countries Habermas is studying. Yet the problem when exporting this structure to Spain is that by the start of the eighteenth century, and even at later points, these three spheres did not fulfil the roles assigned to them by Habermas; what is more, the ‘bourgeois public sphere’ was not relevant – it did not constitute a motor for opposition or for the exchange or spread of ideas. The agents of change, modernisation and incorporation of Spain to the European circuit did not come from a Spanish bourgeoisie that was under the control of the Church and of a weakened but still present Inquisition; rather, that agent was the Bourbon monarchy, which was in connection with modernising trends. Nevertheless, I do believe that Habermas’ theory has some applicability to the Spanish case. While at the start of the eighteenth century the boundaries that separated the bourgeois public sphere and the state were diffuse, and the former did not exist in the ways that Habermas portends, these boundaries were diffuse precisely because it was the state that incentivised the appearance of a public sphere (Medina Domínguez: 2009: 59). Yet, as Medina Domínguez has argued, the fact that the bourgeois public sphere was born following the encouragement of a power structure that desired the (controlled) transformation of the country does not invalidate it: ‘Promoting and making use of the public sphere involves the risk of opening the doors to an infrastructure which could potentially be used by those who were critical of the Crown, and which was capable of developing beyond the interests of the State’ (Medina Domínguez 2009: 60). Almost none of the common circuits for the spread of new ideas existed by the time of the arrival of the new monarchy (following the War of the Spanish Succession, 1701–13). It was precisely this power



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that erected the structure that was meant to transform the country, and for this it would make use of and strengthen the ‘literary public sphere’. The intention was to create a public that would support the project of the Bourbon monarchy, given the ongoing presence in the country of conservative forces that were in principle opposed to it. The creation of the new Bourbon state as an instrument of power required an ideological apparatus that, given the cultural context of Spain during the 1720s – the decade when Feijoo started publishing his works – needed to develop a set of issues related to theology, or to the evaluation of the national past, so that they could be preserved yet also be made compatible with the new Bourbon proposals (Stiffoni 1989: 184). Feijoo’s figure was crucial in this process of attracting the acceptance of the people, a process that required working on the links between state and ideology, and whose importance was quickly grasped by the Bourbons. Feijoo sided from the beginning with Bourbon reformism and centralism and was fully aware of the conflict between the conservative forces that impeded modernisation and the new reformist and modernising outlook of the Bourbon monarchy. Because of this, many of his essays – such as ‘Glorias de España’ (‘Glories of Spain’) or ‘Amor de la patria’ (‘Love for the Motherland’) – set out to present the new monarchy with a discourse that, within the delicate political context, would allow for the insertion of historical references to a glorious national past within a modernising narrative, one that would be inspired by reason and truth, but that would also exert a unifying function (Stiffoni 1989: 179). From the very beginning, Feijoo’s works were closely linked to the current within the Benedictine order, which tended most towards political, anti-scholastic and pro-Bourbon reformism, and it is also clear that they were attentive to the political circumstances of the time. An example of this can be found in the letter from Luis de Salazar y Castro, which is set at the beginning of volume I of Feijoo’s Teatro crítico universal para desengaño de errores comunes (Universal Critical Theatre for the Undoing of Common Errors), the political ‘opportunity’ of which shows Feijoo’s awareness of the limits he could and could not trespass upon. As Stiffoni has pointed out, Luis de Salazar y Castro was not only the monarchy’s official historian; he was also the leader of the fierce attacks carried out by traditionalists against Juan de Ferreras’ Historia de España (History of Spain). In this work, Ferreras, a representative of the new critical historicism, had cast doubt over the famous apparition of Our Lady of the Pillar to the Apostle James, thus questioning a symbol of national religiosity that also had unquestionable political value. Ferreras was accused of

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being unpatriotic by Francisco Palanco, Bishop of Jaén, and by Juan Cabrera, author of Crisis política (Political Crisis) (1719). These attacks were echoed and encouraged by Salazar y Castro in his Anti-defensa de don Luis de Salazar y continuación de la crisis ferrerica (Anti-defence of Don Luis de Salazar and Continuation of the Ferreras Crisis) (1720). Feijoo’s text ‘Voz del pueblo’ (‘Voice of the People’) accepted the same presuppositions that animated Ferreras’ work, but when Ferreras sought out his support, he was met with a polite but explicit rejection, as can be gleaned from the opening lines of volume II of Teatro crítico universal and from his essay ‘Glorias de España’ in volume IV. The fact that Feijoo decided to include Salazar y Castro’s letter, at a time in which the polemic with Ferreras was still active, clearly reveals a political positioning that would be later confirmed in texts such as ‘Glorias de España’. Feijoo was clearly aware of the political value of historiographical discourse and was fully conscious of his political context, one in which conservative forces were still dominant and the monarchy needed to draw not only on popular support, but also on those symbols that, while false, were necessary. Feijoo was clear on this issue in volume IV, where he proposed that, when it came to dicey subjects such as Our Lady of the Pillar or the historical existence of el Cid (both symbols of Spanish national glory): not to disturb the people who hold these views, both because they have a right to them whenever the truth cannot be fully ascertained, and because debating this issue will only cause disagreements within the republic of letters . . . Whenever I may be incapable of overcoming a reasonable doubt, I will keep it locked within my mind and allow the people any opinion which may entertain their vanity or encourage their devotion. (TC IV, XIII, 20)2

As for the Benedictine order’s adherence to Bourbon reformism, we can find evidence of it in the comments regarding publications and censorship contained within Feijoo’s correspondence with Martín Sarmiento, as well as in the network that the order placed at his disposal to facilitate the publication of his work (García Díaz 2017). This made sense, as the impression of affinity with Bourbon reforms that Feijoo’s criticist approach – an important instrument of his cultural politics – displayed also helped present the Benedictine order as a valuable instrument for the reformist politics of Philip V and, later, of Ferdinand VI. The Bourbon strategy included offering an image of Spain that was closer to the paradigm of European Enlightenment and that would work as a foundation for unity. Reason was to be the new underlying



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theme of a cultural project – and thus also a political project, for we have seen that there was no culture without politics – which promised the (Enlightened) dream of a more modern, better-educated and more European Spain. In this sense, Feijoo’s effort to incorporate Spain to Europe, and to draw on the latter as a source of legitimacy, was constant and fully in agreement with the monarchy’s aims. The new nation that was being proposed was, in sum, one linked primarily to public wellbeing, and one in which unity was not achieved by force. In order to mobilise large sectors of the population, Bourbon centralisation and unification were identified with the general good – the same general good that Feijoo claimed was the driver of his work in Teatro crítico and, later, in Cartas eruditas y curiosas (Erudite and Curious Letters). These factors led to the emergence of a public sphere in Spain that was characterised by the absence of a bourgeois public sphere, at least in the ideal understanding of the latter that Habermas proposes, and even though its general contours were starting to be discernible. The new public sphere was also characterised by its carrying out functions that had been assigned to it by the political power structure, and by the cultural dynamics that served as a vehicle for this cultural and political project in its attempt to find legitimacy in the public realm – something that necessarily entailed the absence of a clear opposition between the public sphere and political power, as the latter is the main driving force for the former. Finally, it was also characterised by the definition of a new (Bourbon) cultural and political national project, one that would be rooted in the Enlightened principle of the public use of private reason.

Feijoo and His Context As we have already seen, one of the main actors in this incipient public sphere was Benito Jerónimo Feijoo (1676–1763), the towering figure of the Spanish Enlightenment during the first half of the eighteenth century. His work Teatro crítico universal appeared in 1726, the year of publication of the first of its nine volumes, and would continue to be published regularly until 1739. At this point, the work adopted an epistolary format, but its outlook would remain the same. The work became the first bestseller in Spanish history – selling about 300,000 copies – and would dominate the intellectual landscape until about 1760, the year of publication of the final volume of his five-part Cartas eruditas (1742–60), even though in the 1750s he only published two volumes. Feijoo is credited not only with being the great populariser of

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the modern essay in Spain – the genre par excellence in terms of public opinion of any kind3 – but also, according to Maravall, and much in the same way as has been argued about Addison, with the forging of a Spanish public.4 Feijoo’s work, which appeared in an atmosphere of incipient intellectual secularisation, aimed, from the very time of the novatores (1680–1720),5 to construct a reality that would be based on the autonomous jurisdiction of reason, on a critical and sceptical attitude, and on the paradigms of the new scientific-experimental method. It also aimed to incorporate and disseminate the most modern scientific ideas that were coming in from Europe. As we have seen, this was in agreement with the new monarchy’s project. The main idea that articulated Feijoo’s work, that is, the conquest of knowledge through the use of reason, was laid out in his well-known statement: ‘I go out into the field with no other weapons than reasoning and experience, they are the ones which may be used to challenge me.’6 The goal, which had been stated in the prologue to the first volume of Teatro, was to ‘disabuse the public of many opinions which, taken to be true, are harmful for it’, a statement that clearly states his intentions: to transform a mass of potential readers into a reading public that will begin articulating its opinion under the guidance of the aforementioned Enlightened principles, and to a certain extent modulated from above, given his clear commitment to the Bourbon project. The publication of Feijoo’s oeuvre gave rise to numerous polemics, which was only natural given the multiplicity of themes that characterised Teatro crítico and, later on, Cartas eruditas. One of these polemics was related to Feijoo’s pioneering defence of the intellectual capacity of women: Feijoo included women within the remit of rational critical debate from the very first volume,7 and would later give them a public voice by devoting three of his Cartas eruditas to answering the questions that three women had posed to him (CE I, 7; III, 16, IV, I). A telling example of the effects of his public visibilisation of women as reasoning beings can be found in the private letter that one of Feijoo’s female readers sent to Martín Sarmiento in 1768, informing him of the many sermons that a Dominican friar in Valladolid had devoted to criticising Feijoo’s text ‘Defensa de las mujeres’ (‘Defence of Women’); a piece of news, she wrote, that she was conveying to him in case he wanted to do something about it. These debates contributed decisively to the circulation of ideas, to the shaping of opinion and to that of the public itself, a public in which Feijoo attempted to include women. They also helped publicise a public sphere whose tertulias and periodicals had been invigorated by his work as a populariser of knowledge. And



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the debates also contributed to shaping and mollifying those opinions that might disrupt the social cohesion that the Bourbons considered necessary for the development of their project. It is important to note that the publication of Feijoo’s oeuvre spans the reign of three Bourbon kings: Philip V, Ferdinand VI and Charles III. This was a monarchy that had to earn the favour of its subjects, something that had not been fully accomplished by the time Philip V arrived in Madrid. It was also a monarchy that suffered a heavy crisis in 1724 – just two years after Feijoo had started publishing his works – with Philip’s abdication and eventual return to the throne. Through the men of letters it had drawn to its cause, including Feijoo, the monarchy laboured actively to integrate its subjects into a project that – in appearance at least – would not be exclusively that of the monarch or of the political elites, but would belong to everyone.8 Feijoo – whose collaboration with the power networks that supported Ferdinand VI I have analysed elsewhere (García Díaz 2016) – was decisive in order to create a public that would be aligned with the monarchy’s interests and directives. His project required the conversion of an as-yet unarticulated mass of readers into a rational community, which would result from reading his works. Thus, the modern subject began to be constructed, and its participation in collective public opinion would gradually become one of the structuring forces of the political realm. Feijoo himself understood the importance of participation, as is attested to by the fact that he started to incorporate his reader’s voices into his works. From volume IV of Teatro crítico, he began to use private letters in his works – I have identified at least eleven instances of this – culminating in Cartas eruditas, which, in many cases, are real responses to actual, mailed-in requests.9 Feijoo suppressed the names of his correspondents so that these doubts, privately expressed, could be made to serve the public, but he did not stop acknowledging the private subject even in this open context. An example of this was the public response he gave to a question posed by a viticulturist, pointing out that ‘the answers I take most pleasure in giving are those which may provide some solid benefit to those who write to me; even more so if this benefit may be extended to many others’ (CE II, XX, 1). This public service, this public use of reason, was what legitimised his writings. We should notice that, by using the letter as his vehicle – though Feijoo explodes it by transforming it into an essay – he was employing a mould that was heavily marked by subjectivity, and therefore linked to (and directed towards) an incipient bourgeoisie – as Habermas himself points out in his analysis of epistolary literature (Habermas 1982: 86–87). It is worth

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keeping this in mind, given how the majority of Feijoo’s readers, as well as of those who wrote to him and sent him their queries, belonged to what Habermas signalled as the seeds of the new bourgeoisie: Alongside the new modern State apparatus, a new bourgeoisie has appeared which will come to occupy a central position within the public. Its nucleus is made up of public servants from the royal Administration, predominantly jurists . . . To them are added medics, priests, officials and professors, the ‘sages’ whose rank is above that of teachers and scribes, who are in turn above the commoners. (Habermas 1982: 60)

Feijoo gathers these various strata around his intellectual output, offering them recognition of their private thoughts in a public space created by his works: a space for public discussion that is articulated around – and legitimised by – reason. Habermas points out that ‘by public space we mean a realm of our social life in which something like public opinion may be constructed . . . A portion of the public space is constituted in every conversation in which private individuals are gathered as a public’. I believe that anyone who has read Cartas eruditas will agree with me that such a private voice is indeed what is reflected in many of them. Feijoo’s output thus becomes a nexus through which private opinions start staking out a space within the realm of the public sphere that is represented by his work and in which they may be modelled by the latter. Feijoo’s project was thoroughly in agreement with that of the Bourbons. It created a public (‘mi público’ (my public), as he repeatedly wrote)10 through a unifying element that emphasised individuality: reason. But at the same time, he established a collective identity (through his references to mi público), that of a rational community that was tasked with transforming Spain in accordance with the Bourbon project; as Feijoo himself said in the first volume of Teatro crítico, this and nothing else was what the country needed. Of course, he, as a man of letters, was to lead, control and guide this process; it is therefore no accident that he presents himself on various occasions as a ‘Magellan’, a ‘Vasco da Gama’ or a ‘New Columbus’ (CE, III, XXXI, 3). However, it is worth specifying that the relationship between Feijoo and his readers is not presented as a vertical one; they clearly felt involved in this collective enterprise, which is why they wrote to him when he made mistakes (mistakes that he would correct in subsequent editions, for his public was listened to and played an active part in his work), sent him pieces of information or presented him with doubts and objections, which he would frequently incorporate into Teatro



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crítico and especially Cartas eruditas (García Díaz 2016). In this sense, I do not believe that we can fully accept the idea that ‘the implicit reader is a passive recipient of the superior knowledge of his master’ (Medina Domínguez 2009: 78). Rather, in this way, ‘the politically reasoning public is indirectly recognised in its function of public critique’ (Habermas 1982: 102). Both leader and led were working in an active and collaborative fashion. Feijoo’s work thus became one of the Bourbon project’s most valuable instruments of nonrepressive control and articulation of public opinion. As Habermas points out, ‘political publicity results from literary publicity; it mediates, through public opinion, between the State and the needs of society’ (Habermas 1982: 68). Ferdinand VI and his government were conscious of the benefits of having a crowd-turnedpublic that was amenable to their projects. This is why Feijoo was supported by the monarchy while other intellectuals such as Gregorio Mayans were not, as the latter’s ideas, in spite of his political leanings, were of scarce value to the monarchy in the terms I have been outlining. Feijoo’s great contribution to the reformist project was publicly recognised when he became the first and only men of letters to be directly and publicly protected by royal power. The Royal Decree of 23 June 1750, through which Ferdinand VI forbade any challenge to Feijoo’s works, granted official status to Feijoo’s service, yet it would also reveal its inherent limit. That same year, which scholars have traditionally seen as that of his consecration, marks, in my opinion, the beginning of a silent decline.

An Inflection Point: The Letters to Agustín de Ordeñana Nowadays we tend to read Feijoo’s work as it was understood by the monks of Samos in their edition of 1781, which remains the most prevalent. Yet this Samos edition was, as its title indicated, an ‘edición aumentada y corregida’ (augmented and revised edition); that is, it included new materials whose incorporation had been decided not by Feijoo, but by his editors, who thus published materials that had until then remained unpublished. Most noteworthy among these are the three private letters that Feijoo wrote to Agustín de Ordeñana – a trusted advisor to the Marquis of la Ensenada, who was, in turn, Ferdinand VI’s Prime Minister – and that related to number XIX of the Cartas eruditas, published in volume III and entitled ‘Paralelo de Luis XIV, rey de Francia y Pedro el primero zar, o emperador de la Rusia’ (‘Comparison between Louis XIV, King of France, and Peter

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the First, Tsar or Emperor of Russia’; hereinafter ‘Paralelo’). This text contained fierce condemnation of Louis XIV, who was presented as the incarnation of French Bourbon pomp, and enthusiastic praise of Tsar Peter I. The three letters written by Feijoo are complemented by another five letters addressed to him by Ordeñana, all of which are kept in the Biblioteca Nacional de España in Madrid. Between 1750 (the moment when this epistolary exchange took place) and 1760 (the year of publication of the final volume of Cartas eruditas), Feijoo could perfectly well have included the letters within his work; however, he chose not to do this, probably because of their political nature and because of the repercussions that the publication of his essay had had. The five letters from Ordeñana to Feijoo remained unpublished until 1999, when Cristina González Caizán published them alongside the ones that were already known (González Caizán 1999) – though it was not strictly a discovery on her part, as José Miguel Caso and Silverio Cerra had already given notice in 1981 of their existence and their being kept in the Biblioteca Nacional de España (Caso González and Cerra Suárez 1981: 301–3). As for the other three, González Caizán seems to ignore that they had been published as part of the Cartas eruditas in the 1781 edition, though she does mention that one of them had been published by Sánchez Agesta (1946: 535–42). As is characteristic in Feijoo’s work, we are here placed in liminal territory, where private letters cross into the realm of the public, in this case due to the editors’ decision to publish them not as letters, but as essays. Their content is a testament to the reaction of the Bourbon power structure to the publication of an essay in which Feijoo went beyond the limit of what was allowed by his political context. The fact that the target of his criticisms was Louis XIV was doubly significant: not only was he a Bourbon like Ferdinand VI, but he was also – as Habermas points out – a symbol of ‘representative publicity’ (Habermas 1982: 49). As stated above, the epistolary exchange between Feijoo and Ordeñana took place primarily because of the publication of letter XIX in volume III of Cartas Eruditas, a book that had come out in the summer of 1750. At that point, Feijoo appeared to be at the height of his career: it had been two years since he had been named Royal Counsellor by Ferdinand VI (in 1748), and on 23 May, in the midst of his polemic with Soto y Marne and as the third volume of the latter’s work against Feijoo was about to be released, the king issued the Royal Decree that forbade its publication and ‘absolutamente’ (absolutely) any challenge to Feijoo’s writings.11 The Royal Decree was signed by Carvajal y Lancaster, whom Feijoo thanked in volume III for ‘having



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obtained for me, from the King our Lord’s piety, the permission to dedicate this book to him’. The inscription for minister Carvajal is dated 12 June 1750, a few days prior to the issuing of the Royal Decree; however, it seems that Carvajal did not read the volume until at least August 1750, as can be gleaned from the unpublished letter of 5 August sent by Feijoo’s protégé and correspondent, Enrique Lorenzana, to his father Bernardo García Lorenzana, in which he pointed out that he could not make use of some letters of recommendation ‘until I have seen Feijoo’s, whom Villamil has told me is waiting to hear how Mr. Carvajal has reacted to his third volume before, in his response, presenting me to his Excellency’.12 I insist on this matter because, as we shall see, the dates are important to this story. Some researchers have pointed out that the plan to issue this Royal Decree was probably led by Carvajal, while it is plausible, as has been also pointed out, that the person behind it was Martín Sarmiento, whose good relationship with the royal confessor, Father Rávago, as well as with the Duke of Medinasidonia, are well known (Feijoo 2014: 50–51; Gómez Urdáñez 2016: 164; Santos Puerto 2002: 179). Be it as it may, both Feijoo and Sarmiento, whom the king named Chronicler of the Indies around that time,13 seemed to enjoy a position of privilege within the monarchical power structure throughout 1750. The paratexts attest to their attraction to Carvajal’s anti-French and pro-Britain faction, which, as Gómez Urdáñez has shown, was beginning to take shape around this time (Gómez Urdáñez 2016). A prime example of Feijoo’s own awareness of being in an exceptional position can be found in a passage of the inscription to Ferdinand VI, where, far removed from the modesty that was typical of the genre and employing a tone that was unusual in him, Feijoo compared himself to Archimedes. On the other hand, the fragment shows that he was aware of the contents of the Royal Decree before it had been issued. The text thus gives a sense of Feijoo’s state of mind when he decided to include the polemical comparison between Louis XIV and Peter I.14 The inscription to the Bourbon king portrays Ferdinand VI as a bringer of peace. It had been two years since the signing of the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle (1748), and the neutral position it set out for Spain had opened a period of peace that would be beneficial for muchneeded economic recovery. Feijoo, who was by that point seventy-two years old, had lived through the War of the Spanish Succession and through various international conflicts resulting from the first two Bourbon family pacts signed between Philip V and Louis XV (in 1733 and 1743, respectively). It is no surprise, then, that the inscription is lavish in its praise, pointing out that ‘acaso hemos llegado a una época

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dichosa’ (perchance we have entered a happy epoch). This is even less surprising if we consider that Feijoo had reflected on war and its consequences throughout all of his oeuvre and had written harsh criticisms of the figure of the ‘príncipe conquistador’ (conquering prince), a stance that is central to ‘Paralelo’ and to his epistolary exchange with Ordeñana. In order to fully understand the political implications of the letters between Feijoo and Ordeñana, it is also worth pointing out that 1750 was a bad year for Spanish–French relations. On 5 October of that year, and in Madrid, one of the remaining issues from the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle had been solved – that which regulated the slave trade in Spanish America. Carvajal pushed for the final settlement, which, as Miguel Delgado Barado (2001: 97) has explained, ‘en el terreno político confirmó la “independencia” de España frente a Francia’ (confirmed Spain’s political ‘independence’ from France). This being the context, it was hardly an ideal time – if there ever was one – for the publication of a text like ‘Paralelo’, which not only, as Ordeñana said, ‘ajaba’ (insulted) the figure of the great Louis XIV, but also constituted an all-out attack on a Bourbon icon and a king from whom the Marquis of la Ensenada and his government had drawn inspiration for many of their policies. The eight missives that Feijoo and Ordeñana exchanged between 30 June 1750 and 28 February 1751 addressed two issues: the Royal Decree of 23 June, which is only referred to in the first letter, and the ‘Paralelo’, which is discussed over the following seven. Ordeñana initiates the epistolary exchange by asking Feijoo to renounce the privilege of the Royal Decree, ‘if not for the benefit of Father Soto y Marne then for that of all the rest, who have not committed the same faults as him, and so as to leave the field open to those who modestly seek after the truth’. Indeed, the royal prohibition included in the Decree was an absolute novelty, as no king had ever before issued a protective order of this kind (nor would it ever happen again), banning, for all intents and purposes, any type of polemic with Feijoo. ‘Such a prerogative will not be found anywhere in literary history’, wrote Gregorio Mayans y Siscar in a letter to Bautista Cabrera dated 11 July 1750 (Mayans y Siscar 1972: 120). The measure, which was the consequence of Soto y Marne’s challenges to Feijoo’s writings – but also of the latter’s public dimension and of the importance of his contribution to Ferdinand VI’s project – had enthusiastic supporters and equally enthusiastic critics who asked for it to be revoked, be it publicly or in private, as was the case with Ensenada’s protégé Ordeñana. In other words, one of the most prominent figures in government was asking Feijoo to renounce



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a privilege granted by the king. This can be better understood if we read the letters in the political and public context I have outlined, one in which, as we have seen, the Decree was issued before volume III had reached Carvajal or, of course, the king. Ordeñana claimed that it was an honour to invite Feijoo to reject such a prerogative so that ‘his memory may remain for all posterity in gloriously high esteem’. It is known that Feijoo did not follow this recommendation, nor did he even seek any kind of limitation on the effects of the Decree. Ordeñana’s request thus went unanswered, for in the letter dated 28 October 1750, Feijoo’s first in this exchange, he responded directly to an issue brought up by Ordeñana in his letter of 12 September and that would come to occupy the rest of the letters: ‘Paralelo’. In this letter, Ordeñana expressed, in a cold and threatening tone, his negative opinion of Feijoo’s text on Louis XIV. Much as in the text itself, the refutation and defence of ‘Paralelo’ that takes place throughout the exchange orbits around two ideas that were not novel in Feijoo’s thought: that of the peaceful prince, who was useful for his subjects, versus that of the conquering and vain prince – two types of kingly behaviour with which each of the correspondents seemed to identify completely. Moreover, these were models and attitudes that had a direct correlation with the two parties (carvajalista and ­ensenadista) that were starting to articulate themselves around 1750. Though Gómez Urdánez has argued that the ideas put forward in ‘Paralelo’ and in Feijoo’s letters ‘could only come from Carvajal’s camp’ (Gómez Urdáñez 2016: 181–82), the truth is that, however much they identify with Carvajal’s – something I fully agree with – they were part of a set of ideas that Feijoo had already been articulating and developing from volume III of Teatro crítico, and of which this text was merely a practical application. Feijoo himself laid out the terms of the debate in the letter from 26 January 1751, the reading of which offers much clarity.15 Peter I is described as a peaceful prince who is useful to his subjects (just like Ferdinand VI, to whom he is likened in the text), while Feijoo aligns Louis XIV with the model of the conquering and vain prince. On the one hand, Feijoo proposes a series of maxims that, as Sánchez Agesta has pointed out, have as their basis: the equality in human nature which results from the common supernatural filiation of all men, which goes all the way to that equality in death whereby kings will have to appear before the King of Kings just like the most humble convict on Earth will, passing through the inevitable assertion that the kingdom was not made for the king,

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but rather it was the king who was made for the kingdom. (Sánchez Agesta 1946: xlix)

On the other hand, he saw in the idea of the conquering prince a political myth that must be done away with, for the world gave it ‘el más injusto culto’ (most unfair worship). It was clear that Feijoo had gone too far, especially if we consider that the crown had already displayed him as part of its structure (as Ordeñana had pointed out in the first letter), for in this public essay Feijoo was assuming the task of political criticism and control. Let us remember that Habermas speaks of political space, as distinct from the literary one, when the public discussions are about issues that depend on state praxis, and in my view, this is what Feijoo is doing when he lays out what features make a good ruler and therefore good government. If, as Habermas points out, political publicity results from literary publicity, and if it mediates through public opinion between the state and the needs of society (Habermas 1982: 68), then what Feijoo is doing is inviting his readers to become the judges of two types of state praxis, placing the Bourbon model at a great disadvantage regardless of his insistent praise for Ferdinand VI. It is true that the ideas expressed in the comparison between Louis XIV and Peter I, as in that between Charles XII and Alexander the Great (CE, I, XII), are the practical application of the ideas defended by Feijoo since volume III of Teatro in texts such as ‘La ambición en el solio’ (TC, III, XII) (‘Ambition on the Throne’), ‘Impunidad de la mentira’ (TC, VI, IX) (‘Impunity of the Lie’), the well-known paragraphs devoted to the consequences of war in ‘Honra y provecho de la agricultura’ (TC, VIII, XII) (‘Honour and Benefit of Farming’) and text no. XIII of the same volume, entitled ‘La ociosidad desterrada y la milicia socorrida’ (‘Banished Idleness and Aided Militia’). The same happens in Cartas eruditas, where in addition to ‘Paralelo’ we can find similar reflections in ‘Sobre el nuevo beneficio de la plata’ (CE, II, XIX) (‘New Benefits of Silver’). But it was only here that he assigned, in such a direct and aggressive way, the worst kingly defects to a representative of the Bourbon monarchy. As Sánchez Agesta has already pointed out, the rejection of the conquering prince was related to an issue Feijoo had dealt with on numerous occasions: Machiavellianism, that is, a conduct opposed to Christian doctrine. Because of this, although Ordeñana insisted on arguing that Louis XIV’s main virtue was being a Catholic king, even invoking the Edict of Nantes or the bull Unigenitus, for Feijoo this was a false pretence that did not correspond with a truly moral



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and Catholic attitude that would be deserving of praise. What Feijoo was actually engaging with in his take on Machiavellism was reason of state, an attitude he employed whenever he faced a political topic (Sánchez Agesta 1946: XLV). In this sense, and in my view, Medina Domínguez (2009: 63) is wrong when he argues that ‘Feijoo does not serve propagandistic aims or acts as any type of direct support for the State (his texts always remain far from political topics)’. This Machiavellianism was for him actually the result of a human passion: ‘la natural pasión de dominar’ (the natural passion to dominate). First Feijoo attacked the ‘ídolo vano de la razón de Estado’ (vain idol of Reason of State) and then, as a logical consequence, he rejected the figure of the conquering prince embodied by Louis XIV: ‘According to many authors, the French monarch sinned so much in this regard that the story of his infringement of treaties with neighbouring princes, covered up with fallacious appearances, would almost constitute a complete history of his political life.’16 Feijoo asked what actions Louis XIV had undertaken that would be characteristic of a ‘héroe’ (hero) and provided a harsh response: ‘I will only say that this prince in no way came close to the greatness of heroism. For, I wonder, what heroic actions did Louis XIV undertake? In all his history I cannot find a single one.’ Feijoo could not find heroism in the French king because the heroic ideal, as he conceived it, could not be arrived at by any means other than moral virtue and public service, whereas Louis XIV ‘only fell short of consecrating his own vices and calling them virtues, and, to an extent, even this was not wanting’. 17 We can see here the Kantian ideal that links morality and politics. In contrast to the pomp and luxury of the Sun King’s court, as well as to the sexual promiscuity that Feijoo – to Ordeñana’s displeasure – devoted ample space to in his text, Tsar Peter I was presented not only as a monarch who laboured on behalf of his subjects’ wellbeing, but also as one who did so ‘como uno más’ (as one of them). Hence Feijoo’s high praise of a tsar who had been ‘grumete y tambor’ (a cabin boy and an infantry drummer), who had given example to his people by presenting himself as one of them. In Feijoo’s eyes, what made the tsar ‘Máximo’ (Maximus) was his humility and egalitarianism with his subjects, that sense of ‘equality in human nature as a result of the common supernatural filiation of all men’.18 Despite the tepid neutrality Ordeñana feigned throughout his argumentation, he engaged in a robust defence of the figure of Louis XIV, whose expansionist policy he supported because, in his mind, in it ‘está la base del progreso industrial’ (lay the roots of industrial progress). He argued that the statist policies undertaken in Spain from Philip V

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onwards followed the French model of Louis XIV. Ensenada’s protégé also listed the good virtues of the Bourbon king: not only was he ‘un buen devoto’ (a good Christian), he also possessed a high sense of justice, something that was attested to by the important regulatory action undertaken in France during his government and from which Ensenada had drawn inspiration for projects such as the Código Fernandino (Ferdinand Codex) or the rearmament of the Navy so that it would be able to compete with the English Navy. Feijoo, for his part, attempted to present himself as the new propagandist of the regime established by the Bourbons, the panegyrist of the thoroughly Spanish and peace-bringing Ferdinand VI (in his inscription he referred to him as ‘el Justo’ (the Just)). In the course of his criticism of Louis XIV’s expansionist policy, he even identified Ferdinand with Peter I, in what was perhaps a misguided attempt to separate the Spanish king from his French family line.19 This argument was particularly upsetting for Ordeñana, who reminded Feijoo in a letter dated 31 December 1750 of Ferdinand VI’s illustrious lineage: Our King Ferdinand and his cousin, indeed double cousin, Louis XV, have illustrious examples they can follow within their own family, in both its Spanish and French lines. They need not go looking for them in as distant a place as Russia, nor in a foreign prince whose personal character does not offer a dignified model, and whose merit and studies were reduced to imitating in his own conduct and putting to practice in his dominions what he saw established in others.20

It was clear that Feijoo had crossed a line, and indeed this epistolary exchange was but a symptom of the much wider, more profound and more serious shockwave that had run through the power structures that had supported him as a populariser of the Bourbon project. The corresponding reaction was already apparent in Feijoo’s change of tone in his letter dated 23 November, a change that had been demanded by Ordeñana, though it did not amount to a full disavowal of his earlier position: ‘Yet, to be fully frank with Your Lordship, I now add that though in composing “Paralelo” I never thought of writing anything which might bring displeasure to monarchs, I also did not aim to flatter them, but only to put forward what reason and conscience demanded of me.’21 Also telling, in this regard, are some issues that may be gleaned from the private correspondence: in a letter dated 9 September 1750, Feijoo complained to Enrique Lorenzana that Ensenada had not responded to any of the four letters he had addressed to him – although we know from his correspondence with Roche that at least one of them was intercepted by Sarmiento, who



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must have understood how inopportune these letters were given the situation and who, finally, took care of Lorenzana’s request.22 This situation is what, in my view, led Feijoo’s hitherto-authorised discourse to be discreetly silenced: after all, his essays helped to form public opinion, and the Bourbon structure could not allow a libel of this type against a symbol of its house, especially given that it addressed the issue of state praxis. On the same day on which Ordeñana had written to Feijoo demanding an explanation for the contents of letter no. XIX, the royal librarian, Martínez Pingarrón, had written to Gregorio Mayans regarding the stir caused in France by volume III of the Cartas eruditas: ‘you can be certain that volume III of Father Feijoo’s Cartas will be recalled – having been previously and publicly burnt in Paris – if indeed it hasn’t already’.23 Ordeñana was therefore not mistaken when on 12 September he warned Feijoo: ‘We will see how national sentiment reacts in Paris, to where I have been assured that a highly faithful translation of ‘Paralelo’ has been sent. In the meantime, Your Lordship should begin to prepare himself.’ In my view, it was precisely ‘Paralelo’ that made volume III of Cartas eruditas an inflection point in Feijoo’s work. His mind was always attentive to what the political conditions of the time allowed or forbade, and he even knew how to use them and, particularly, how to be an effective instrument at the service of the Bourbon monarchy’s interests. We might remember the inscriptions of his works, not only to Ferdinand VI or Queen Barbara of Portugal, but also to personages of great strategic relevance such as Francesco Pico, Duke of Mirandola. We might also remember his defence of ‘medias verdades’ (half-truths) in the name of social cohesion in polemics such as the one with Ferreras that was mentioned above.24 How, then, could he make such a mistake? Did Feijoo see ‘fantasmas’ (ghosts) in 1750, as Mayans argued following the former’s accusations against the Valencian Academy on account of Father Flandes’ book? Indeed, and as Gómez Urdáñez has also pointed out, it was not the first time that Feijoo had incurred some inopportune errors. In as unfortunate a year as 1728, given the context of war against England, Feijoo had made his Anglophilia and Francophobia explicit in his ‘Mapa intelectual y cotejo de naciones’ (TC, II, 15) (‘Intellectual Map and Comparison of Nations’). But at that point Feijoo was not yet a cultural symbol of the established power, nor did he have the public presence he enjoyed in 1750, and that was highlighted by Borrull in the passage included at the beginning of this chapter. Indeed, by 1750, a year that represents ‘a dividing line between two forms of engaging with politics’ (Gómez Urdáñez 2016: 168), Feijoo was already

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a national agitator, somebody who created opinion and who had an effect on his readers. Something was changing, and Feijoo, perhaps emboldened by the royal protection of his works, launched on a path of critical publicity that, in an oblique manner, pointed out what type of state praxis should be followed. Thus, while Ferdinand VI – who had just signed the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle – presided over a country in which the benefits of peace were becoming ever more evident, the proEnsenada and pro-Carval factions, with their corresponding philias and phobias, were configuring an increasingly complex situation that would eventually come to a head in 1754 with Carvajal’s death and Ensenada’s banishment. In this context, an otherwise skilful publicist and expert observer like Feijoo made an important political miscalculation. However Spanish Ferdinand VI might feel, he was nevertheless still a Bourbon. The praise Feijoo gave his lineage in the volume’s inscription was overshadowed by the surprising tone of ‘Paralelo’. Why did Feijoo choose to publish such a text at this moment? If we were to strip away the political context, it would appear but a natural evolution of his thought, and in fact a restating of ideas he had already expressed. Yet it cannot be separated from its context. The passage in the inscription that was alluded to above leads us to think that Feijoo was feeling himself to be beyond good and evil, that he was practically deified by the power structure that supported him, and that had not only named him Royal Counsellor but that had also made him the object of previously unheard-of protection. He knew himself to be the guide, as he himself wrote, of a public who followed him, read him and wrote to him. As Martínez Pingarrón told Mayans days before the volume was presented to the king, ‘everybody, starting with the king, is on the side of this friar’. But the situation seemed to change rapidly from the very moment in which the volume was presented, on 1 August.25 And on 22 August, Pingarrón was already conveying the news: ‘the rumour is going around that the King has issued a decree calling for the removal of Volume III of Feijoo’s Cartas (which really ought to be burnt) so I would warn doctor Cabrera to be very careful not to lose his’.26 Just a month later, on 12 September, and as has already been mentioned, he would discuss the uproar the book had caused in France.27 Indeed, the monarch had been angered by something more than Soto y Marne’s malevolent suggestion to the king, in his Memorial (Soto y Marne n.d.: 12) about Feijoo’s lack of respect for Ferdinand VI’s origins. It is no coincidence that this volume seems to have run into some problems prior to its publication, as can be gleaned from the letter Juan Luis Roche sent to Martín Sarmiento on 31 July 1750: ‘The



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inscription and the prologue to volume III, if they are brief, require little time, which leads me to believe that some political reason (and not of the honest kind) is holding it up.’28 Feijoo’s position had taken the king and his ministers by surprise. Nevertheless, and despite the warnings launched by Ordeñana, such as ‘in the meantime you should start getting ready’ or ‘I hope you may be successful in this struggle’, Feijoo, who was aware of the conflict, did not fully give up. He might have thought, just as Ferreras – whom Feijoo had declined to help – had, that his position was strong enough to support him. Though existing scholarship has not devoted a single line to the issue, the conflicts and polemics generated by ‘Paralelo’ were public and notorious, as can be deduced not only from the threats made by Ordeñana throughout his letters, but also from Feijoo’s own testimony in his letter dated 26 January 1751, in which he wrote of there being ‘those who accuse me of imprudence for having published it [volume III]. And this was the real problem: it was Feijoo’s notoriety, as an instrument of the monarchy, which caused this action to distance him from the Bourbon project. Feijoo, who, as Borrull argues in the quote included above, was read by thousands, not only shaped opinion through his essays but had also become a symbol of the Bourbon project. Despite the difficulty of the situation, the Royal Decree, which had been issued before the publication of volume III, prevented the latter’s recall, which indeed did not take place, despite what Pingarrón told Mayans; this would have meant a public display of a king’s repressive strategy against the most visible figure of that unifying project that was presumably for the benefit of all, and against the person who had served his purposes so satisfactorily. Ferdinand VI could not allow himself such a public gesture and perhaps – this is speculation on my part – this is the reason for Ordeñana’s private request that Feijoo renounce such a privilege and thereby display his independence from a power structure that, in my view, was slowly and silently beginning to remove its support for him. One can argue that from 1750, there is a noticeable decline in Feijoo’s career, and Carvajal’s death in 1754, Ensenada’s downfall and Martín Sarmiento’s rushed departure for Galicia only helped to ratify it. There do not seem to have been concrete consequences of his mistake in 1750 itself beyond what has already been mentioned, but the letters and the rate of publication (only two volumes would come out between 1750 and 1760), as well as his private correspondence (García Díaz 2016), all show that his position had been damaged. The correspondence with Ordeñana culminates with both sides accepting that neither is willing to budge from their positions, despite the tacit

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flexibility displayed in Feijoo’s already-mentioned response from 23 November. There seem to be no further letters between the two, nor did Ordeñana seem to have a particular interest in dealing with Feijoo, given the allusions to him in the letters he exchanged with Mayans. On 10 February 1753, Ordeñana wrote that ‘Father Feijoo is about to publish the fourth volume of Cartas eruditas, I have read a few of them and, if they are all like this, they will not bring him much honour’ (Mayans y Siscar 1997: 149). A month later, on 10 March 1753, and in reference to the well-known letter to Borrull that Mayans had sent, he was clear on his opinion of Feijoo: ‘I have read with great pleasure your response to Borrull regarding Father Feijoo’s text, which paints such a clear picture of him, and I confess to you that this author has never seemed to me to deserve consideration as anything other than a middling compiler, whose sole merit is to have encouraged the nation to forego its sloth and ignorance regarding the natural sciences’ (Mayans y Siscar 1997: 153). This shows, however, the influence of Feijoo’s figure as a nation-rousing compiler who through his work as a disseminator of knowledge definitively transformed Spain’s cultural fabric.

Conclusions Feijoo’s work is linked to the political and cultural context that resulted from the arrival of the new Bourbon monarchy, not only because his work pretended, just like the monarchy did, to modernise the country and bring it into closer contact with Europe, but also because his oeuvre itself was a part of the literary public sphere that the political power created around itself in order to legitimise its project. The constant refutations and polemics generated by his work are proof of its decidedly public nature, and of the existence and strength of the conservative forces it had to wrestle with. As Maravall argued, Feijoo was the creator of the public in Spain. This public, which was articulated around a rational debate to which women were also invited, proceeded primarily from what we might call bourgeois sectors – a highly incipient bourgeoisie whose private reasons found a public space in his work, via the public responses which Feijoo granted to their consultations. In order to do this, he made use of the essay, the vehicle par excellence for debating ideas, and not only did he disseminate the essay in its modern form in Spain, but he also configured it around certain moulds such as the letter, which, on top of being a more agile and familiar format for the reader, also



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laid bare the traits of subjectivity characteristic of the bourgeois spirit and that were associated with epistolary literature. Part of the Spanish public sphere thus appeared, in this initial stage, not against the state, but rather through the latter’s encouragement, and although the lines between bourgeoisie and established power were still quite diffuse, I believe that we can already appreciate in this period the seeds of what would eventually become the bourgeois public sphere. Perhaps a sign of this process is the behind-the-scenes reaction elicited by volume III of Feijoo’s Cartas eruditas, where Feijoo delved into the issue of state praxis at a moment in which the monarchical power structure had sanctified his work through a Royal Decree that forbade any challenges to it. This context sheds light on the relationship between the public sphere and the state – a state that aimed for the modernisation of the country, but that reacted when the structures it had encouraged began to show signs of having a criterion of their own, something that can be seen as the beginnings of their separation from the apparatus that sustained them and made them possible. Noelia García Díaz obtained her Ph.D. in Spanish Philology from the Universidad de Oviedo, where she also studied BAs in Philology and Law. She is a member of the Sociedad Española de Estudios del Siglo XVIII, as well as of the Universidad de Oviedo’s Instituto Feijoo de Estudios del Siglo XVIII. Her research has focused on the early stages of the modern essay as a genre in the eighteenth century and on the works of Benito Jerónimo Feijoo.

Notes  1. Excepting, as far as I am aware, works by Stiffoni (1989), Gómez Urdáñez (2016) and García Díaz (2016).  2. Given that Feijoo’s works have not been reissued since the eighteenth century (with the exception of volume I of Cartas eruditas), I will provide references using each specific work’s initials (TC for Teatro crítico universal and CE for Cartas eruditas y curiosas), followed by the volume number in Roman numerals, the speech and the paragraph. The texts can be accessed at http://www.filosofia.org/feijoo.htm (retrieved 9 December 2018), which uses the edition of the monks of the Samos Monastery. On Feijoo’s polemics and their geographical implications, see Stiffoni (1989), whose line of research I have continued to explore in García Díaz (2016).  3. Feijoo sought to popularise new ideas and to disseminate them widely; this is the reason for his resorting to the essay – though he did not use the term itself – a genre that was new in Spain. He was clearly aware that

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 5.

 6.  7.

 8.

 9.

10.

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his work’s aims required making use of an effective vehicle that would be different from what had been used before. José Antonio Maravall’s exact phrasing is: ‘del mismo modo que la creación del público es obra de Addison en Inglaterra, el fenómeno de la ampliación de la masa de lectores, del público, es aquí [en España] obra de Feijoo’ (in the same way that the creation of the public in England is the work of Addison, the phenomenon of the enlargement of the mass of readers, and of the public, is here [in Spain] the work of Feijoo) (Maravall 1991: 331). Domínguez Ortiz has pointed out that ‘his struggle was, in part, a continuation of that which the novatores had been involved in, though he gave it much wider significance, taking it beyond a reduced number of specialists, medics and philosophers, compensating for limited conceptual depth with an extraordinary capacity for dissemination, which reached wide social groups and turned an erudite dispute into an episode of national significance’ (Domínguez Ortiz 1964: 570). The notion of a Benito Jerónimo Feijoo detached from the novator movement that was conveyed by Gregorio Marañón has already been overcome by scholars, as the excellent monograph by Pérez Magallón – among others – demonstrated (see Pérez Magallón 2002). TC, II, preface. Feijoo took his fight against common errors into the realm of inequality between the sexes, ‘the most universal of all prejudices’ as Poulain de la Barre had labelled it in his De l’egalité des deux sexes (1673). The extraordinary resonance of his ‘Defensa de las mujeres’, which, significantly, is placed at the close of the first volume of Teatro crítico universal, must have brought many women into that rational community of readers, as can be seen in the response to a young female writer, Ana María Moscoso de Prado, published in Marcelo Macías (1887: 62–63). The new monarchy was a great driving force in the intellectual institutionalisation that marks this period and that was materialised in the creation of Royal Academies and Societies. By supporting them, the monarchy could control and make use of them. On this issue, see Álvarez Barrientos (2004 and 2006). Some researchers had already warned of the possibility that part of the Cartas eruditas were real replies, that is, that theirmateria prima was the private letter (Morayta 1912: 28, Álvarez de Miranda 2003: 119–29). This was confirmed when a number of their addressees were identified (Feijoo 2014). My own work has supported this interpretation, bringing to light the existence of new correspondents (García Díaz 2016). Feijoo presents himself in a number of prologues as the guide of the public that reads him: ‘May the learned reader therefore forgive me, for I cannot honourably abandon so many who are ignorant, many of whom I regard as my conquest, to be fooled by those who spread common errors’ (CE, II, ‘Dos advertencias que pueden ser leídas como prólogo’ (Two letters of recommendation that can be read as a prologue)). For the text, see Pérez de Guzmán (1910: 184).



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12. I am grateful to José Manuel García García for generously allowing me to consult his private archive, where this unpublished letter is held. Private Archive of José Manuel García García, ms. VI-541. 13. Sarmiento was appointed Chronicler of the Indies on 13 January 1750, though he was given the news on 27 June 1750, two days after the Royal Decree that protected Feijoo was issued. This is what Pingarrón explains to Mayans in a letter dated 27 June 1750: ‘The day before yesterday Father Sarmiento received the news that the king had appointed him Chronicler of the Indies, he will undoubtedly accept the post. Quid faciendum about the Academy of History?’ (Mayans y Siscar 1987: 341). 14. In it there is a reference to the Royal Decree, as well as another, oblique one to the challenges brought forward by Soto Marne, who had already published the two volumes of his Reflexiones crítico apologéticas (1749) (Critical-Apologetic Reflections), to which Feijoo had responded that same year with his Justa repulsa de inicuas acusaciones (Just Rejection of Iniquitous Accusations). 15. Benito Jerónimo Feijoo to Agustín de Ordeñana, 26 January 1751. BN ms. 1715, ‘Cartas eruditas de don Agustín de Ordeñana’, 47 r–49 r. Included in González Caizán (1999: 81–83). 16. CE, III, XIX, 5. 17. CE, III, XIX, 35. 18. CE, III, XIX, 30, 31 and 32. 19. Benito Jerónimo Feijoo to Agustín de Ordeñana, 23 November 1750. BN ms. 1715, ‘Cartas eruditas de don Agustín de Ordeñana’, 37 r–41 v. Included in González Caizán (1999: 77–80) and Sánchez Agesta (1946: 535–42). 20. Agustín de Ordeñana to Benito Jerónimo Feijoo, 31 December 1750. BN, ms. 1715, ‘Cartas eruditas de don Agustín de Ordeñana’, 43 r–45 r. Included in González Caizán (1999: 80–81). 21. Emphasis added. BN ms. 1715, ‘Cartas eruditas de don Agustín de Ordeñana’, 37 r–41 v. Included in González Caizán (1999: 77–80) and Sánchez Agesta (1946: 535–42). 22. Private archive of José Manuel García García, ms. VI-541, from Enrique García Lorenzana to his father, 9 September 1750: ‘My lord and father, I received your letter with great pleasure for the copy you include of the response of the most illustrious Feijoo, in which he offers to recommend me to Don Zenón, which is a lot, for after complaining to Master Sarmiento that his Excellency had not responded to the four letters he concludes by saying that he will never ask anything of him, for his own benefit or for that of anyone else. I suppose that Master Sarmiento, who spoke with him to try and convince him, has accomplished this goal.’ 23. Martínez Pingarrón to Gregorio Mayans, 12 September 1750 (Mayans y Siscar 1987: 347). 24. In 1745, Feijoo dedicated volume II of Cartas eruditas to Francesco Pico, Duke of Mirandola, in a clear gesture towards political power if we consider not only Pico’s good standing at the court, but also his close relationship with

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27. 28.

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Isabel de Farnesio, with whom he had had an affair during his youth and as part of whose entourage he had gone to Spain. On Pico, see Cotti (2005). Martínez Pingarrón to Gregorio Mayans, 22 August 1750 (Mayans y Siscar 1989: 343). Mayans y Siscar 1989: 345. It is unclear if the recall indeed took place. It is likely that Carvajal intervened to prevent this, but regardless of this possibility, it would not have been the first time in which a work that displeased the king by dealing with matters excessively close to his own time with a certain ambiguity or little political opportunity was recalled. Philip V ordered the recall of Comentarios de la guerra de España e Historia de su rey Felipe V (1725) (Comments on Spain’s War and History of its King Philip V), by Vicente Bacallar y Sanna, for similar reasons. Martínez Pingarrón to Gregorio Mayans, 12 September 1750 (Mayans y Siscar 1989: 347). RAH, 9-29-1-5762, 139 r–142 r. Included in Pacheco Albalate (2004: 30).

References Álvarez Barrientos, J. 2004. Se hicieron literatos para ser políticos: cultura y política en la España de Carlos IV y Fernando VII. Cadiz: University of Cadiz. ——. 2006. Los hombres de letras en la España del siglo XVIII. Madrid: Castalia. Álvarez de Miranda, P. 2003. ‘Perfil literario del Padre Feijoo’, in I. Urzainqui (ed.), Feijoo hoy. Oviedo-Madrid: Instituto Feijoo de Estudios del siglo XVIII-Fundación Marañón, pp. 119–29. Caso González, J.M. and S. Cerra Suárez. 1981. Benito Jerónimo Feijoo: Obras completas. Tomo I. Bibliografía. Oviedo: Cátedra Feijoo/Centro de Estudios del siglo XVIII. Cotti, C. 2005. ‘El Duque de la Mirandola’: Francesco Maria Pico alla corte di Madrid (1715–1747). Mirandola: Centro Internazionale di Cultura ‘Giovanni Pico della Mirandola’. Delgado Barado, M. 2001. El proyecto político de Carvajal: pensamiento y reforma en tiempos de Fernando VI. Madrid: CSIC. Domínguez Ortiz, A. 1964. ‘Aspectos de la España de Feijoo’, Hispania XXIV 96: 552–76. Feijoo, B.J. 2014. Cartas eruditas y curiosas II. Feijoo (tomo II de sus Obras completas), I. Urzainqui and E. San José Vázquez (eds). Oviedo: KRK. García Díaz, N. 2016. ‘El epistolario de Benito Jerónimo Feijoo (en los inicios del ensayo moderno)’. unpublished doctoral thesis. ——. 2017. ‘Corresponsales americanos de Feijoo en las redes de Martín Sarmiento’, in G. Franco Rubio, N. González Heras and E. de Lorenzo Álvarez (eds), España y el continente americano en el siglo XVIII. Gijón: Trea, pp. 413–29. Gómez Urdáñez, J.L. 2016. ‘Feijoo, político’, in I. Urzaqinui and R. Olay Valdés (eds), Con la razón y la experiencia: Feijoo 250 años después. Gijón: Trea, pp. 151–82.



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González Caizán, C. 1999. ‘Correspondencia erudita entre D. Agustín Pablo de Ordeñana y el Padre Feijoo’, Brocar 23: 59–86. Habermas, J. 1982. Historia y crítica de la opinión pública: La transformación estructural de la vida pública. Barcelona: Gustavo Gili. Maravall, J.N. 1991. ‘El primer siglo XVIII y la obra de Feijoo’, in Estudios de la Historia del pensamiento español: Siglo XVIII. Madrid: Mondadori. Marcelo Macías, M. 1887. Elogio del sabio benedictino Feijoo. La Coruña: Andrés Martínez. Mayans y Siscar, G. 1972. Epistolario II. Mayans y Burriel, A. Mestre (ed.). Valencia: Ayuntamiento de Oliva. ——. 1987. Epistolario VII. Mayans y Martínez Pingarrón, 1: Historia cultural de la Real Biblioteca, A. Mestre (ed.). Valencia: Ayuntamiento de Oliva. ——. 1988. Epistolario VIII. Mayans y Martínez Pingarrón, 2: Los manteístas y la cultura ilustrada, A. Mestre (ed.). Valencia: Ayuntamiento de Oliva. ——. 1989. Epistolario IX. Mayans y Martínez Pingarrón, 3: Real Biblioteca y política cultural, A. Mestre (ed.). Valencia: Ayuntamiento de Oliva. ——. 1997. Epistolario XV: Mayans y los altos cuadros de la Magistratura y Administración Borbónica, 2. (1751–1781), A. Mestre Sanchís and P. Pérez García (eds). Valencia: Ayuntamiento de Oliva. Medina Domínguez, A. 2009. Espejo de sombras: Sujeto y multitud en la España del siglo XVIII. Madrid: Marcial Pons. Morayta, M. (1912?). El Padre Feijoo y sus obras. Valencia: F. Sempere y Compañía. Pacheco Albalate, M. 2004. Una visión del siglo XVIII: Cartas del erudito Roche al benedictino Sarmiento. Puerto de Santa María: Concejalía de Cultura del Puerto de Santa María. Pérez de Guzmán, J. 1910. ‘Documentos históricos: Honores al padre fray Benito Feijoo’, Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia 56: 184. Pérez Magallón, J. 2002. Construyendo la modernidad, la cultura española en el ‘tiempo de los novatores’ (1675–1725). Madrid: CSIC. Sánchez Agesta, L. 1946. Escritos políticos de Fray Benito Jerónimo Feijoo y Montenegro. Madrid: Instituto de Estudios Políticos. Santos Puerto, J.L. 2002. Martín Sarmiento, Ilustración, educación y utopía en la España del siglo XVIII. La Coruña: Fundación Pedro Barrié Maza. Soto y Marne, F. n.d. Memoriales presentados a la Majestad católica del señor don Fernando VI. n.p. Stiffoni, G. 1989. Verità della Storia e ragioni del potere. Milan: Franco Angeli Storia.

Chapter 3

‘Of National Politeness’ Civility and National Character in Spanish Travel Accounts to Great Britain Mónica Bolufer Peruga

å The year is 1774. In London one morning at 7 am, a Spanish traveller is awakened early by his servants. Still wearing his nightshirt, he stands on the balcony of an inn overlooking the scene below. He wavers between disgust and fascination: ‘Two big men, bloody and naked from the waist up, land blows in a fierce fight. They are surrounded by a large ring of excited spectators. I confess that the spectacle, which I judged to be barbarous, filled me with horror’, Carlos José Gutiérrez de los Ríos (1742–95) would recall nearly twenty years later (Gutiérrez de los Ríos 1983: 85). The sixth Count of Fernán Núñez – a distinguished aristocrat, military officer and diplomat – was thirty-two years old at the time and had just arrived in England. He kept extensive journals of his travels across Italy, Austria, Prussia, Poland, England and France, which have been recently discovered and not been fully analysed yet.1 He also recorded later on in his life in a Carta a sus hijos (Letter to His Sons), written while he was Spanish Ambassador in Lisbon in 1786 and published in Paris in 1791, a reflection that was common in his time, that travel offers lessons in the school of life, particularly if the traveller is equipped with discernment and prior knowledge of the places to be visited. Fernán Núñez finds that experiences remembered from the journeys may prove useful for reinforcing the moral and practical lessons he offers his children. Of the visit to England, he refers in his Carta only to the street fight, a well-known popular custom that was much anticipated by foreign travellers, as the count admits: ‘I was most curious (as are all foreigners) to be present at one of the boxing matches that take place in the streets and that are so much talked of in other countries’ (Gutiérrez de los Ríos 1983: 85). The anecdote offered an occasion to reflect on distinct codes of social behaviour in different countries and on the rationales that underlie appearances, preventing the ­assignment of absolute, stable meanings to qualifiers like barbarous or civilised.



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The scene this distinguished Spanish traveller recalls provides a point of departure for comparing transformations that were taking place in the ways in which cultivated behaviour (and its links to the public sphere) was conceived and expressed in Great Britain and Spain during the Enlightenment. Scholarship on the notions of politeness and good manners as key elements in the transformation of English society during the long eighteenth century has dealt with topics ranging from patterns of consumption to political culture or family relationships.2 Attention to this line of enquiry has greatly increased in recent decades, to the point that it has become an important current in British historiography, one in which the profile of this period and its people might be described by William Blackstone’s famous summary phrase that has also served as the title of a celebrated synthesis of ­eighteenth-century British history: A Polite and Commercial People (Langford 1990). This age was marked by economic and cultural changes and social mobility, as conventional hierarchies based on land ownership shifted and new emphasis was placed on the ability to display distinction and good taste through lifestyle, appearance, manners and forms of social address, even as an ever-larger portion of society aspired (sometimes successfully) to new patterns of consumption, culture and leisure (Klein 1995). Much less attention has been directed to comparable Spanish social codes and phenomena, about which scholars use language that is less fixed, shifting among such terms as urbanidad, civilidad, cortesía or política.3 The few studies available have tended to focus on manuals of etiquette, quite properly emphasising the influence of France (López-Cordón 2002). Comparatively, less notice has been taken of the similarly considerable impact of British models that can be seen, for example, in the adoption of written genres, such as essays of the type published in periodicals like The Spectator (Deacon 1996; Bolufer 2014). Another example is the popularity of Lord Chesterfield’s Letters to His Son after the first Spanish translation (or rather adaptation) of 1797 (Laspalas 2007). Only recently have scholars accorded wider consideration to the full scope of the notion of urbanity as it cut across the century’s cultural discourse, in Spain just as in the rest of Europe (Ampudia de Haro 2007; Bolufer 2009b and 2019). Politeness was strongly connected to the development of the public sphere in its many varieties. I am using ‘public sphere’ here not in a precise spatial sense, that is, as opposed in a clean-cut dichotomy to an also clear ‘private sphere’, but in the broader sense we have inherited from decades of debates around these notions, stemming from the publication of Habermas’ extremely influential work, but also from the strong interest of feminist historiography on problematising the ‘public/

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private’ divide (Habermas 1981; Calhoun 1992; Castiglione and Sharpe 1995; van Horn Melton 2001). Instead of a nitid, distinctly bourgeois (and implicitly masculine) eighteenth-century ‘public sphere’, historians are interested nowadays in the different, historically contingent and often coexisting places and ways in which political issues, in the wider sense (that is, also social and moral), were discussed, opinions were created and confronted, and agreements and eventually protests were expressed – a process that can be traced further back to early modern times (Rospocher 2012; Olivari 2014). In eighteenth-century Spain, it was usually not against absolutism, but often using, adapting or manipulating the resources of ancien régime society and of the Bourbon monarchy, that new forms of sociability and views of the ‘public’ gradually emerged, which at the beginning of the nineteenth-century, in the context of the French invasion, would bring about more radical changes conducing to liberalism (Calvo Maturana 2013). Behaving and speaking in accordance to the requirements of civility were implicitly (and sometimes explicitly) considered as absolutely necessary in order to take part in the rituals of sociability characteristic of this expanding eighteenth-century public sphere: courtly sociability, of course, but also polite conversation in social gatherings. Some urban social circles, such as salons or tertulias (their Spanish equivalents), were by invitation only. Others, such as coffee houses, spas, theatres and pleasure gardens, were open to the public, but sometimes restricted by their price either to the well-off or to the aspiring middle classes. Promenades or public spectacles were also free, in principle, and therefore open to all, but in all of them, politeness (that is, respect to certain codes of appropriate dress and civil behaviour) acted as an invisible yet crucial gate that gave or denied access. Thus, participation in many public spaces of the city was socially filtered not only by direct exclusion but also by a subtle perception of what a ‘polite’ person and a ‘polite’ space was. For instance, while the Spanish traveller Antonio Ponz wrote in 1785 that Paris gardens, such as the Jardin des Tuileries or the Jardin du Luxembourg, were delightful recreational spaces where ‘any decent person can take a stroll’, the Marquis of Ureña would notice two years later that the gates of the Tuileries were strictly guarded by soldiers to keep it out of the reach of ‘la chusma’ (the mob) and made it a haven for the well behaved and well dressed (Ponz 2007: 303; Pemán Medina 1992: 187). Additionally, newspapers and journals (particularly, but not only, essay-periodicals in the style of The Spectator and its counterparts in Britain and continental Europe) set up certain rules of polite behaviour in the virtual exchange of opinions they stimulated through readers’ letters –real and fictional (Deacon 1996; Bolufer 2014).



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This European discourse of politeness can also be framed within the context of the nation building in process at the time, through ties to the debate on national characters and, more broadly, the issue of cultural differences across Europe. In effect, civility served not only as a mark of social distinction for individuals and groups in the eighteenth century but also as a measure of degree of social progress and the formation of national identities. The debate proceeded largely through comparisons of one country to another. until this period, good manners pertained essentially to individuals. It was said that a person did or did not possess good manners and the point of contention was whether they were innate or could be learned. Regardless, travellers were advised that rules of etiquette diverged and that one needed to learn about them and take them seriously. Beginning in the eighteenth century, however, politeness came to be thought of as an attribute of societies, one among many other indicators of progress such as commercial prosperity, moderation in commerce, political and moral conduct, the development of the arts and social relations between men and women. These concepts were set within the context of a growing interest in describing and explaining so-called national characters – those enduring cultural and social traits of nations that could be attributed to climate and the environment or to the weight of history, depending on whether, respectively, one subscribed to the theories of Montesquieu (De l’esprit des lois, 1738) or Hume (Of National Characters, 1740). Elsewhere I have examined how British travellers’ views of Spanish customs, and particularly their perception of gender relations, fit into their notions of enlightened progress (Bolufer 2009a). In this chapter I will take the opposite perspective, looking at judgments expressed by Spanish traveller to Great Britain concerning practices they categorised as civilised or barbarous in order to profile the visited country and their own on a scale of relative degrees of civility, while at the same time establishing themselves as members of the cultivated classes. The scene described at the beginning of this chapter through the eyes of the Count of Fernán Núñez served this aristocratic traveller with an example to illustrate a principle he feels is fundamental to the practice of travel and the writing of a narrative, namely the usefulness of applying considered judgement, attending to the particular circumstances of each country, while avoiding facile appraisals of habits and institutions that are very different from one’s own. More specifically, the anecdote illustrates his insistence on relating local customs to the general outline of government and politics, as done by Montesquieu in De l’esprit des lois, a work that exerted a powerful influence on the way in which eighteenth-century travellers experienced and interpreted

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their surroundings. Fernán Núñez sums up by saying there exist ‘powerful reasons to esteem as proper and useful in one country that which would be harmful or impractical in others, thus to avoid the error of many whose judgements lack such a relationship, as they lightly judge customs to be ridiculous or barbarous’ (Gutiérrez de los Ríos 1983: 85). As the count reaches this point in his narrative, he derives a lesson from the anecdote, in a sense becoming two persons in order to contrast the ingenuous traveller, whose account is shallow and hasty, with the thoughtful one, who weighs and considers. Another way to put this is that the author’s understanding of the journey emerges at two different moments. The first is the fresh impression, the second a more thoughtful reflection that interprets and puts into context what he has seen and experienced in his travels. After some time in England, Fernán Núñez’s observations on the social customs and conflicts of the country led him to take a very different view of the street scene he witnessed early in his stay and that many travel accounts considered characteristic of plebeian ways in public spaces. The fight that seemed at first to give evidence of animal brutality was later found to be governed by rules, regulations and limits that had been obscure to the foreign observer: a fallen adversary must not be struck, the injured must be cared for promptly, the fighters must reconcile after the event and seal their friendship at a tavern, and a paid boxer may be used as a stand-in if one is challenged. Clearly, the fight was a ritual that the thoughtful traveller may perceive as a way to channel violence and resolve conflicts, thereby attenuating criminal behaviour and maintaining public order in English society. Not all travellers interpreted this practice in the same way. When Antonio Ponz (1726–92), secretary of the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, travelled to England in 1783, he expressed a diametrically opposed view of such fights. On seeing a boxing ring forming at the door of his inn in Suffolk Street shortly before nightfall, Ponz retired to his room to avoid having to watch, distancing himself in a measured gesture of disdain that he emphasises in Viaje fuera de España (Travels outside Spain) (1785): ‘I take no delight in bloody spectacles of this or any other type, and so I went inside’ (Ponz 2007: 630). By recording his refusal to be present at the fight, this traveller gives evidence of a superior sensibility that cannot tolerate seeing violence, and he implicitly criticises the morbid curiosity of other travellers. On writing or revising his manuscript for publication in 1785, two years after the journey, Ponz does not soften his opinion that the practice is inexcusably brutal. Rather, he confirms that first impression, stating that, in contrast, Spanish society is more civilised,



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and he ridicules travellers who are scandalised by bullfighting: ‘far more barbarous are the boxing matches, which are festive events for the English, tolerated by their government, and which take place daily on streets and in squares’ (Ponz 2007: 629). Although enlightened Spaniards were highly critical of bullfights as public spectacles and of associated popular practices in the eighteenth century (Andreu 2008), such events were not considered special cases, but rather one example of many lower-class practices to be reformed throughout the continent. Thus, Ponz could both defend his country’s honour and claim his place among a European elite with which he shared rules of behaviour, aesthetic preferences and sensibilities. He was in his element among such people in England, as he stresses in his correspondence with the British ambassador to Spain, Thomas Robinson, Baron Grantham, who introduced him into the intellectual circles of English society, ‘gracious in their relations and very courteous’ (Ponz 2007: 86). Sixteenth-century travellers were already expressing surprise on finding that courteous habits abroad differed in some respects from their own, a reaction that can be interpreted to show not their distance from others, but rather their awareness of sharing fundamental codes of good manners against which differences could be perceived as minor (Bryson 1998). During the eighteenth century, codes of behaviour would become even more generalised among the European upper classes and cultivated persons, who developed similar tastes, clothing and social practices at a time when written commentaries and fashions circulated at a faster pace, journeys were undertaken more often and French became the language of the educated elite. However, entering the ranks of the cosmopolitan from a position in France was not the same as joining from Spain, which had lost hegemony in the preceding centuries and had seen its role decline both in the balance of European geopolitics and in cultural matters. That enlightened Spanish travellers must assert their individual cosmopolitan status while also restoring their country’s image abroad is evident in the participation of all persons of learned, intellectual and political persuasion in the eighteenth-century debate on the place of Spain in European culture (Diz 2000; LópezCordón 2006). The defence was mounted with particular reference to Spain’s colonial rivals, Britain and France, which were admired and imitated in the fields of philosophy and culture and that were the places of origin of many writers who published travel accounts and views that Spanish readers found highly stereotypical. For example, Ponz cites a letter written by the eminent diplomat José Nicolás de Azara for the second edition (1782) of William Bowles’ Introducción a la Historia natural y a la geografía física de España (published originally in Spanish

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and translated into French in 1776 and Italian in 1784). Azara scoffs at charges that Spaniards lacked manners and that refinements could only be attributed to foreign influences, opinions expressed by Henry Swinburne in Travels through Spain, in the Years 1775 and 1776: ‘Swinburne’s perception is so acute that after only two or three days in Spain he had discovered that all our roads were poor, the inns worse, and ours an infernal country where rudeness reigned. No Spaniard has or has ever had good breeding and only manages to make less of an ass of himself by acquiring the politesse of the English or French’ (Ponz 2007: 192). This view was also expressed by another traveller, embassy chaplain Edward Clarke, in his Letters Concerning the Spanish Nation (1763). Clarke explained how Spanish social practices became more civilised with the change of the ruling dynasty: ‘The more refined manners of France passed over the Pyrenees with the house of Bourbon . . . French politesse has given a new air to the savageness of that country and softened it’ (Clarke 1763: iv). Ponz similarly brings Clarke to task for painting the Spanish character as reserved, gloomy and unsociable (Ponz 2007: 183). This ageold notion, tied to the stereotype of the supposedly serious Castilian character, became a sign of isolation from civilising influences in the eighteenth century, when conversation and sociability were put forth and practised as virtues intrinsically associated with civilised ways. Ponz therefore turns Clarke’s judgement back on him, ascribing to the writer’s own nation the same defect: ‘It is the English who must be described as gloomy and unsociable in relation to the other peoples of Europe, as everyone knows and says’ (Ponz 2007: 183). He associates those traits with British commercial dominance and their strict mercantilism, referring to the sense of sociability that is intrinsic to the word commerce, as sociability must be considered incompatible with the excessive economic superiority of one country over another. Rather, greater balance should be struck between nations. In spite of these criticisms, Ponz’s opinion of English society is generally favourable, whether because he shares a ‘certain fondness for the English’ (Ponz 2007: 183) common among cultivated Spaniards or because his contact with important scholars and the nobility made his stay in Britain particularly enjoyable, allowing him to participate in the English intellectual and social scene as well as observe it. Like other travellers, he admires the constant activity of the people and the fine shops, which fascinated and kindled desire with their display of abundant and varied merchandise. One trait of the English character he particularly appreciated was the taste for pleasure and the correlative development of a culture of leisure that included the commercialisation



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of pleasure in places devoted to entertainment, consumption and social intercourse (Ponz 2007: 608). These were establishments and locales that attracted a clientele from various social strata, from the most distinguished to the most popular: pleasure gardens, spas, theatres, parks and a myriad of ‘inns, coffee-houses, pastry shops, taverns and similar places where people go to eat, drink and converse freely, without the least apprehension’ (Ponz 2007: 612). In forming this opinion, Ponz falls into a certain contradiction, as did so many of his contemporaries. On the one hand, he celebrated a society in which cultivation and good manners, in his opinion, were certainly not confined to a small elite, but rather had extended to the population as a whole, as he comes to believe upon contemplating the good treatment he received in inns or the proper manners of the postilions, who did not swear and were neither rude nor insolent, unlike their counterparts in other countries: ‘This nation does not suffer such impertinences; the law punishes them and a certain degree of breeding can be seen in persons above the station of the poorest classes’ (Ponz 2007: 483, emphasis added). On the other hand, he contrasts ‘the cultivation and good manners of civilised and enlightened persons’ with ‘the licentious, aggressive and insulting behavior of common, inconsiderate persons’ when he refers to the Gordon Riots of 1780 (Ponz 2007: 623). All in all, however, the author inclines towards a favourable impression of the country in that all things English are synonymous not only with economic prosperity and good, cultivated taste, but also order and civility. Gaspar de Molina y Zaldívar (1741–1806), Marquis of Ureña in Cadiz, Ponz’s friend and the husband of María Dolores Josefa Tirry y Lacy (1748–1813), who descended from a distinguished Irish family, published a more openly favourable opinion of the English. He visited the country between July 1787 and October 1788 on a journey that also took him to France, Holland and Flanders. In addition to visits to monuments, libraries, palaces, and industrial and commercial plants, Ureña also attended theatrical and social events, taking the view that culture must be considered as an intellectual exercise in a way that is closely related to social relations, refinement of manners and conversation. The author was introduced at court and invited to the best houses, such as that of Alexander Jardine in Hampstead or the home of Richard and Maria Cosway, who were collectors of art and antiquities and whose gatherings included musical recitals. There, Molina y Zaldívar enjoyed the conversation of men and women alike, later reporting: ‘These gatherings were my favourites and the ones I attended most regularly’ (Pemán Medina 1992: 337). The Marquis of Ureña expressed particular appreciation for the company of ladies, whether they be occasional

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traveling companions sharing a warm fireside at an inn in Disley or his hostess, the artist Maria Cosway, who spoke several languages and was also an accomplished musician. He admired the importance placed on the education of women in England. They received instruction in intellectual pursuits as well as decorative and artistic ones, he said: ‘in London, they are particularly attentive to the training and education of young people, especially the ladies’ (Pemán Medina 1992: 309). This traveller also took pleasure in less exclusive surroundings, such as the new public places for spending leisure hours – prominent examples were the Pantheon, the Ranelagh Gardens or Vauxhall, where the marquis found that dances or plays were open to whomever could pay the relatively modest price of a ticket. Ureña was especially fascinated by the spa town of Bath, where magnificent bathing and entertainment facilities had been erected in the classical style. The town had become a centre of fashion, drawing visitors from the highest ranks of the aristocracy as well as anyone with sufficient money and pretensions to mingle in polite society. Ureña praised the vitality of the town’s social life, particularly its elaborate rituals that managed to create the appearance of freedom from rules and affect a natural, spontaneous atmosphere. The great success of Bath consisted precisely in transmitting to regular participants of the social scene and to occasional visitors that society was easy and open, and that intercourse was free of barriers or any hint of an explicit hierarchy. The paragraph in which Ureña describes the reigning atmosphere of a pleasure emporium reveals how much he prized a type of courtesy that is apparently informal, distinguishable from the rigid etiquette still prevailing in more traditional circles such as were found in Spain. Here he saw manners that were closer to the ideals of social intercourse adopted by emerging societal groupings, such as the Spanish world’s Economic Societies of Friends of the Country. He depicts a dream of an egalitarian space in which the distinctions usually found in polite, or ‘civilised’, society are temporarily abolished or at least pushed aside in favour of that which unites all people sharing similar values. Ureña believes the dream has been realised in the happy gatherings of this English enclave: It is difficult to find a more brilliant assembly of people in all of England than one finds in Bath. The old and the young, the serious and the jocular, the ill and the healthy all set aside fastidious ceremony other than the rules of respect and politeness established between persons of good breeding. They gather at meeting places with a degree of equality and freedom that is agreeable. Leisure activities are discreetly arranged for in such a way that something to do is



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never wanting but there is no annoying need to keep track of the hours. Nor is there excessive dissipation. (Pemán Medina 1992: 445, emphasis added)

The author’s approval of English ‘courtesy’ extends beyond the best society to encompass the entire nation to a certain extent. From his arrival in England, he is surprised by the ‘extreme politeness and affability’ and ‘urbanity’ of the customs agents when they address him in Dover and who he had thought would be rude and discourteous; in sum, he expected ‘caribes’ (Caribbeans), he remarks ironically, making reference to the supposed savageness of the indigenous Americans (Pemán Medina 1992: 303). Politeness is inseparable in this text from the aesthetic harmony of the scenes he paints to describe the country: decency, comfort, order and cleanliness are concepts he recalls often in descriptions of all types, whether the subject is the urban landscape (such as the arrangement and paving of streets) or gentlemen’s coaches and the behaviour of their drivers. He generally rejects as unfounded such stereotypes as the so-called gloomy character of the English (as described by his friend Ponz). Instead, he refers to his own experience as evidence against what is heard and read: ‘I, who have seen many things and heard of more in the accounts of others, find English streets are noisy, as are they all, but much less so than in Spain’ (Pemán Medina 1992: 305). He also distances himself from Ponz and other travellers who deplored the insolence and surliness of the English working classes, instead stressing their discipline even in the absence of apparent keepers of the public order, as Fernán Núñez also observed, and he mentions that he could not say the same of Paris: ‘I can say nothing of the surliness attributed to the lowest classes of London because I have not observed it. On the contrary, I find them more well behaved here than in Paris’ (Pemán Medina 1992: 337). He attributes to the common Londoner a lower level of aggressiveness, and in contrast mentions the greater frequency of violent crime in Spain, at least in his own place of residence, the Bay of Cadiz. The English lower classes share a certain collective politeness, he claims, that either stems from the greater reach of education among them or to the influence of the more refined tastes of their superiors: ‘I can only credit it to cultivation and to contact with persons who have that attribute’ (Pemán Medina 1992: 337). Ureña’s view can be summed up as openly positive and nearly free of attenuating shades. He presents English society as an ideal one, presided over by order, deference and discipline, but also points to a certain love of pleasure and informality in personal relations.

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Far more critical is the impression transmitted by the writer Leandro Fernández de Moratín (1760–1828) in Apuntaciones sueltas sobre Inglaterra (Notes on England), the account of a journey made between August 1792 and August 1793. The nature of this text – a collection of brief notes jotted down for private use and not intended for publication (Alarcón 2007) – seems to free the author from the obligation to sketch out a national character in a few words or lines. The absence of such characterisation somewhat attenuates the reductive nature of stereotypes and explains why his conclusions are often ambiguous. This writer seems to agree with Ureña in approving of the interpersonal informality between royalty and the aristocracy, for example, and he implies that it stands in contrast to the more rigid protocol of other European courts: ‘One of the things a Spaniard most admires on arriving in London is how little impressed people are by greatness and great personages at Court, and the liberty of manners they enjoy after casting off the intolerable chains of ceremonies and etiquette’ (Moratín 2005: 160). Nonetheless, he offers a deeply satirical version of how these same distinguished and civilised persons lose their composure when they have had too much to drink, even at the most genteel of social gatherings. On the other hand, he praises the modesty and reserve of the women, who follow the custom of retiring at the end of dinner to leave the gentlemen to their characteristically masculine pleasures of tobacco and drink (Moratín 2005: 103). He therefore approves of a greater degree of separation between male and ‘public’ (political), female and ‘private’ conversations within the domestic space, also observed by Fernán Núñez. Yet Moratín’s traveller’s portrayal of the meticulous ritual of serving tea is sardonic (Moratín 2005: 114–15) and a few pages later he criticises the English for their lack of flexibility in behaviour and insistence that foreign visitors adopt all the local customs. In reproaching the English for their low threshold of tolerance for foreign ways, he expresses the well-established notion that manners are variable codes of conduct that are difficult for outsiders to deconstruct: Pity the foreign visitor who has not learned the ways of the English and their practices before arriving in London! If one does not wear one’s hair the way they do or dress in like style, or does not take tea or eat and drink in the same manner, one is lost: before listening to a word of explanation, they will qualify one as a foreigner, which is to say a wild beast. (Moratín 2005: 133–4)

Yet Moratín pointedly uses the word rústico4 in its various senses to describe the social customs of the English. He singles out the ‘vulgar’



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for their behaviour ‘zafio y tumultuoso’ (uncouth and disorderly), which he explicitly distinguishes from the conduct of ‘el pueblo decente’ (decent people), and he claims to have witnessed noisy, inconsiderate behaviour by audiences at a theatrical spectacle of inferior quality (Moratín 2005: 199). Further, he denies any superiority the English might be supposed to have over the peoples of other countries with regard to gentility and refinement of custom (which Ponz and Ureña had claimed for them). Rather, he insists that ‘the lowest classes of the capital can be pitted for their brutality and ignorance against the worst of Europe’ (Moratín 2005: 199). And there is more: this writer also directs vehement criticism against the manners and habits of young people in the better classes, which he observed in public places like theatres, voicing the widely felt concern that wealth corrupts if not accompanied by discipline and training. Moratín’s complaint is not simply the objection of a man of the middle class to the so-called degenerate habits of the aristocracy, but rather a judgement directed against the nation as a whole, whose moral fibre he questions, insisting that their economic prosperity does not necessarily lead to refinement of conduct. In the words of this author, it is precisely the sense of superiority and pride of the British – who are well aware of the sway they hold over the world’s economy and politics at the time – that disqualifies them from being considered ‘civilised’ and explains the unforgivable vulgarity of their ruling classes: This ignorant pride and the brutish customs they cling to give them an air of rusticity that offends those who notice it. Anyone who has gone to the spectacles attended by the most proper young people of London will have observed in their countenances, actions and movements a boorish failure of courtesy that is far from the gentleness and urbanity engendered by the bounteous luxury of a good education. They all seem to me to be butchers or bullfighters that have been cleaned up: that is how rude and threatening they appear. (Moratín 2005: 134, emphasis added)

These charges are serious in that they compare the behaviour and appearance of wealthy young Londoners to the lowest of the social classes in Spain (recalling that the butcher was a vile tradesman and that bullfighters hailed from the lower classes and were spurned by the enlightened of the eighteenth century). The severity of Moratín’s accusations can be understood best if they are read in the light of harsh words in another passage from Apuntuaciones in which the author attacks British commercial dominance and the means by which it was attained. He insists on the inherent immorality not only of colonial

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exploitation but also of unequal terms of trade between Great Britain, the principal commercial power of the time, and other European countries. His critique is based on more general reflections of the processes of corruption associated with economic prosperity and commercial development in contrast to the purity of ‘primitive’ peoples: Nations that have been enriched by industry and commerce, which dwell on undesirable terrain that will not yield natural produce in abundance, will always display habits that blend discourtesy, sordid interests, and a suspicious untrusting nature that make conversation with them disagreeable for others in whom the same circumstances do not come together. These vices will grow with their wealth and prosperity.   A Laplander dressed in skins who hunts and fishes with no thought for commerce beyond trading the few fruits of his land for necessary objects or utensils, products of foreign arts of which he is ignorant, in his simple rusticity will be able to preserve innocent customs and social virtues that may be lacking in the civilised nations that so prize and recommend them. (Moratín 2005: 156)

For the author of Apuntaciones sueltas sobre Inglaterra, a country such as Great Britain that lacks natural resources can only aspire to increase its wealth through the aggressive pursuit of commerce, alienating the goodwill of neighbouring countries and perverting the customs of its own inhabitants, who become used to thinking of foreigners as subjects to be colonised, rivals to vanquish or customers to exploit. Such activity distorts the sociable disposition that is at the root of human nature and the practice of truly civilised nations: free trade that is friendly and balanced (though this reflection fails to take on board the situation of the Spanish crown itself and its position of colonial monopoly). Thus, a criticism of Spain’s rival to maritime power is dressed in philosophical rationale according to which England, to the degree that her prosperity rests on deeply unjust colonial and commercial relations, does not merit moral and cultural consideration as a truly civilised country. Moratín, like other Spanish travellers in Great Britain who form opinions on English customs and contrast them with Spanish ways, betrays a certain tension in applying such concepts as courtesy, urbanity, breeding, culture and good manners, and politeness and affability, as well as their opposites: discourtesy, brutishness or surliness. These terms are often brought out in contradictory ways to express and give shape to notions that pertain to the enlightened elite of Spain. On the one hand, they reveal the narrators’ sense of belonging, or willingness



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to belong, to a cosmopolitan society that behaves courteously, is of refined sensibility and ‘good taste’, and is bound by shared values that cross national borders. This leads them to emphasise traits they have in common with people they consider to be their peers in other countries, even as they underline the abyss they believe separates them from the ‘vulgar’, uncivil and rude elements of the population. Thus, English politeness is described with admiration by some travellers as a code of behaviour that appears informal, that marks social boundaries of a cultural nature and that is relatively flexible; this portrayal is none other than the most polished expression of the eighteenth-century ideal of civility, with which these travellers closely identify. In the process, they also presage an incipient feeling of national identity, which in Spain is forged largely from nostalgia for lost hegemony relative to rival colonial powers. In Moratín’s case, this approach leads to an attack on English commercial predominance that he couches in moral terms rather than as competition for markets. This writer uses the deeply resonating concept of civility as the external expression of personal and collective virtues, not as a mere repertoire of formal gestures. More generally, Spanish travellers are led to reject qualifiers like rude or barbarous, which some English travellers use to describe certain Spanish customs, even when they share with the English commentator an enlightened, critical view of those same customs. The enlightened Spanish intellectuals defend the lower classes of their nation as a projection of the Spanish people, to whom they ascribe a superior level of courtesy to the point of contrasting Spanish manners with the ‘vulgar barbarity’ of other nations, even though outside the context of these comparisons they may view the same classes with disdain. Thus are the notions of civility and politeness used in travel literature to define both national and social identities in a variety of public but also private locations, and to test them against each other. Mónica Bolufer Peruga is Professor of Modern History at the University of Valencia, Spain. As a historian, she works within the theoretical framework of cultural history and gender history, with a particular interest in historiographical orientations that link collective perceptions and values to individual appropriation and agency. Her research covers a wide array of subjects in the field of eighteenth-century Spanish and European cultural history: women’s writing and translating; travel narratives and the construction of European identity; concepts of politeness and ideas of progress; the history of sensibility; biography and modern notions of the self. She has published five books: Mujeres e Ilustración: La construcción de la feminidad en la

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España del siglo XVIII (Universitat de València, 1998); Amor, matrimonio y familia: La construcción histórica de la familia moderna (Síntesis, 1998), in collaboration with Isabel Morant; a critical edition of Antonio Ponz’s Viaje fuera de España, 1785 (Universidad de Alicante, 2007); La vida y la escritura en el siglo XVIII. Inés Joyes: ‘Apología de las mujeres’ (Universitat de València, 2008); and Arte y artificio de la vida en común: Los modelos de comportamiento y sus tensiones en el Siglo de las Luces (Marcial Pons, 2019), and many contributions to collective works (among them Sarah Knot and Barbara Taylor, Women, Gender, and Enlightenment (Palgrave MacMillan, 2005); Jo Labanyi, Luisa Elena Delgado and Pura Fernández, Engaging the Emotions in Spanish Culture and History (2016); Lehner, Women, Enlightenment and Catholicism (2018). She has coedited the multivolume Historia de las mujeres en España y América Latina (Cátedra, 2005–6) and several essay collections on women’s history, history and cinema, sensibility and the Enlightenment (together with Catherine Jaffe and Elizabeth Lewis, she has co-edited The Routledge Companion to the Hispanic Enlightenment (forthcoming)). She has directed and participated in several international research projects and currently develops the ERC Advanced Grant CIRGEN: Circulating Gender in the Global Enlightenment: Ideas, Contexts, Agencies (2019–23).

Notes This research is included in the project funded by the Spanish Ministry of Economy and Competitivity (MINECO) under grant HAR2014-53802-P. A substantially different version was published in Spanish under the title ‘Embridar las pasiones: civilidad y barbarie en los relatos de viajeros españoles por Gran Bretaña (s. XVIII)’, Historia Social 81 (2005): 93–112. 1. His travel journals are preserved in the Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Nobleza; book C. 2033, D.3 corresponds to the trip to Great Britain. 2. See, among other contributions, Klein (1994) and (2002); and Tosh (2002). 3. Bolufer 2002. The terms most often used for the eighteenth-century concept of politeness (French politesse) in Spain are ‘urbanidad’ (literally, urbanity, but also polish or cultivation) and ‘cortesía’ (whose French and English equivalents – courtoisie and courtesy – were somewhat less commonly used by the eighteenth century). Other terms were ‘política’ or ‘policía’, which can suggest interesting double meanings as they also refer to politics and public order, respectively. Used still less frequently in Spanish was ‘civilidad’ (literally civility). 4. Literally rustic, but as rusticity was the direct opposite of urbanity, to which politeness was ascribed at this time, this term was taken to mean rude or lacking in cultivation and understanding of good manners.



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References Alarcón, R. 2007. ‘Las Apuntaciones sueltas de Inglaterra de Leandro Fernández de Moratín: libro de viajes y fundación de una escritura moderna’, Bulletin Hispanique 109(1): 157–86. Ampudia de Haro, F. 2007. Las bridas de la conducta: Una aproximación al proceso civilizatorio español. Madrid: Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas. Andreu, X. 2008. ‘De cómo los toros se convirtieron en fiesta nacional: Los “intelectuales” y la “cultura popular” (1790–1850)’, Ayer 72: 27–56. Bolufer, M. 2002. ‘Ciencia del mundo: concepto y prácticas de la civilidad en la España de las Luces’, Cheiron 2: 143–85. ——. 2009a. ‘Between Two Shores. Travellers as Cultural Mediators: The Journey to Spain in the Eighteenth Century’, Acta Histriae 17(1–2): 83–102. ——. 2009b. ‘El arte de las costumbres: una mirada sobre el debate de la civilidad en la España del siglo XVIII’, Res Publica 22: 195–224. ——. 2014. ‘“Civilizar las costumbres: el papel de la prensa periódica dieciochesca’, Bulletin of Spanish Studies 91(9–10): 97–113. ——. 2018. Arte y artificio de la vida en común: Los modelos de comportamiento y sus tensiones en el Siglo de las Luces. Madrid: Marcial Pons. Bryson, A. 1998. From Courtesy to Civility: Changing Codes of Conduct in Early Modern England. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Calhoun, C. (ed.) 1992. Habermas and the Public Sphere. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Calvo Maturana, A. 2013. Cuando manden los que obedecen: La clase política e intelectual de la España preliberal (1780–1808). Madrid: Marcial Pons. Castiglione, D., and L. Sharpe (eds). 1995. Shifting the Boundaries. Transformations of the Languages of Public and Private in the Eighteenth Century. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Clarke, E. 1763. Letters Concerning the Spanish Nation: Written at Madrid during the Years 1760 and 1761. London: T. Beckett and P.A. de Hondt. Deacon, P. 1996. ‘En busca de nuevas sensibilidades: el proceso civilizador en la cultura española del siglo XVIII’, in Actas del coloquio internacional Unidad y diversidad en el mundo hispánico en el s. XVIII. Madrid: Editorial Complutense, pp. 52–72. Demerson, J. 1992. ‘Leandro Fernández de Moratín y José de Lugo en Londres (1792–1793)’, Anales de Literatura Española 8: 53–61. Diz, A. 2000. Idea de Europa en la España del siglo XVIII. Madrid: BOE-Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales. Gutiérrez de los Ríos, C. 1983. ‘Carta a sus hijos’, Dieciocho 6: 61–105. Habermas, J. 1981. Historia y crítica de la opinión pública: la transformación estructural de la vida pública A Doménec (trans.). Madrid: Gustavo Gili. Klein, L. 1994. Shaftesbury and the Culture of Politeness: Moral Discourse and Cultural Politics in Early Eighteenth-Century England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ——. 1995. ‘Politeness for Plebs: Some Social Identities in Early EighteenthCentury England’, in A. Bermingham and J. Brewer (eds), The Consumption

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of Culture: Word, Image, and Object in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries. London: Routledge, pp. 362–82. ——. 2001. ‘Enlightenment as Conversation’, in K. Baker and P. Reill (eds), What’s Left of Enlightenment? A Postmodern Question. Stanford: Stanford University Press, pp. 148–66. ——. 2002. ‘Politeness and the Interpretation of the British Eighteenth Century’, Historical Journal 45(4): 869–98. Langford, P. 1990. A Polite and Comercial People. England, 1727–1785. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Laspalas, J. 1998. ‘Los códigos sociales de conducta como tema historiográfico’, Memoria y civilización 1: 199–208. ——. 2007. ‘Distinción social, cortesía y educación en la obra de Lord Chesterfield’, in A.M. González González and A.N. García Martínez (eds), Distinción social y moda. Pamplona: EUNSA, pp. 51–92. López-Cordón, M. V. 2002. ‘De la cortesía a la civilidad: la enseñanza de la urbanidad en la España del siglo XVIII’, in M. Rodríguez Cancho (ed.), Historia y perspectivas de investigación: Estudios en homenaje del profesor Ángel Rodríguez Sánchez. Mérida: Editora Regional de Extremadura, pp. 359–64. ——. 2006. ‘De monarquía a nación: la imagen histórica de España en el siglo de la Ilustración’, Norba. Revista de Historia 19: 151–73. Melton, J. van Horn. 2001. The Rise of the Public in Enlightenment Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Moratín, L.F. de. 2005. Apuntaciones sueltas de Inglaterra. Madrid: Cátedra. Olivari, M. 2014. Avisos, pasquines y rumores: los comienzos de la opinión pública en la España del siglo XVII, C. Caranci and R. García (trans.). Madrid: Cátedra. Ortiz Armengol, P. 1985. El año que vivió Moratín en Inglaterra, 1792–1793. Madrid: Castalia. Pemán Medina, M. (ed.). 1992. El viaje europeo del marqués de Ureña (1787– 1788). Cádiz: Unicaja. Ponz, A. 2007. Viaje fuera de España, M. Bolufer (ed.). Alicante: Universidad de Alicante: 2007. Rospocher, M. (ed.). 2012. Beyond the Public Sphere: Opinions, Publics, Spaces in Early Modern Europe. Bologna: Il Mulino. Thompson, E.P. 1995. Costumbres en común, J. Beltrán and E. Grau (trans.). Barcelona: Crítica. Tosh, J. 2002. ‘English Politeness: Conduct, Social Rank and Moral Virtue, c. 1400–c. 1900’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 12: 263–472.

Part II

The Nineteenth Century

å

Chapter 4

News, Censorship and Propaganda in the Gazeta de México during the Summer of 1808 Francisco A. Eissa-Barroso

å During the summer of 1808, Mexico City experienced its own political crisis derived from the general crisis of the Spanish monarchy, unleashed by the French invasion of Peninsular Spain and the abdication of the Spanish crown by Charles IV and his son Ferdinand VII. But the particular characteristics of this crisis were determined by the position occupied by New Spain within the Spanish monarchy and the economic, social and political dynamics that characterised interactions amongst the viceroyalty’s elite. The events of the summer of 1808 in Mexico City reveal a society in the midst of the process of modernisation identified by François-Xavier Guerra as the main characteristic of the ‘Hispanic Revolution’ of the early nineteenth century (1993: 11–12, 85–114). The news from Spain prompted authorities in the viceregal capital to clash with one another over the best manner in which to deal with what were entirely unprecedented political circumstances; their behaviour during this crisis demonstrates that viceregal authorities were fully aware of the emergence of an incipient public opinion amongst the inhabitants of Mexico City, of its increasing engagement with political debates and of the power and importance the press had in its development. On 15 July 1808, Mexico City learned that the brief rule of Ferdinand VII had ended as both the king and his father had abdicated the crown of Spain, passing it on to the French emperor. The news shocked and divided the authorities in New Spain. While no one considered recognising Napoleon Bonaparte’s government, the audiencia (high court) and the viceroy disagreed on which course of action to follow. Tensions escalated as the ayuntamiento (city council) approached the viceroy and suggested summoning a general junta or cortes (parliament) of New Spain. During August and early September, the viceroy

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convened four advisory juntas comprised of ‘the authorities and the most practical and respectable people . . . in [the] city’ (Oficio del virrey Iturrigaray 1985: 48). They resolved to reject the French puppet government, recognising only Ferdinand VII as King of Spain and the Indies, and to aid the Spanish war effort, while waiting for the king’s return. The viceroy, however, insisted on the idea of summoning the cortes of New Spain with representatives of the mayor towns and cities of the viceroyalty in order to shore up his own authority and cement the kingdom’s loyalty to the absent king. The audiencia opposed this idea, arguing that because all the traditional authorities of New Spain had been established by the king, remained in place and were loyal to Ferdinand VII, it was not necessary to summon any junta or cortes; moreover, they argued, it was illegal to summon them without the king’s explicit command and was dangerous to do so in such a politicised context. Disagreements multiplied when a representative from Seville’s junta arrived in Mexico City in late August, bringing that junta’s demand that New Spain recognise it as sovereign in the absence of the king. In this context, a group of prominent merchants broke into the viceregal palace and overthrew the viceroy on the night of 15 September 1808. The audiencia, which had provided its tacit backing to the coup, then proceeded to name a new viceroy.1 In his now classic study, Guerra argued that modernity, understood as new patterns of sociability and new political ideas articulated around individualism, equality, representation and popular sovereignty, had ‘irrupted’ into the Spanish world in the aftermath of the dynastic crisis of 1808. This caused a veritable revolution of political culture and ultimately led to the breakup of the Spanish monarchy (Guerra 1993: 11–12). Throughout his book, Guerra emphasised the radical nature of the changes taking place between 1808 and the mid 1820s, and insisted on seeing 1808 as a watershed. However, he admitted from the start that, as had been the case in the French Revolution, the ‘Hispanic Revolution’ had represented the culmination of ‘several processes that had begun in the ancien régime’ (Guerra 1993: 13). Nonetheless, critics of Guerra have pointed out that his argument overemphasises change and rupture while downplaying continuity. Rafael Rojas, for instance, suggests that there was no ‘irruption’ of modernity, but rather a gradual process through which ancien régime practices and ideas were replaced by ‘the opening of the public sphere, the introduction of political representation and the adoption of new forms of political sociability’ (2003: 10–15, 17). Rojas argues that none of these characteristics was present in New Spain in 1808 and that while some began to appear between 1808 and 1821, they did so only ambiguously,



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combining modern or liberal values, concepts and ideas with others reminiscent of the ancien régime (2003: 17–18, 33–52, 62–63). Rojas is right to highlight the gradual and ambiguous character of the onset of political modernity in the Spanish world – which, to be fair, Guerra and Lempérière had already recognised (1998: 5–21) – and to stress that the transformations originally addressed by Guerra were far from complete when Mexico became independent in 1821. But in relentlessly tracing and pointing out how remnants of the ancien régime dampened the ‘irruption’ of political modernity, he essentially negates all the developments taking place in the late eighteenth century that, according to Guerra, had made it possible for the crisis of 1808 to revolutionise Hispanic political culture. Rojas does acknowledge in his overview of late eighteenth-century Novohispanic society a number of developments that could be considered precursors of a modern public sphere.2 Yet he continuously downplays their significance, emphasising instead their immature status or their ambiguous character. In his view, despite the presence of ‘a nascent public opinion’ in the late eighteenth century, it is impossible to speak of a ‘real’ public opinion or of a ‘public sphere’ in New Spain before 1820–21 (Rojas 2003: 26, 34, 49–63). I agree with Rojas and other critics of Guerra that the process through which political modernity developed in New Spain was gradual and cannot be said to have concluded by 1821. However, it is a mistake to simply dismiss developments taking place before 1808 as insignificant. While the political and dynastic crisis of 1808 and the introduction of representative politics and freedom of the press under the Constitution of Cadiz unquestionably accelerated transformations, political modernity had started to make inroads in New Spain and other parts of the Spanish world well before then. Thus, this chapter is primarily concerned with the presence in early nineteenth-century Mexico City of incipient or nascent forms of public opinion and modern forms of political sociability: those developmental stages leading to the emergence of a public sphere according to Habermas’ paradigm. After all, in the last third of the eighteenth century, New Spain’s capital boasted a substantial ‘enlightened’ public, which debated scientific and literary subjects openly, and sometimes heatedly. The city’s rich cultural institutions led Alexander von Humboldt to label it the strongest foothold of science in the Americas (2002 [1822]: 79). Its abundant, if often short-lived, periodical publications addressed a variety of topics concerned with practical knowledge, science and literature.3 These same periodicals were frequently the subject of conversation in a growing number of tertulias (evening parties) and other gatherings where

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modern forms of sociability developed in a way not dissimilar from Habermas’ Parisian salons. Thus, I will argue that the events of the summer of 1808 demonstrate that already by then, a noticeable public opinion had developed in Mexico City, venturing into the discussion of political matters. But rather than studying the discourse, patterns of sociability or attitudes of those actors who would eventually form a public sphere, my analysis will focus on how the transformations associated with these developments are reflected in the means through which authorities in Mexico City dealt with the crisis of 1808 in both its transatlantic and Novohispanic dimensions. In previous works, I have argued that the dynamics and voting patterns of the advisory juntas organised by the viceroy in July and August suggest that as early as 1808, the corporative mindset characteristic of ancien régime societies had started to give way to modern individualism and new group identities. When those in attendance were asked to issue written votes on some of the matters discussed, most of the men summoned as representatives of the same institution voiced individual opinions rather than issuing statements that reflected shared corporate positions (Eissa-Barroso 2007: 63–66, 99–100). Thus, the established corporate bodies of New Spain no longer represented ‘the interests of very defined groups’ (Rojas 2003: 19); instead, interest groups began to cut across corporative structures. Similarly, the way in which the legal case against the viceroy was constructed (after his overthrow) points towards the incipient development of a modern public sphere. The witnesses whose statements were used against Viceroy José de Iturrigaray often spoke of one thing or another being a matter of ‘general knowledge’ or being ‘publicly known’, expressions that are in keeping with ancien régime notions of publicity (Lempérière 1998: 54–79). But the audiencia used these statements to prove that the members of New Spain’s society who were capable of understanding in these matters shared a common opinion regarding the viceroy’s conduct. Moreover, according to the audiencia’s argument, it was this public opinion’s distrust of Iturrigaray that justified separating the highest-ranking political, administrative and military official of the viceroyalty from office (Eissa-Barroso 2010: 33–34). Further evidence of these transformations emerges if we take a broader look at the way in which the crisis of 1808 was dealt with in Mexico City. There can be little doubt that the dynastic crisis, and the viceroy’s attempts to deal with it, politicised the city and the viceroyalty to a level rarely, if ever, experienced before. The news from Spain and the result of the viceroy’s juntas were regularly discussed both in the shops and cafés, where men from the lower strata of the city’s



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white population socialised during the day, and the soirées and tertulias where the upper echelons gathered in the evenings.4 The contents of the newspapers printed in the viceroyalty and received from abroad were a major subject of discussion at these gatherings. Throughout the crisis, newspapers played a key role in forming and informing the incipient public opinion; they were so crucial that, as we will see, the authorities realised their potential and tried to use it to their advantage, particularly in the aftermath of the coup against Viceroy Iturrigaray. By studying the content of the Gazeta de México throughout 1808, and the tensions between its editor and viceregal officials during that fatidic summer, this chapter explores the ways in which authorities saw newspapers as devices that could be manipulated in their attempts to influence the emerging public opinion, securing the loyalty of the viceroyalty’s ‘most practical and respectable people’ and ensuring continued unity between Old and New Spain.

The Gazeta de México and the Circulation of International Political News before the Summer of 1808 The Gazeta de México was a private enterprise created by the prominent editor and printer Manuel Valdés in 1784. By 1808, however, while it was still privately owned, it had developed into a semi-official paper, publishing commands, edicts and announcements emanating from authorities at all levels, from Madrid to the provinces of New Spain (Torres Puga 2013: 23–24). Initially, the Gazeta was published fortnightly, but by 1805 financial difficulties and increased competition had affected its regularity. On that year, Valdés brought in a partner, the merchant Juan López Cancelada, who took over control of the paper, injecting it with new life (Torres Puga 2013: 25). Under López Cancelada, the Gazeta shifted its focus from literary and scientific content to what we could call international political news. By doing so, the new editor avoided competing directly with the more successful and innovative Diario de México (Torres Puga 2013: 25–26). At the same time, the change in focus allowed López Cancelada to publish the Gazeta twice a week, with additional Extraordinarias issued sporadically. Between 1805 and 1808, alongside political news from abroad, mostly from Europe and always organised by country, the Gazeta covered everyday administrative matters, news concerning the arrival of ships in Veracruz and Acapulco, dates of arrival of correspondence from Veracruz to Mexico City, announcements of public auctions of seized goods or property of people who had died without a will,

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and the availability of newly published or newly imported books and pamphlets.5 Thus, its contents resembled more those of the modern newspaper than they did those of its predecessor, the literary-scientific gazette of the late eighteenth century. In the early months of 1808, the Gazeta comprised primarily news from the Napoleonic Wars in Europe: the British attack and occupation of Copenhagen and the tense negotiations between the British and U.S. governments attracted much attention; however, the paper also produced reports on the new Constitution of Poland, territorial reconfigurations between the Confederacy of the Rhine and other ‘republics’ established by Napoleon; and occasional reports on the progress of the joint French and Spanish expedition to Portugal (‘Bayona’ 1808; ‘Confederación del Rhin’ 1808a, 1808b; ‘Dinamarca’ 1808a; ‘EstadosUnidos de América’ 1808; ‘Gran Bretaña’ 1808; ‘Holanda’ 1808; ‘Imperio Francés’ 1808a, 1808b; ‘Inglaterra’ 1808a, 1808b; ‘Portugal’ 1808). On the Spanish front, the first months of the year were primarily devoted to the dissemination of news concerning the failed 1807 British attack on Buenos Aires and its aftermath (‘América Meridional’ 1808a; ‘España’ 1808a; ‘Inglaterra’ 1808a; ‘Nueva España’ 1808c). The Gazeta began by reprinting news published in Lima’s Minerva Peruana, followed by reports received from London of the official enquiries into the poor performance of British officers and the causes of the defeat. Only later did news and reports begin to arrive directly from Spain, including viceroy Liniers’ official record and lists of the heroes who had fought and repelled the Protestant foe (‘España’ 1808b). Simultaneously, the Gazeta published reports of the celebrations organised across New Spain to give thanks and celebrate the ‘national’ (i.e. Spanish) triumph in the River Plate (‘Nueva España’ 1808a, 1808b, 1808d). For the first six months of the year, the Gazeta adopted a decidedly anti-British tone. Its editor delighted in describing Britain as treacherous and barbaric, and as a greedy and unrefined enemy. It strongly criticised the British blockade of the continent and occasionally published pieces of dubious veracity aimed only at tarnishing the enemy’s reputation. For instance, the issue published on 6 April carried a note describing the presumed English custom whereby disillusioned husbands could sell their wives, often for generous profits; however, the piece recorded a recent instance where a man in Knaresborough had sold his spouse for nothing more than 1 real and some tobacco powder (‘Gran Bretaña: venta extraña’ 1808). Between March and June 1808, the Gazeta also reported frequently on the harassment suffered by the captains of vessels arriving in Veracruz and other ports in the Gulf of Mexico at the hands of British ships patrolling the seas. As the



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editor noted, this was already having a direct impact on New Spain, complicating the arrival of official communications, private letters and newspapers from Europe (‘Nueva España: Expreso el 4 a las 5 de la tarde’ 1808; ‘Noticias’ 1808). The anti-British attitude, extensive coverage of the British-led expedition to Buenos Aires, the British-funded expedition organised by Francisco de Miranda to Venezuela (‘España’ 1808a) and the direct impact that British activities could have on New Spain clearly show that the Gazeta’s editor was keen in promoting Hispanic national unity against a common enemy (Torres Puga 2013: 31). At the same time, however, it is clear the Gazeta’s readership was already used to reading and presumably discussing political news well before the summer of 1808, even if this news related almost exclusively to distant places and had very little to do with the government of New Spain or of the broader Spanish monarchy.

The Circulation and Discussion of National Political News and Viceregal Censorship of the Gazeta The first reports of the momentous events that occurred in Spain during the spring of 1808 arrived in New Spain in early June. A Gazeta Extraordinaria printed on 9 June published key documents related to the ‘mutiny’ at Aranjuez, including the royal decrees through which Charles IV abdicated and Ferdinand VII accepted the Spanish crown (‘Reyno de España’ 1808a). But no immediate change in the content of the paper was in evidence. Regular issues published throughout the rest of June continued to include the usual coverage of ‘foreign news’ from Denmark, Russia, the Hanseatic cities, Austria or the Confederacy of the Rhine (‘Austria’ 1808; ‘Ciudades Hanseáticas’ 1808; ‘Confederación del Rhin’ 1808c; ‘Dinamarca’ 1808b; ‘Imperio Ruso’ 1808), and occasional updates on the voyage of the Portuguese court to Brazil (‘América Meridional’ 1808b; ‘Nueva España’ 1808h). Similarly, the Gazeta continued to publish announcements concerning appointments and promotions within New Spain, either made by the viceroy or received from Spain (‘Nueva España: empleos’ 1808a, 1808b), details of the cargoes of ships recently arrived in Veracruz or Acapulco (‘Nueva España’ 1808f, 1808g, 1808i) and the results of the lottery (‘Nueva España’ 1808f). In subsequent issues, the reports of celebrations held across New Spain to commemorate the ‘national’ triumph in Buenos Aires were replaced by accounts of the celebrations held in different cities of the viceroyalty to mark the accession of the

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new monarch (see some of the earliest examples in ‘Nueva España’ 1808e, 1808g). However, alongside these news items, the editor printed further communications pertaining to the unfolding political crisis in Spain, which must have caused a profound impression on his readers. For instance, the Gazeta published Ferdinand VII’s official statements on the conclusion of the inquests into his conduct during the previous year’s ‘conspiracy’ at El Escorial (‘Reyno de España: sobre la causa formada en el Escorial’ 1808). Because no official news of these events had previously been published (Torres Puga 2013: 35), learning that the former Prince of Asturias had been under investigation for potential treason must have cast his accession to the throne in a different light. The Gazeta also announced the new king’s dismissal of his father’s favourite, Manuel Godoy.6 Given the well-known association between the viceroy and Godoy, this news must have raised hopes amongst those affected by the recent implementation of the highly unpopular consolidación de vales reales (a royal decree seizing for the Spanish crown all the property of the religious orders in New Spain, including monies owed to the orders by third parties who had taken loans from them using their estates as collateral) that Iturrigaray’s days in office were numbered (Hernández Ruigómez 1981: 541–602). Expectations must have been high and debate hot as the Gazeta began publishing lists of ministers and officials appointed under Charles IV who the new king considered trustworthy enough to remain in their offices. The bulk of the contents of the Gazeta published in the aftermath of the ‘mutiny’ at Aranjuez suggested normalcy and a continuation of business as usual. Readers would have continued to discuss events in Europe, Napoleon’s successes, the evil machinations of the British, and news and cargoes arriving in Veracruz as they had done over the previous months. But the inclusion amongst these ‘ordinary’ news of the shocking and extraordinary developments taking place in Spain would have made it possible for the latter to be talked about in the same places, with the same company and almost in the same breath as the former. Thus, perhaps unintentionally, the well-established and accepted discussion of foreign political news opened the door for the discussion of far more sensitive Spanish and local politics. The way in which the Gazeta published its usual content alongside documents pertaining to developments at court allowed for political discussion in New Spain to escalate from distant and relatively safe geopolitical matters in Russia and Denmark to the conditions under which Ferdinand VII had succeeded his father and the legitimacy of continued rule by Viceroy Iturrigaray.



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It was in this context that the first news that Ferdinand VII had left Spain to meet with Napoleon and that he had abdicated the Spanish crown reached New Spain. On 15 July, the viceroy and the audiencia held an emergency session of the real acuerdo (the highest council in the viceroyalty, comprising the viceroy and all the judges of the audiencia) to discuss the news, as received through several issues of Madrid’s gazette, and decided to republish these documents in the Gazeta de México. Thus, the issue of 16 July delivered the news to the population of Mexico City. This number comprised twelve pages instead of the usual eight. In it the editor printed a decree from the Council of Castile recognising the Duke of Berg as Charles IV’s lieutenant, Charles’ claim that his earlier abdication at Aranjuez had been forced, his letter to Napoleon requesting mediation, the French Emperor’s letter to Ferdinand VII asking him to meet him in Bayonne, Ferdinand’s letter to Napoleon telling him he would abdicate the throne back to his father and the documents through which Charles, Ferdinand and the rest of the Infantes agreed to renounce their claims to the Spanish crown, passing it to Napoleon. The final page of this issue included, as usual, news of recent appointments affecting New Spain, of the ships recently arrived and departed from Veracruz, the announcement that an equestrian circus would visit Mexico City shortly and a notification that the Gazeta would henceforward be sold from a different place (‘Reyno de España’ 1808d). In the following weeks, the Gazeta continued publishing news from Spain as it arrived in Mexico City. A Gazeta Extraordinaria printed on 29 July announced that a significant part of Peninsular Spain had taken up arms against the French and in defence of Ferdinand VII (Gazeta Extraordinaria de México 1808a), prompting massive popular demonstrations (Gortari Rabiela 1989: 181–203). All over the viceroyalty, people took to the streets shouting ‘Long live Ferdinand VII, King of Spain and the Indies.’ But the editor’s urgency to inform the public soon landed him in trouble, prompting a significant change in the process through which the paper was published and eventually affecting its content as well. In another Gazeta Extraordinaria de México published on Tuesday 2 August, the Gazeta’s editor announced in a brief addendum at the end of the paper that letters just received from Veracruz informed that ‘our Sovereign Lord Ferdinand VII along with the rest of the Royal Family ha[d] been restored to Spain by Napoleon, according to some, or by France’s Senate, according to others’ (‘Nueva España: expreso a las 5 de la tarde’ 1808). The Gazeta warned that this news had not been confirmed and that people should wait for a ship from Spain

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to bring further proof. But this warning was deemed insufficient by the viceroy. Within hours of the paper leaving the press, Iturrigaray summoned the editor and admonished him not to print news that was not authenticated ‘by official communications or printed documents’. Iturrigaray then ordered López Cancelada to publish a retraction in the following issue (‘Advertencia’ 1808). According to the editor’s own account, the viceroy was very upset by the publication of the news and even threatened to throw him in prison (López Cancelada 1985: 770–1). To prevent similar issues from happening again, from that day on, the viceroy himself took over the censorship of the Gazeta; the task had previously been assigned to one of the judges of the audiencia (Torres Puga 2013: 49). The viceroy’s reaction to the unconfirmed (and false) news of the king’s release was later interpreted as evidence of his disaffection for Ferdinand VII and of his harbouring hopes that the monarch would never return to Spain. After all, the argument went, because the new king had ousted Godoy, Iturrigaray had been feeling insecure in his position, to the extent that the news of Ferdinand’s abdication and imprisonment in France had brought the viceroy new hope of remaining in power (López Cancelada 1985: 770–1). Perhaps more accurately, the viceroy’s reaction may be interpreted as a growing realisation of the importance of controlling news distribution in the critical context of that fatidic summer. In fact, since receiving news of the abdications, the viceroy had taken several decisions aimed at maintaining the peace within New Spain, protecting the viceroyalty from any potential foreign invasion and increasing his own control over the flow of information (Eissa-Barroso 2007: 20–21). On 18 July, for instance, he had ordered the military governor of Veracruz to detain any ship arriving in the port, seizing any ‘documents, letters or gazettes’ and sending them to Mexico City immediately. In the meantime, the crew and passengers were required to remain on board their ships for questioning, without being allowed to communicate with the inhabitants of the port (José de Iturrigaray to interim governor of Veracruz, Mexico City, 18 July 1808, in Archivo General de la Nación (Mexico City) (hereinafter AGN), Ramo Historia, Tomo 46, Cuaderno 7: 232–33). Under the viceroy’s censorship, the Gazeta continued to publish much the same kind of content that had covered its pages in previous months (Gazeta de México 1808a, 1808b, 1808c). But there were some notable changes: an increase in the paper’s coverage of news from across New Spain and a growing visibility of the viceroy, his decisions and his actions. As soon as the central government received reports from provincial authorities concerning popular manifestations and



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official demonstrations of loyalty to the king, both the Gazeta and now also the Diario de México published them.7 Decrees and proclamations by the viceroy complemented news of these events, reassuring readers that viceregal authorities remained loyal to the king and were taking the necessary steps to protect the realm (‘Disposiciones del Exmo. Sr. Virrey’ 1808; ‘Nueva España’ 1808j, 1808k, 1808l; ‘Proclama’ 1808). Throughout August and into September, the news published in the Gazeta, under the viceroy’s supervision, sought primarily to instil Hispanic patriotic zeal and loyalty to the Spanish crown, while portraying the viceroy as a capable and effective leader in difficult times. However, the increased visibility of the viceroy’s actions through their inclusion in the Gazeta seems to have backfired against him, as many of the measures he took during August and early September would later be cited as further evidence that he had been part of a conspiracy to proclaim the independence of New Spain (Eissa-Barroso 2010). Torres Puga has also noted that the prominence of Iturrigaray in the Gazeta may have led people to believe that he saw himself as more than a viceroy (Torres Puga 2013: 51–53). Indeed, this may well be where the speculation that he intended to become king of New Spain originated,8 suggesting that readers of the Gazeta were not only debating and speculating over news from Spain, but even over the meaning of simple administrative measures adopted by local officials.

Fake News and Propaganda: The Gazeta’s Content after the Coup against Iturrigaray As the summer unfolded, the viceregal authorities’ preoccupation with controlling the contents of the Gazeta became even more noticeable. Following the coup that ousted Viceroy Iturrigaray during the night of 15 September 1808, the content of the Gazeta experienced its most significant changes. The paper broke the news of the coup in a Gazeta Extraordinaria published on 16 September, supplemented by a detailed account of the events published the following day (Gazeta Extraordinaria de México 1808b; ‘Nueva España’ 1808m). The latter included a footnote that openly stated that: ‘In time New Spain w[ould] know how much it owe[d] the Merchants of Mexico City for Iturrigaray’s imprisonment, which [had been] carried out . . . by the Spanish youth gathered to exterminate those men of ill intentions and to protect those of good faith. The same merchants and sales clerks [who] continue[d] to guard and patrol [the city’s streets]’ (‘Nueva España’ 1808m). This note, apparently published without

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authorisation from the censors, earned the Gazeta’s editor another summons by the viceroy. Iturrigaray’s replacement, the octogenarian Field Marshal Pedro Garibay, ordered the editor to publish an immediate retraction, noting that had he submitted the 17 September issue to revision, ‘the events of the previous day contained in the article about N[ew] S[pain], and the following note, would not have been printed as they were’ (‘Bando del virrey Garibay ordenando al editor de la Gazeta de México publique una retracción de lo publicado en la del 17 de septiembre’, Mexico City, 17 September 1808, in AGN, Ramo Historia, Tomo 48, Cuaderno 9: 215). The exact text of the viceroy’s order was published in a Gazeta Extraordinaria issued later that same day. In his retraction, the editor claimed that his multiple occupations and the delays in finishing the issue’s draft the previous night had made it impossible to have it sanctioned by the censors before printing (Gazeta Extraordinaria de México 1808c). Following this reprimand, the content of the Gazeta changed dramatically, presumably at the behest of the new viceroy and the audien­ cia. Over the following months, the Gazeta embarked on an all-out campaign to demonstrate the new government’s military support and to boost public morale with (often doubtful) news from Spain. In the thirteen issues published between 19 September and 12 October, the editor included nine news items informing readers that Ferdinand had allegedly returned to Spain. The most flamboyant of these pieces, published on 1 October, claimed that the king was commanding the Spanish Army in the Peninsula, that the pope had arrived in Seville and that the Duke of Berg had been made prisoner by the Count of Santa Clara (‘Nueva España: noticias posteriores a las que hemos publicado sobre la venida de nuestro amado Soberano a España’ 1808). Another issue published news, allegedly from Paris, claiming that Ferdinand’s return was imminent, if it had not already taken place, that Napoleon had either gone mad or pretended to have gone mad and that Godoy’s head would be repatriated to Spain (‘Nota’ 1808). Significantly, although these reports seemed to cease after 12 October, no retraction or confirmation of their falsehood was ever printed, in clear contrast to the practice observed under Iturrigaray. Alongside this news, ever more glorious reports of the triumphs of the Spanish armed forces were constantly published between September and the end of December 1808 (‘Expreso de Veracruz ayer a las 5 ½ de la tarde’ 1808; ‘Noticias varias’ 1808; Segunda Gazeta Extraordinaria de México 1808). These, although often exaggerated and overmagnified, were not entirely void of truth as were the news about Ferdinand’s return to Spain. In parallel, the Gazeta published several



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notes listing the officers and army corps that had recognised Viceroy Garibay’s government (‘Nueva España: extracto del oficio dirigido por el Sr. Brigadier Don García Dávila’ 1808). What is striking about this is that every issue published between 19 September and 1 October includes one such list, and reports concerning the armed forces far surpass those regarding other corporations or provinces that had recognised the new viceroy. All these items were clearly meant to dissuade sympathisers of Iturrigaray, or of the idea of summoning the cortes of New Spain, from challenging the new regime by emphasising the strength of the new government in Mexico City and the imminence of a return to normalcy in the Iberian Peninsula. Needless to say, neither image was true: French forces would increase their control of Spain into 1810, while in New Spain, 1809 would witness a number of conspiracies among junior military officers, clergymen and government officials. Another noteworthy characteristic of the contents of the Gazeta during this period is the total lack of ‘international news’. While information from Austria, Russia, England, Italy and the United States, amongst other countries, had often comprised the majority of the news printed during the first half of the year and had remained a constant presence throughout the summer, this disappeared altogether in the later part of September. Foreign news would only return to the Gazeta on the first December issues (Gazeta de México 1808d), perhaps coincidentally at the same time as the former viceroy was shipped from Veracruz to face trial in Spain.9 The drastic changes in the contents of the Gazeta are further evidence that the viceregal authorities were well aware of the importance of controlling the circulation of news and of how influential the paper was among Mexico City’s public. The insistence on showing the military backing of the new regime was clearly aimed at dissuading any potential supporters of the previous viceroy from attempting a countercoup. The false news of Ferdinand’s return to Spain were aimed at diluting the causes of division amongst the leading figures of New Spain’s elite, which had become evident during Iturrigaray’s juntas. The suppression of other news items was probably meant to deprive readers of access to information that might contradict or lead them to question the ‘official’ story told by the audiencia and the new viceroy. Ironically perhaps, it had been precisely this kind of news that had opened the door for political discussion in the city’s new spaces of sociability. The audiencia’s insistence on controlling the contents of the paper with the widest circulation in a country with relatively high levels of

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literacy would culminate in late 1809 with the viceregal government actually buying the Gazeta de México from its owners, rebranding it the Gazeta del Gobierno de México. As Celis de la Cruz has argued, it was this publication that became the first ‘official’ periodical in Mexico: ‘the instrument for disseminating viceregal policy [and] guiding public opinion to suit the interests of the realm’ (Celis de la Cruz 2006: 176). Nonetheless, as I have shown, the Gazeta had begun to do this well before it was formally acquired by the government.

Concluding Remarks Even allowing for the magnifying effect of early modern reading practices, such as the circulation of a single copy amongst several readers and reading out loud in private gatherings and public spaces, it is unquestionable that the readership of the Gazeta in relation to the total population of New Spain was relatively small. Subscribers included provincial officials, clerics and well-off urban residents (Torres Puga 2013: 32–33). As Hira de Gortari and Peter Guardino have pointed out, ordinary men and women in rural settings and small provincial towns unquestionably relied on other sources for news and information: rumours, the work of ‘unofficial propagandists’  – the authors of pasquínes (satirical verses) and libels – and the sermons delivered during religious services must have played a more important role than the press in mobilising the people in defence of the realm by instilling fear of Napoleon and the ‘infidel’ French Empire (Gortari Rabiela 1989: 185–87; Guardino 2005: 124–27). But this does not detract from the importance of the Gazeta. It is not an accident that first Iturrigaray and then the new viceroy and the audiencia insisted on controlling what it published and made deliberate efforts to reassure its readers and encourage Hispanic patriotic zeal and loyalty to the Spanish crown. On the one hand, the contents of the Gazeta were filtered down to New Spain’s ordinary people by Guardino’s literate ‘unofficial propagandists’ and parish clergy. More significantly, perhaps, the Gazeta was widely read in urban centres, like Mexico City, where literacy rates had grown significantly in the last quarter of the eighteenth century (Guerra 1993: 276–88). There, as viceregal authorities well knew, its articles were frequently read and discussed in cafés and tertulias, informing the opinion of the ‘educated’ public, including the men who held the highest offices in the realm, those considered to be the most experienced in matters of government and politics, and those deemed to be the ‘most practical’ members of New Spain’s society. The



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development of the political crisis in Spain with its parallel events in New Spain demonstrates that the opinion of these men carried weight: their suspicions of the viceroy’s actions led, after all, to the accusations of disloyalty and treason raised against him and, possibly, to his overthrow (Eissa-Barroso 2010: 33–34). In the context of the crisis of 1808, the authorities’ insistence on controlling the distribution of news through the most important paper in the viceroyalty is clear evidence of their attempt at influencing the views and attitudes of its subscribers, the politically aware elite that constituted New Spain’s incipient public opinion. This analysis confirms that the 1808 crisis was received in New Spain by an increasingly modernising society. The emergence of an incipient public opinion, accelerated initially by the publication of shocking news from Spain alongside ordinarily read and discussed news from abroad, is demonstrated by the use the audiencia made of the Gazeta after the coup against Iturrigaray. This is further confirmed by the records of the trials of Iturrigaray’s associates, which give detailed evidence that political events were being discussed in spaces of public sociability.10 At the same time, however, it is clear that the emergence of these ‘modern’ practices was plagued with ambiguities. For instance, some the statements taken during the trials against Iturrigaray’s associates show that while politics was clearly being discussed in the most glamorous tertulias of Mexico City, the novelty and perceived radicalism of this practice drove members of the nobility to pretend that it did not happen.11 But even if the soirées and tertulias of the great houses of the aristocracy still shied away from open political discussion – or so their hosts claimed – daily events of a political nature were unquestionably addressed on a regular basis. Moreover, nonelite members of the city’s population met in shops and cafés where local and foreign gazettes were read – often out loud – and discussed. If the evidence from the trial against the viceroy’s cook were not enough, the audiencia’s decision to ban men who were thought to be sympathisers of the former viceroy, of the city’s ayuntamiento, and of the idea of summoning the cortes of New Spain from entering Mexico City’s cafés (Guerra 1993: 291) should be conclusive. Thus, Lorenzo de Zavala was right when he shrewdly observed in 1831 that during and after the crisis of 1808, ‘political discussions about what was happening in Spain were held [by the public]; the printing press ventured for the first time in the area of [domestic] politics. The rights of the new dynasty were questioned, and the proclamations from the Spanish juntas raised issues of popular sovereignty’ (1845: I: 38). The way in which viceregal authorities dealt

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with the Gazeta de México shows that the viceroy and the audiencia were not unaware of these transformations or of the need to adapt to them. At the same time, they highlight the uneasiness and ambiguities embedded in the process through which these changes were assimilated into the political culture of New Spain. Francisco A. Eissa-Barroso is a political historian of early modern Spanish America and the broader Spanish world who teaches at the University of Manchester, United Kingdom. His research interests focus on the political, social and military dynamics shared by different parts of the Spanish world, especially during the first half of the eighteenth century in the context of the reforms introduced during the two reigns of Philip V. More broadly, his research deals with issues related to policy-making, court politics and political culture, local governance, social, familial and patron-client networks, and the various roles played by military officers in administering, defending and binding together the Spanish Empire. His first monograph, The Spanish Monarchy and the Creation of the Viceroyalty of New Granada, was published by Brill in 2016. He is the coauthor of Atlas Histórico de México (Aguilar, 2008, with Enrique Florescano), coeditor of Early Bourbon Spanish America: Politics and Society in a Forgotten Era (1700–1759) (Brill, 2013, with Ainara Vázquez Varela) and coeditor of Élites, representación y redes atlánticas en la Hispanoamérica moderna (El Colegio de Michoacán, 2017, with Ainara Vázquez Varela and Silvia Espelt-Bombín).

Notes  1. The bibliography on the topic is extensive. See, amongst many others, Anna (1978); Hamnett (1980); and Portillo Valadés (2006: esp. 69–81).  2. For the classic description of the stages through which modern forms of sociability gradually developed into a public sphere, see Habermas (1989).  3. For an overview of literacy rates, the publication of newspapers, and literary and scientific discussion in late eighteenth and early nineteenth-­ century Mexico City, see Guerra (1993: 275–318).  4. For excellent descriptions of political discussions in cafés during the crisis of 1808, see the indictment of Viceroy Iturrigaray’s Italian cook, Mr Santa Agata, in AGN, Ramo Historia, Tomo 48, Cuaderno 19. No equivalently straightforward description of political discussion in the tertulias of the upper classes exists, but the witnesses’ statements in the indictment of Fray Melchor de Talamantes leave no doubt that they took place; see, in particular, the declarations by José Árias Villafañe, the Marquis of Guardiola, Fray José de Uranga and Alejandro Lorenzani in García (1985: VII: 1–334).



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 5. For an insightful analysis of the sources whence the Gazeta obtained its news throughout this period, see Torres Puga (2013: passim).  6. The former minister’s removal from office was announced in the same decree in which Ferdinand VII took the crown (‘Reyno de España’ 1808a); ‘Reyno de España’ (1808b) reproduced a decree issued by Charles IV before his abdication appointing the then Prince of Asturias to investigate the actions of Godoy; finally, ‘Reyno de España’ (1808c) announced that, at Napoleon’s request, Ferdinand VII had agreed to send Godoy to France for trial.  7. The viceroy had even ordered the editor of the Gazeta to issue supplements to its ordinary issues in order to accommodate all the declarations of loyalty received from across the viceroyalty. See the first paragraph in Suplemento a la Gazeta de México (1808).  8. Witnesses interrogated by the audiencia after the coup against Iturrigaray were asked, amongst other questions, whether they had heard the viceroy and his family address each other as royalty or make any comments that could suggest he intended to become king of New Spain; see Eissa-Barroso (2010).  9. Iturrigaray and his family sailed for Spain, as prisoners, on 6 December 1808; see Alamán (1985: I: 170). 10. See note 4. 11. See the statement provided by the Marquis of Guardiola during the trial of Fray Melchor de Talamantes in García (1985: VII: 140).

References ‘Advertencia’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 3 August. Alamán, L. 1985. Historia de Méjico desde los primeros movimientos que prepararon su independencia en el año de 1808 hasta la época presente. Mexico City: Libros de Bachiller Sansón Carrasco. Archivo General de la Nación (Mexico City), Ramo Historia, Tomo 46, Cuaderno 7 Archivo General de la Nación (Mexico City), Ramo Historia, Tomo 48, Cuadernos 9 and 19 ‘América Meridional’. 1808a. Gazeta de México, 9 January. ——. 1808b. Gazeta de México, 2 July. Anna, T.E. 1978. The Fall of the Royal Government in Mexico City. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press. ‘Austria’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 18 June. ‘Bayona’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 13 February. Celis de la Cruz, M. 2006. ‘La prensa oficial Mexicana: de la Gaceta del Gobierno de México (1810–1821) al Diario del Gobierno de los Estados Unidos Mexicanos (1835–1846)’, in M. Moreno-Bonett and M. del R. González (eds), La génesis de los derechos humanos en México. Mexico City: UNAMIIJ, pp. 173–86. ‘Ciudades Hanseáticas’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 11 June.

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‘Confederación del Rhin’. 1808a. Gazeta de México, 6 April. ——. 1808b. Gazeta de México, 13 April. ——. 1808c. Gazeta de México, 18 June. ‘Dinamarca’. 1808a. Gazeta de México, 6 January. ——. 1808b. Gazeta de México, 11 June. ‘Disposiciones del Exmo. Sr. Virrey’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 6 August. Eissa-Barroso, F.A. 2007. ‘Political Culture in the Spanish Crisis of 1808: Mexico City’s Experience’, MA thesis. Coventry: University of Warwick. ——. 2010. ‘The Illusion of Disloyalty: Rumours, Distrust and Antagonism, and the Charges Brought against the Viceroy of New Spain in the Autumn of 1808’, Hispanic Research Journal 11(1): 25–36. ‘España’. 1808a. Gazeta de México, 9 January. ——. 1808b. Gazeta de México, 10 February. ‘Estados-Unidos de América’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 16 March. ‘Expreso de Veracruz ayer a las 5 ½ de la tarde’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 28 September. García, G. (ed.). 1985. Documentos Históricos Mexicanos. Mexico City: Comisión Nacional para las Celebraciones del 175 Aniversario de la Independencia Nacional y 75 Aniversario de la Revolución Mexicana. Gazeta Extraordinaria de México. 1808a. 29 July. ——. 1808b. 16 September. ——. 1808c. 17 September. Gazeta de México. 1808a. 6 August. ——. 1808b. 17 August. ——. 1808c. 24 August. ——. 1808d. 7 December. Gortari Rabiela, H. 1989. ‘Julio-agosto de 1808: la lealtad mexicana’, Historia Mexicana 39(1): 181–203. ‘Gran Bretaña’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 27 January. ‘Gran Bretaña: Venta extraña’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 6 April. Guardino, P. 2005. The Time of Liberty: Popular Political Culture in Oaxaca, 1750–1850. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Guerra, F.-X. 1993. Modernidad e independencias: Ensayos sobre las revoluciones hispánicas. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1993. Guerra, F.-X., and A. Lempérière. 1998. ‘Introduction’, in F.-X. Guerra et al., Los espacios públicos en Iberoamérica: Ambigüedades y problemas. Siglos XVIII–XIX. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica/Centro Francés de Estudios Mexicanos y Centroamericanos, pp. 5–21. Habermas, J. 1989. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Hamnett, B.R. 1980. ‘Mexico’s Royalist Coalition: The Response to Revolution 1808–1821’, Journal of Latin American Studies 12(1): 55–86. Hernández Ruigómez, M. 1981. ‘El primer paso del proceso independentista mexicano: el contragolpe de Gabriel de Yermo (1808)’, Revista de Indias 41(165–66): 541–602. ‘Holanda’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 2 January.



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Humboldt, A. von. 2002 [1822]. Ensayo politico sobre el Reino de la Nueva España. Mexico City: Porrúa, 2002. ‘Imperio Francés’. 1808a. Gazeta de México, 20 February. ——. 1808b. Gazeta de México, 30 March. ‘Imperio Ruso’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 15 June. ‘Inglaterra’. 1808a. Gazeta de México, 2 January. ——. 1808b. Gazeta de México, 3 February. Lempérière, A. 1998. ‘República y publicidad a finales del antiguo régimen (Nueva España)’, in F.-X. Guerra et al., Los espacios públicos en Iberoamérica: Ambigüedades y problemas. Siglos XVIII–XIX. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica/Centro Francés de Estudios Mexicanos y Centroamericanos, pp. 54–79. López Cancelada, J. 1985. ‘La verdad sabida y buena fe guardada: Origen de la espantosa revolución de Nueva España comenzada el 15 de setiembre de 1810. Defensa de su fidelidad. Quaderno primero, por D. Juan López Cancelada, Redactor de la Gaceta de México’, in J.E. Hernández y Dávalos (ed.), Colección de Documentos para la historia de la Guerra de Independencia, vol. III. Mexico City: Comisión Nacional para las celebraciones del 175 aniversario de la Independencia Nacional y 75 aniversario de la Revolución Mexicana, pp. 770–71. ‘Nota’. 1808. Gazeta Extraordinaria de México, 11 October. ‘Noticias’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 7 May. ‘Noticias varias’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 5 October. ‘Nueva España’. 1808a. Gazeta de México, 13 January. ——. 1808b. Gazeta de México, 20 January. ——. 1808c. Gazeta de México, 27 January. ——. 1808d. Gazeta de México, 3 February. ——. 1808e. Gazeta de México, 11 June. ——. 1808f. Gazeta de México, 18 June. ——. 1808g. Gazeta de México, 22 June. ——. 1808h. Gazeta de México, 25 June. ——. 1808i. Gazeta de México, 29 June. ——. 1808j. Gazeta de México, 10 August. ——. 1808k. Gazeta Extraordinaria de México, 12 August. ——. 1808l. Gazeta de México, 13 August. ——. 1808m. Gazeta de México, 17 September. ‘Nueva España: empleos’. 1808a. Gazeta de México, 11 June. ——. 1808b. Gazeta de México, 18 June. ‘Nueva España: expreso a las 5 de la tarde’. 1808. Gazeta Extraordinaria de México, 2 August. ‘Nueva España: expreso el 4 a las 5 de la tarde’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 7 May. ‘Nueva España: extracto del oficio dirigido por el Sr. Brigadier Don García Dávila’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 21 September. ‘Nueva España: noticias posteriores a las que hemos publicado sobre la venida de nuestro amado Soberano a España’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 1 October.

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‘Oficio del Virrey Iturrigaray al Real Acuerdo, en que resuelve terminantemente la celebración de la junta general iniciada por él. 6 de agosto de 1808’. 1985. In G. García (ed.), Documentos Históricos Mexicanos, vol. II. Mexico City: Comisión Nacional para las Celebraciones del 175 Aniversario de la Independencia Nacional y 75 Aniversario de la Revolución Mexicana, p. 48. Portillo Valadés, J.M. 2006. Crisis Atlántica: Autonomía e independencia en la crisis de la monarquía hispana. Madrid: Marcial Pons/Fundación Carolina. ‘Portugal’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 13 May. ‘Proclama’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 27 August. ‘Reyno de España’. 1808a. Gazeta Extraordinaria de México, 9 June. ——. 1808b. Gazeta de México, 18 June. ——. 1808c. Gazeta de México, 25 June. ——. 1808d. Gazeta de México, 16 July. ‘Reyno de España: sobre la causa formada en el Escorial’. 1808. Gazeta de México, 11 June. Rojas, R. 2003. La escritura de la Idependencia: El surgimiento de la opinión pública en México. Mexico City: CIDE/Taurus. Segunda Gazeta Extraordinaria de México. 1808. 19 September. Suplemento a la Gazeta de México. 1808. 3 August. Torres Puga, G. 2013. ‘La transformación de la Gazeta de México, 1805–1808’, in M.A. Landavazo and M. Guzmán (eds), Guerra, política y cultura en las independencias Hispanoamericanas. Morelia: Universidad Michoacana de San Nicolás de Hidalgo/El Colegio de Jalisco, pp. 21–58. Zavala, L. de. 1845. Ensayo histórico de las revoluciones de México, desde 1808 hasta 1830. Mexico City: Imprenta a cargo de Manuel N. de la Vega.

Chapter 5

The Role of the Military in the Development of a Spanish Liberal Public Sphere (1820–23) Richard Meyer Forsting

å Introduction: Historical Background As in much of the rest of Europe, the nineteenth century in Spain was politically a highly volatile period. The country witnessed an unprecedented degree of unrest, social and economic change, and several revolutionary episodes. The first half of the century has aptly been described as representing the ‘dismantling of the entire socio-economic order of the ancien regime’ (Burdiel 2000: 18). The basis for these changes was laid during the Spanish War of Independence (1808–14), whose legacy is vital to an understanding of the Liberal Triennium.1 Notwithstanding this liberal interlude and the radicalism of the 1812 Constitution, Spain has often been seen by historians as diverging from the European experience during the long nineteenth century. During the war against Napoleon, liberalism gained a much broader popular dimension in the form of elected juntas (local government and administrative bodies) and the emergence of guerrilla groups. The Cortes of Cadiz attacked the social and political structures that sustained the absolutist regime by abolishing seigniorial rights and limiting the extensive powers of the Catholic Church. The 1812 Constitution established a constitutional monarchy, in which the Cortes represented the sovereignty of the people. Among other things, it called for a strict division of power and the abolition of the Inquisition. This constitution became a rallying point for liberals during the absolutist restoration after 1814. Ferdinand VII swearing an oath on this constitution marked the success of the liberal army uprising of 1820 and the beginning of the Liberal Triennium. A significant legacy of the Spanish War of Independence was a much enlarged and increasingly politicised army, which was destined

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to play a major role in the revolutionary uprisings occurring throughout the century. One of the objects of this chapter is to analyse the extent to which the military’s involvement in the public sphere can be regarded as part of the genesis of the close link between Spanish liberalism and the armed forces. Despite the use of extraconstitutional measures, Spanish general played an important role in the development of Spanish liberalism during the nineteenth century. The failure of the monarchy to defend Spanish territory, abroad and at home, and adequately pay its troops eroded the traditional connection between the army and the crown, and turned the former into an increasingly liberal institution. The initial restoration period (1814–20) saw the beginning of the use of the pronunciamiento as a tool to force political change. The pronunciamiento was an officer revolt based on the theory that the officer corps was the ultimate repository of the general will and would become the main instrument for liberal revolution in nineteenth-century Spain (Carr 1982: 124). The army thus developed into a force determining the course of Spanish constitutional and political development. This led to the emergence and dominance of the political landscape by soldier-politicians, of which Rafael de Riego, Antonio Quiroga and later in the century Juan Prim, Baldomero Espartero and Francisco Serrano are good examples. During the Liberal Triennium, the leaders of the successful revolt (Riego, Quiroga and Arco-Aguero) almost immediately entered the pantheon of liberal heroes. However, the first faultlines between the army and the government began to show as early as July 1820, when the Cortes called for the dissolution of the ‘national army’, or ‘army of the Isle’ as the pronounced troops came to be called. When Riego was dismissed from the post of Captain General of Galicia in September of 1820 after a confrontation with the political chief of Madrid, the divisions within the liberal camp came out into the open. However, Riego’s banishment was only to last until November of that year, when he was named Captain General of Aragon. He was dismissed from this post in September 1821 due to alleged connections to a republican plot, which proved to be unfounded. News of the dismissal and dissatisfaction with the government caused unrest across Spain in late 1821. The liberal influence of the Spanish army in Spain’s first constitutional period is often overlooked, as the armed forces became associated with reactionary causes during the end of the nineteenth century and even more so during the twentieth century. This chapter aims to correct this historiographical neglect by focusing on the role played by members of the armed forces in shaping the Spanish liberal public sphere during the Liberal Triennium. By doing



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so, it aims to break the traditional association of the Spanish army with reaction. The divide that emerged between liberals was another defining aspect of the period. The more moderate liberal camp is usually referred to as moderado and the more radical and democratic elements as exaltados, with many historians using afrancesado (Frenchified) as another category or a subcategory of the former (Checa Godoy 1991; Fernández Clemente and Forcadell 1979; Novales 1975).2 The moderados had among their rank many of those involved in the brief constitutional period of the War of Independence against Napoleon and the first Constitution of 1812, which is why they are also sometimes referred to as doceañistas (those of the year 12). They believed in incremental reform and rejected revolution. They saw law and order as the most important issues, the necessary conditions for liberty not to degenerate into licence. The afrancesados form a subgroup with similar ideals on the right wing of moderate liberalism. The exaltados were often made up of a younger generation of liberals, who had not played a major role in the first constitutional period and acted as one of the driving forces behind regime change in 1820. As such, they are also referred to as veinteañistas (those of the year 20). They drew the opposite lesson from the failure of the first liberal projects to those of the moderados. To them, it was not the excessive pace of reform and change, but the timidity of Spanish liberalism and its excessive tolerance that doomed it. The key term they invoked and elevated above all is liberty (libertad). Ruiz Jiménez (2007) has shown that the exaltados were often linked to masonic elements and were particularly strong in the Patriotic Societies, provincial capitals and in Riego’s army. They attacked the timidity of the moderates and the lack of reform, and became increasingly hostile to the monarchy, which failed to disguise its opposition to the constitutional settlement. However, we should not see the exaltados and their clubs and street agitation as the dark forces often described by Galdós (1921).3 The vast majority seem to have aimed for ‘Jacobin respectability’ and Carr (1982: 132) has argued that radicalisation was partially a defensive reaction to events. As the first continuous break in absolutist rule in Spain, the Liberal Triennium was characterised by the emergence of a liberal public sphere, represented by the proliferation of newspapers, broadsheets and societies. While literacy rates were generally low and it was mainly educated professionals who had access to print media, these were the elements driving social and political change at the time. Moreover, the emergence of reading aloud in societies and cafés allowed for a much wider dissemination of news and political pamphlets even to illiterate

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urbanites (Cruz Seoane and Dolores Sáiz: 2007: 79). The initiators of the revolution were heavily involved in the press and the debating culture that emerged. It is worth noting that, while press freedom was granted under the constitution, censorship was still applied and writers were indicted for insulting the king or for other libellous writing faced heavy sentences (Cruz Seoane and Dolores Sáiz: 2007: 76–79).

Analysis of Selected Newspapers The focus here is on discerning whether editors with military backgrounds shaped newspapers and how they interacted with the liberal public sphere. This study will be centred largely on exaltado papers, where military involvement was more clearly in evidence. Furthermore, the alleged radicalism of the exaltados has been credited with the destruction of the constitutional settlement and the failure of a more moderate liberalism taking hold in Spain during the first third of the nineteenth century (Moliner 2001: 74). This makes a closer investigation of their papers all the more pertinent to the historiographical debate on the trajectory of Spanish liberalism. The close textual study is realised through a focus on reactions to key events involving the army, the portrayal of Riego and the revolutionary army in the press, and on dialogue between the liberal newspapers across the period. The analysis will proceed paper by paper to illustrate the shifting attitudes expressed and the specific characteristics of each paper. This approach ensures that the study maintains a proximity to the texts throughout. A good starting point is the Gaceta Patriótica, as it is the first liberal newspaper of the period and provided a template for later publications.

The Gaceta Patriótica del Ejército Nacional The Gaceta de la Isla, as the Gaceta Patriótica del Ejército Nacional (28 January 1820) was also known, was from its very inception meant to be the mouthpiece of the pronunciamiento that was initiated by the expeditionary army in January 1820. It played a vital part in communicating the intentions of the military to the public. Its editors were part of the uprising, San Miguel as a military leader following the army of Riego and Alcalá Galiano as one of the political masterminds with previous military experience. The first issue of the Gaceta Patriótica (25 January 1820) set out to legitimise the revolt by stressing the ‘tyrannical nature’ of the current government and the necessity for reform



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of the system. The opening articles in most issues were highly political pieces, which emphasised the purity of the military’s intentions and the troops’ ‘heroic’ and ‘brave’ conduct (2 February 1820). The avoidance of bloodshed and the army’s essentially peaceful mission to re-establish the Constitution to the nation is another recurring theme (19 February and 5 April 1820). It heavily criticised the state of the Spanish nation, as backward, poor and lacking the patriotic fervour shown during the War of Independence. One article in the Gaceta Patriótica (15 February 1820) detailed the ‘degradation reached by people under the yoke of despotism’, which explained why the army had not yet received the wider population’s support. It was argued that ‘the timidity of their [the people’s] spirit means they do not dare to oppose what they loathe’. It is not that the people did not want to rise up – they could not and the army was doing it for them. The Gaceta Patriótica (25 February 1820) criticised and castigated the abuses of power and injuries to the ordinary people caused by the ‘system of tyranny’. One issue reports how in Cadiz letters are opened arbitrarily and people imprisoned en masse (25 February 1820). Articles sent in to the Gaceta Patriótica (1 February 1820) detailing specific cases of ‘tyranny’ reinforce the allegations of absolutist abuse of power. The intention was to convey a sense of injustice and ingratitude of the post-1814 governments for the services of the men who had helped to liberate the country. The frequently employed witnesses’ reports as evidence of the harmful effects of despotism and accusations levelled against government, a form of criticism that would be taken up later by the exaltado press. At the same time, we can observe a careful avoidance of direct criticism of Ferdinand VII. In one article in the Gaceta Patriótica (2 February 1820), the anonymous author claimed that ‘this army did not judge the King responsible for the actions of his ministers and advisers’. This deflection of blame onto ministers and advisers was another recurring theme in the exaltado papers of the Triennium. Alcalá Galiano and San Miguel also printed selected proclamations and letters of the generals to their soldiers, which emphasised the justice of their cause and the enthusiasm for constitutional rule, and portrayed the army as interpreters of the national will in pursuit of happiness for the patria.4 These pieces were rallying cries not only to the army but also to the wider population. Another device used to create support for the uprising employed by the editors is the insertion of annotated proclamations and writings, which outlined counter-arguments and corrections of the falsities of their opponents’ assertions. A good example of this is the insertion of a proclamation in the Gaceta Patriótica (18 February 1820) by Marcelino

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Freyre, the commander of the royal troops, which among other things accused the general of ‘lacking truth and logic’ and of ‘ridiculous slurs’. Interestingly, the tactic of annotation of ‘enemy material’ was later used extensively in such famous Madrid newspapers as El Zurriago and La Tercerola. The Gaceta Patriótica wanted to create enthusiasm for the revolution, defend its legitimacy and in addition seek to pre-empt accusations against the revolutionaries. In an article entitled ‘Political Reflections’ (2 February 1820), it sought to clarify that the aim of the revolt was not a republican government, but the reconciliation of the people and the king, and that order as regulated by a constitution was their main concern. Later on, they outlined the present evils and sketched a vision of the reforms a liberal government would carry out. These include the re-establishment of the laws made by the 1812 Cortes, the convocation of new Cortes, the recall of political exiles and the peaceful negotiation of independence for the Americas. The latter had become an important issue as rebellions threatened to end centuries of Spanish rule and increasingly consumed the resources of the Spanish state. The Gaceta Patriótica (29 February 1820) thus left the position of the king untouched and guarded the rebellious generals against accusations of republicanism. As Dolores Sáiz (1984: 145–47) has argued, the revolutionary army was inherently political and had clearly defined ambitions. The paper was motivated by the desire to justify the uprising, garner enthusiasm among the people and achieve a settlement for the Americas. As the progress of the revolution slowed down, more radical tendencies emerged. Thus, an issue of the Gaceta Patriótica (10 March 1820) demanded a harder line against the enemies of the cause to indicate the army’s determination to root out absolutism. It has been argued (Dolores Saiz 1984: 143) that the loss of a role for the ‘national army’ became the main focus in the last issues of the Gaceta Patriótica (28 March 1820), which advocated for the maintenance of the force as a guardian of the Constitution. While it is not possible to establish a direct link between the Gaceta Patriótica and other exalted publications, it is not unreasonable to assume that certain elements adopted by this essentially military newspaper influenced the zurriagistas (editors of El Zurriago) such as Mejía. The portrayal of the revolutionary army as carriers of the will of the nation, and the need to eradicate absolutist abuse and the injustice of the system are themes that would later be taken up by the exaltado press. The Gaceta Patriótica provided a template for a true national liberal newspaper; its style and methods can be detected in other publications of the Triennium. However,



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it would be wrong to overemphasise these similarities and overlook major differences in layout, tone and politics. The Gaceta Patriótica never reached the biting, satirical radicalism of El Zurriago and was ultimately a tool to bring about a change in the system that lost its purpose once Ferdinand VII swore the oath to the Constitution. This initial intersection of the military and the press certainly suggests a close alliance of the interests of liberal soldiers and the press, while articles criticising the royalist generals foreshadowed the conflict between different factions within the armed forces.

La Tercerola La Tercerola was edited and largely authored by Atanasio Lescura Bentas, a lieutenant general and co-conspirator in the failed pronunciamiento of Vidal. His paper was closely related to El Zurriago.5 The name hinted at its pugnacious character, which was reinforced by the use of military jargon throughout the paper.6 A good example is the use of phrases reserved for instructing troops, such as ‘A las Armas’ (To arms), ‘Armas al hombro’ (Shoulder arms) and ‘Fuego’ (Fire), as headings and sign offs. It is interesting that while this martial language is initially kept up in La Tercerola (1822, nos. 9–11) after Lescura had to take flight, it disappeared after the publication of the fourteenth issue, edited by the nonmilitary Mejia.7 The combative nature of the paper is also reflected in its poems, political and opinion pieces. In its first issue, El Zurriago (1821, no. 1) declared armed insurrection to be justified if a government turned against the will of the people. Many of the articles in El Zurriago (1821, no. 2) and La Tercerola (1822, nos. 4, 6 and 9) exhibited the tone of an urgent call to arms. The editor appeared to even make an argument for a second revolution, if necessary one brought about by violent means. Force was portrayed as a legitimate means of deposing tyrants in the tradition of the pronunciamiento. Moreover, the references to the will of the people and its connection to armed rebellion reveal a belief in the army as the defenders of popular sovereignty. This would support the arguments made by Roura i Aulinas (1988), who stressed the link between the military and society in their defence of the Constitution. Two articles written by Lescura in the paper merit closer attention, as they caused outrage on the part of royalists, moderates and even some exaltados. The articles were titled ‘Al Rey’ and ‘A las Cortes’. The first is one of the earliest direct indictments of the king’s actions during the Spanish War of Independence and the Triennium. In previous

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issues of La Tercerola (1822, nos. 7–8), the publication of letters written by the king to Napoleon had hinted very openly at Ferdinand’s cooperation with the occupier, but did not explicitly criticise him. Lescura argued that it was the army, and not the king, that had liberated Spain and returned the throne to the Bourbons. Ferdinand was described as ‘ungrateful and the most merciless of men’. The glory of the army is directly contrasted with the malice of the king and his ministers. The persecution of some of the national heroes during the Triennium and the lack of punishment for its opponents are listed as evidence of the continued deception of the king by his ministers. However, Lescura went a step further by insinuating that Ferdinand had been deceived too many times, which allowed for his disposition due to ‘moral incapacity’. Ferdinand was urged to dispose of his ministers or reveal himself incapable of fulfilling his duties, which would trigger the end of his inviolability. The following issue shows an acute awareness of the risks taken by the author, as the opening poem expressed the wish that the Tercerola (1822, no. 10) would not fall into the hands of the authorities. Nevertheless, Lescura repeated many of the issues mentioned in ‘Al Rey’, but this time addressed himself to the Cortes and appealed to them to invoke the article in the Constitution declaring the king either physically or morally incapable. The insults went further this time: the king was described as either dumb or lying when he said he had been deceived repeatedly. For Lescura, this deception had been too costly for Spain, or as he puts it ‘Siempre el Rey se engaña. Y siempre sufre la infeliz España’ (The king is always deceived. And it is always unhappy Spain that suffers). Riego is invoked warmly as ‘caudillo de los libres’ (leader of the free).8 The stark contrast of military hero and the villainy of his opponents is evident. The article concluded with the radical assertion that the monarch had the power to direct the state towards the happiness of the people, but if he did not make use of it, this rendered him morally incapable of fulfilling his constitutional role. Some of the allegations had been made before in El Zurriago and partly in El Espectador. What was exceptional is that the attack was directed at Ferdinand personally, instead of laying the blame on the government, advisors and their deceptions, as was the norm. The publication of the monarch’s communications with Napoleon, in which Ferdinand appeared to be cooperating and, worse, submitting himself to the emperor (he calls himself Napoleon’s ‘humble servant’) and celebrating his victories, provided the historical justification that ultimately legitimised and set up the direct indictment of the monarch. The illusion of the king as the protector of the Constitution and liberator of Spain was shattered,



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and the heroes of the uprisings and the Spanish people were given the credit they deserved. An interesting question that even Gil Novales (1972: 165–84) did not discuss in his detailed study of El Zurriago and La Tercerola is the intention behind the publication of these polemics. The author was certainly aware of the consequences he faced and the short-term political futility of his address. There is a sense of the author having reached a point where he could no longer defend the monarch’s behaviour and being dissatisfied with the lack of recognition accorded to the true liberators of the nation. The historical dimension and the prominence of military heroes in both articles underlined the overarching sense of injustice done to the Spanish people and its true representatives, the patriotic men of the revolutionary army. Of course, this is not totally selfless, as Lescura was himself an army conspirator made to suffer for his actions, but it is not unreasonable to assume that loyalty, empathy and perhaps esprit de corps also played an important role in his motivation. It is difficult to infer from this a distinctive liberal army line, but the defence of the ‘national army’ and its achievements was a significant and recurring theme in these publications. Attacks against the king did not stop there. In an article entitled ‘Letrilla en sentido recto’ (‘Letter in the Right Direction’), which could have been written by Lescura before his escape, the author directly criticised the king and his behaviour. The vigour of these attacks and the willingness of the editors to be imprisoned for their opinions also suggest that the interpretation of liberalism as inherently defensive (Burdiel 2000: 18–21) is too simplistic. While in El Espectador, analysed subsequently, we can detect this defensive posture, La Tercerola as well as the Gaceta Patriótica not only struck a more martial tone, but also agitated for a proactive political programme. In the case of the former, this included the deposition of the monarch.

El Espectador The daily El Espectador was edited and directed by a former colonel, Evaristo San Miguel, who had previously been involved with the Gaceta Patriótica del Ejército Nacional. While editor, he was to play an important role as the commander of the national militia during the royalist uprising in the summer of 1822 and as Minister for Foreign Affairs after August 1822. In contrast to La Tercerola, El Espectador took a much more officious tone and aimed at political neutrality. While it was at no point impartial, it did not adopt the satirical and

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accusatory tone of other exaltado publications. When Riego was dismissed, the paper initially took a moderate line towards the events. El Espectador (6 September 1821) argued that the general had once more fallen victim to ‘dirty intrigues and machinations’, but still urged for calm and patience until more evidence came to light. A few days later, with mounting indications of an unfair dismissal, the paper came down more squarely in favour of Riego, declared its continued support for him and dismissed as ridiculous any allegations of republicanism. Like other exalted newspapers, it regarded the threat of republicanism as a largely fabricated tool used by the absolutist factions to discredit more left-leaning liberals. In the aftermath of the scandal surrounding the Captain Generality of Aragon, El Espectador (9 September 1821) printed a proclamation made by the commander of the ‘Cavalry of the Constitution’ in Zaragoza. He pledged allegiance to Riego, reminded the reader of previous attempts to dishonour Riego, and ended his passionate appeal with the slogan ‘pure constitution or death’. The passionate tone and the martial appeal indicate the importance liberal army commanders attributed to Riego and the danger that they believed his dismissal presented to the constitutional system. The information provided to the readers of El Espectador (15 September 1821) on occurrences in Zaragoza are based on articles taken from the local press, including pieces taken from the Diario Politico de Zaragoza and the Diario Constitucional de Zaragoza. Thus, a letter from Riego printed by the former can be found in El Espectador. It stressed the importance of the instruction of the people in their rights and duties as citizens through the patriotic societies, which Riego claimed to have encouraged in Calanda and Alcañiz, two small provincial towns in Aragon. The ‘belief that my [Riego’s] public statements have made a beneficial and necessary effect for our happiness’ gave his writing a didactic element, which aimed at encouraging a similar fervour in other local authorities. It also bears witness to the importance liberal military men such as Riego attributed to patriotic societies and their educative mission in a largely illiterate country. Such action revealed that liberal soldiers actively attempted to engage in the public sphere and spread their liberal political ideals to Spain’s more remote regions. This finding is supported by Gil Novales’ (1975: 972) attempt at quantifying membership of Patriotic Societies, which found that soldiers made up a large part of their known membership during the Triennium.9 In another letter printed in El Espectador (15 September 1821), Riego thanked a friend for defending him in the press, which suggests that the general was a reader of and maybe even subscribed to some



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newspapers. Furthermore, it shows a man acutely aware of the importance of the press in determining his image. The editor continued to defend Riego and among other items published a letter of the Patriotic Societies of Madrid to the king. The members of the societies protested in El Espectador (16 September 1821 and 17 September 1821) against Riego’s dismissal, and admonished the king to work for the Constitution and suggested that the intrigues of the serviles (royalists) need to be counteracted. The period also coincides with the death of Arco-Agüero, one of the leaders of the pronunciamiento of 1820, in a horseriding accident. El Espectador (17 September 1821) invoked him as one of the great patriots of Spain and his letter on the dismissal of Riego, written shortly before his death, was used as further proof of the general’s innocence. Particularly interesting in this letter is the use of the first person plural, when Arco-Agüero mentioned ‘accusations of republicanism made against us, the first revolutionaries’. This transmitted a feeling of togetherness of this exclusive group of heroes, to which San Miguel would probably consider himself to have belonged. Thus, they inserted themselves into a revolutionary tradition, which went back to Vidal, Lacy and Porlier, the pantheon of liberal heroes who had tried to return liberty to Spain. The centrality of Riego and the increasing symbolism associated with his persona is notable. The author in El Espectador (17 September 1821) described those who had attacked the general as ‘enemies of liberty, constitution and the King himself’. Such vigorous defences of Riego became more numerous and that month El Espectador published a supplement (20 September 1821) that gave space to a lengthy presentation to the king in favour of ‘the patriotic zeal of Riego as Captain General of Aragon’, which attested to his patriotism and good works for the spread of constitutionalism, and dismissed the idea of republican plots as fantasy. Two days later, another even more forceful representation from Zaragoza was printed in El Espectador (22 September 1821), warning the king that the failure to obey the laws ‘brings the nation to the brink of ruin’ and that ‘Riego is innocent and should be declared so’, as well as asking for the establishment of extraordinary Cortes. The sudden addition of demands as well as the willingness of the editor to insert these into the paper speak of the momentum the event had been generating and its potential for radicalising public opinion. The dismissal of Riego had suddenly turned into an issue endangering the constitutional settlement. Later on, El Espectador saw itself forced to comment on an exposition by Riego to the king after El Universal (1 October 1821) and La Gaceta (30 September 1821) had heavily criticised the general for stressing his own role in bringing liberty to Spain. El Espectador (2

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October 1821) explicitly reacted to these articles, which it regarded as feeble ‘peccavi’ of the editors for having published the exposition in the first place. The paper defended Riego’s claim to have played an integral part in the establishment of the Constitution, and affirmed his status as ‘the first leader (caudillo) who hoisted in Spain the flag of the gloriously restored constitution’. Riego’s expressions were described as ‘untimely but precise’ and their exuberance should be excused as expression of ‘a hurt soul’. Riego’s promotion of his own role is quite extraordinary, as the majority of liberal military men usually played down their achievements to emphasise the central part played by the people. This was an instant when a military leader appeared to have forgotten to stick to the accepted public narrative. The article in El Universal was also criticised in a letter sent to El Espectador (10 October 1821) later that same month. The author called Riego the ‘heroic defender of the liberty of the patria’ and assured readers of his commitment to defend the ‘heroes of the revolution’ within the legal means available to him. There are three notable aspects to these articles worth looking at further. First, they are a good example of how the newspapers reacted to each other’s writings on political issues – in this case, the speed of the reply to the arguments made is impressive and indicative of the importance attributed to defending Riego. The reaction from a provincial town also shows the wide distribution the political press was able to reach. Second, the fact that this article was published by a newspaper directed by one of the first followers and chroniclers of the army of Riego imbued the statements with authority and formed part of a defence of the role that the liberal army played in bringing about the constitutional system. Third, it indicates that we cannot speak in general terms, as some historians have done (de las Heras 2000: 101), of conflict between members of the army and the press. The issue of conflict and cooperation with or defence of members of the military depended on the political affiliation of the parties involved. It is thus not surprising to see that El Espectador and La Tercerola lauded the liberal generals and that El Universal and El Imparcial attacked them. An illustration of this complexity in the relation of army and press is the assassination attempt on Mejia by a conservative lieutenant coronel who apparently felt insulted by an article satirising a colonel Peseta. However, the issue of EL Zurriago (1822, n.24) containing the satirical piece ends with a poem to the ‘Sons of Riego’, which invoked the deeds of various other military leaders to the patria. Cooperation and conflict between army and press coexisted. In the case of El Espectador, the defence of the revolution did not amount to the same radicalism of El Zurriago or La Tercerola. In the



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aftermath of the ‘batalla de las Platerías’, as the street fights that erupted in September 1821 in Madrid came to be called, El Espectador (20 September 1821, 21 September 1821 and 29 September 1821) once more argued for patience and for the facts to be known, printed a defence of the political chief and only later condemned the excessive force used. Even Riego himself stressed in El Especatdor (2 October 1821) the importance of the liberal movement’s unity as the nation ‘will be immersed in a sea of misfortune if the liberals become divided’. The focus should be on the future and the elections of good deputies and not on his person; the liberals’ ‘aim should be nothing but saving the patria. It matters nothing that I suffer’. Once more, the notion of selflessness of the army general, interested only in the patria, is prevalent. Riego seemed to have learned his lessons after the attacks his previous exposition had opened him up to. La Tercerola and El Zurriago, which usually commented extensively on Riego and his writings, did not take up this issue of unity, as it did not fit into their view of the moderados as part of the problem and not the solution. Interestingly, the figure of Riego was still claimed by both sides of this exaltado divide, but even with the help of the collected writings and speeches of the general, it is difficult to pin down exactly where on the liberal spectrum he should be situated.10 This is further evidence of the fluid boundaries between the political camps and the difficulties associated with the political classification of individuals, classes and professions.

Conclusions The role of the military in the emergent liberal public sphere remains difficult to evaluate. However, it has been demonstrated that a number of military men were involved directly with the editing and directing of newspapers. In addition, instances of individual soldiers and officers sending articles, letters and declarations to papers abound. The motivation behind these writings was largely political. After the initial revolt against the absolutist system had been legitimised, the main thrust of these articles was to castigate the abuses of the absolutist system, defend the legacy of the revolution and instil enthusiasm for the constitutional system in the wider population. These were central recurring themes in the liberal public sphere, especially among the exaltado press. The role the army propagated for itself was that of guardian of the Constitution and interpreter of the people’s will. The armed forces became more political at the same time as the liberal public sphere

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became increasingly ideologically divided. Spain did not experience a separation of army and society, but was characterised by the politicisation of both. This political role was purposefully desired by liberal elements among the officer corps, who actively engaged in the public sphere. The representation of the revolutionary generals was largely favourable and at times approached hero-worship. Soldiers used the press to defend their reputations and influence their public image; they emphasised their selflessness and willingness to sacrifice for the patria. The openness of newspapers to printing communications, letters and speeches by generals speaks of cooperation rather than conflict dominating relation between press and liberal soldiers. However, conflict and cooperation coexisted. The importance of the army in the development of a liberal public sphere of the Triennium cannot be denied. In light of the central position military men occupied in Spain well into the twentieth century, this result is in itself highly significant. The centrality of the military and the use of the pronunciamiento during the Triennium established the idea of the armed forces as the legitimate representatives of the national will. Interestingly, in Spain this led to the army as a force that intervened on behalf of the authoritarian right as well as the liberal left, which makes it stand apart from the Central European experience. Furthermore, the precedent for military revolts as a tool for regime change was set in 1820 and employed throughout the nineteenth century. The idea that the military was the best tool for national regeneration and the true representative of the Spanish nation s­ urvived well into the twentieth century. Richard Meyer Forsting currently works as a consultant and independent researcher. Previously he completed an Arts and Humanities Research Council-funded Ph.D. at the University of St Andrews in Scotland on the role of the education of heirs to the throne in nineteenth-century Spain. His research interests are centred around the emergence of the liberal state during the post-Napoleonic period, the development of constitutional monarchical systems, and the role played by the military in politics and education throughout the period. In addition, he spent a year as a visiting researcher at Carlos III University in Madrid.



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Appendix: The Sources Overview of Newspapers Consulted A study of the Spanish press at the beginning of the nineteenth century brings with it several problems to which the historian has to be alert. While we know about the existence of a large number of newspapers, copies have not always survived. We rely instead partially on the announcement of the future publication or its citation by another paper. This makes it very difficult to assess exactly how long their print runs might have been and who was associated with certain publications. Table 5.1. Political affiliation, editors and military involvement in selected Madrid and Cadiz newspapers. Newspaper name

Location

Political affiliation

Known editors/ collaborators*

El Censor

Madrid

moderado

El Cetro constitucional

Madrid

moderado

La Colmena

Madrid

exaltado

Diario de Madrid

Madrid

moderado

León Amarita (ed.), Sebastián de Minano (ed.) Manuel Eduardo Gorostiza (ed.), Felix Mejía, José Joaquín Mora Felix Mejía (ed.), Fernando Leandro Camborda y Núñez (ed.) –

El Espectador

Madrid

exaltado

Minerva Española

Madrid

moderado

Miscelánea de comercio, política y literatura Nuevo Diario de Madrid La Periódicomanía

Madrid

moderado

Madrid

–

Madrid

exaltado

El Revisor Político y Literario El Trabuco

Madrid

moderado

Madrid

exaltado

Evaristo San Miguel (ed.), Facundo Infantes (ed.), Pedro José Pidal (ed.), Clemente Seguenza José Joaquín Mora Francisco Javier de Burgos (ed.), Tomas Juan Serrano, Manuel de la Rocha Pedro Sánchez Trapero Fernando Leandro Camborda y Núñez (ed.) Manuel Alonso Viado (ed.) –

Military involvement†

x

x

(x)

(x)

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Newspaper name

Location

Political affiliation

Known editors/ collaborators*

Military involvement†

El Telégrafo

Madrid

moderado

–

La Tercerola

Madrid

exaltado

El Universal

Madrid

moderado

El Vigilante

Madrid

exaltado

Atanasio Lescura x Bentas (ed. until n.10), Felix Mejía (ed.) Manuel José Narganes de Posado (ed.) –

El Zurriago

Madrid

exaltado

La Barbería

Cadiz

moderado

Felix Mejía (ed.), (x) Benigno Morales (ed.), Atanasio Lescura, Antonio Solana, Eugenio Romero, Ramón Ponsico, José Martínez –

El Cetro

Cadiz

moderado

–

La Constitución y las leyes Diario Gaditano

Cadiz

moderado

–

Cadiz

exaltado

Diario mercantil de Cádiz El Espectador

Cadiz

moderado

Antonio Olabarrieta/ Clararrosa (ed. 1820–22) –

Cadiz

moderado

–

Gaceta Patriótica del Ejército Nacional El Redactor General Repuestas a preguntas sobre la Constitución militar

Cadiz

exaltado

Cadiz

moderado

Alcalá Galiano (ed.), Evaristo San Miguel (ed.) –

Cadiz

–

–

x

Notes * A dash in this column indicates that the issues available were not sufficient to indicate a political affiliation, except for the Nuevo Diario, where the changing affiliations made it difficult to qualify; the (ed.) indicates the editor of the paper. † x indicates one of the editors was a figure in the military; (x) indicates one of the editors had served in the military prior to the Triennium, usually during the War of Independence, but was no longer active.



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Notes  1. In Anglo-Saxon scholarship, this war is more often referred to as the Peninsular War. The term ‘War of Independence’ was coined by liberals and nationalists to underline the contribution of Spaniards to the defeat of the Napoleonic troops.  2. See, for example, Gil Novales 1975; Fernández Clemente and Forcadell 1979; Checa Godoy 1991.  3. See, for example, Galdós 1821. This is a historical novel describing the tumultuous events in Madrid. The Fontana de Oro was a real café, and one of the most famous societies in Madrid was known by the name of its meeting place. Galdos was one of the most popular and most famous authors in nineteenth-century Spain, who used historical events as the basis for his novels.  4. The term patria is relatively new at this time, only coming into frequent use during the Spanish War of Independence (1808–14). There is some debate surrounding the connotations that the term carries during this period. The key texts are Seoane (1968) and Vilar (1971) pp. I found that Vilar’s definition of patria as an ideal projection of the nation is quite fitting for much of the Triennium.  5. This is reflected in the name of its first two issues: El Zurriago número intermedio.  6. A ‘Tercerola’ is a short carbine used by the cavalry, which is indicative of the role the paper saw for itself: to charge against the government.  7. We know this happened after La Tercerola no. 10 was published and was due to the publication of the articles in no. 9 and no. 10 discussed below, since the next issue of the paper announced Lescura’s flight in its opening poem.  8. The term ‘caudillo’ was investigated more closely due to Franco’s later appropriation of the term. Unlike in the Americas, the term does not seem to have had the same meaning in mainland Spain at this point. It was used in a negative as well as positive context during the Triennium, possibly carrying some populist connotation. However, a closer study is beyond the scope of this study.  9. Exact quantification is almost impossible, and his findings of 22.9per cent of valid names belonging to the military has to be seen in the light of 50.6 per cent of occupations being unknown. However, even if all of these are non-militaries, then soldiers are still over-represented in this sample. 10. For a comprehensive collection of Riego’s writings see R. d. Riego y Núñez, (ed. Gil Novales) La revolución de 1820, día a día: cartas, escritos, discursos (Madrid, 1976).

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References Primary Sources Biblioteca Nacional de España – Hemeroteca Digital (http://hemerotecadigital.bne.es) El Apéndice al Zurriago, Madrid; 14 January 1823–7 February 1823 La Barbería, Cadiz; 1813–20 El Censor, Madrid; 1 January 1820–13 July 1822 El Cetro, Cadiz; July 1820–1 July 1820 El Cetro constitucional, Madrid; 1 December 1820– January 1821 La Colmena, Madrid; 17 March 1820–14 June 1820 Diario de Madrid, Madrid; 1 January 1788–31 March 1825 El Espectador, Madrid; 14 April 1821–31 March 1823 Minerva Española, Madrid; 1 April 1820 Miscelánea de comercio, política y literatura, Madrid; 1 June 1820–24 September 1821 Nuevo Diario de Madrid, Madrid; 1 February 1821–22 May 1823 La Periódico-manía, Madrid; March 1820–1 El Revisor Político y Literario, Madrid; 10 August 1820–20 January 1821 El Trabuco, Madrid; 1822 Nos. 1 and 2 El Telégrafo, Madrid; 8 July 1822–9 July 1822 El Universal, Madrid; 13 July 1820–23 April 1823 El Universal observador español, Madrid; May 1820–12 July 1820 El Vigilante, Madrid; 1820 El Zurriago, Madrid; 1821–23 El Zurriago Numero Intermedio, Madrid; 1821–22 Repuestas a preguntas sobre la Constitución militar, Cadiz, 1820 Biblioteca Virtual de Prensa Histórica (http://prensahistorica.mcu.es) La Tercerola, Madrid; 1822 Biblioteca Virtual Andalucía (http://www.bibliotecavirtualdeandalucia.es) El Espectador, Cadiz; 1822–23 Gaceta Patriótica del Ejército Nacional, Cadiz; 1 January 1820–1 March 1820

Secondary Sources Alcalá Galiano, A. 1886. Memoria de d. Antonio Alcalá Galiano publ. por su hijo. Madrid: Impr. de E. Rubiños. Alonso, J.R. 1974. Historia Política del Ejército Español. Madrid: Editoria Nacional. Álvarez Junco, J., and Shubert, A. (eds). 2000. Spanish History since 1808. London: Arnold.



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Blanco Murillo, P.A. 1984. ‘Moderados y Exaltados a Zaragoza durante el Trienio Liberal’, Trienio: Ilustración y Liberalismo: revista de historia 4: 128–40. Brophy, J.M. 2007. Popular Culture and the Public Sphere in the Rhineland, 1800–1850. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Burdiel, I. 2000. ‘The Liberal Revolution 1808–43’, in J. Álvarez Junco and A. Shubert (eds), Spanish History since 1808. London: Arnold, pp.18–32. Carr, R. 1982. Spain 1808–1975. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Castillo, S. (ed.). 1991. La historia social en España. Actualidad y perspectivas. Madrid: Asociación de Historia Social. Checa Godoy, A. 1991. Historia de la Prensa Andaluza. Seville: Ediciones Alfar. Crosby, N., and Robert, J.M. 2004. After Habermas: New Perspectives on the Public Sphere. Oxford: Blackwell. Cruz Seoane, M., and M. Dolores Sáiz. 2007. Cuatro siglos de periodismo en España. Madrid: Alianza. Dolores Sáiz, M. 1984. ‘Liberalismo y Ejercito: La Gaceta Patriótica del Ejército Nacional (1820)’, Revista de Estudios Políticos 38: 127–46. Fernández Clemente, E. and Forcadell, C. 1979. Historia de la prensa aragonesa. Zaragoza: Guara. Fontana, J. 1979. La crisis del antiguo régimen: 1808–1833. Barcelona: Editorial Critica. Fuentes, J.F. and Roura i Aulina, L. (eds). 2001. Sociabilidad y liberalismo en la España del siglo XIX. Lleida: Milenio. Gil Novales, A. 1972. ‘Los colaboradores del “Zurriago” y de “La Tercerola”’, Bulletin Hispanique 74: 165–84. ——. 1975. Las sociedades patrióticas (1820–1823): las libertades de expresión y de reunión en el origen de los partidos políticos, 2 vols. Madrid: Tecnos. ——. 1980. El Trienio Liberal. Madrid: Siglo XXI de España. ——. 1986. Del antiguo al nuevo régimen en España. Caracas: Academia Nacional de la Historia. ——. 1991. Diccionario biográfico del Trienio Liberal (DBTL). Madrid: Ed. El Museo Universal. ——. (ed.) 2001. La Revolución Liberal. Madrid: Ed. del Orto. Habermas, J. 1962. Strukturwandel der Öffentlichkeit. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Hartzenbusch, E. 1894. Apuntes para un catálogo de periódicos madrileños. Madrid: Biblioteca Nacional: Ollero & Ramo. Martínez de las Heras, A. 2000. ‘La prensa liberal del “Trienio” vista desde El Universal’, Historia y Comunicación Social 5: 91–101. Mattelart, A., and Suegelaub, S. (eds). 1979. Communication and Class Struggle: An Anthology in Two Volumes. New York: International General. Mesonero Romanos, R. de. 1994. Memorias de un setentón. Madrid: Castalia. Moliner i Prada, A. 2001 ‘Opinión publica y anticlericalismo en la prensa exaltada del Trienio Liberal’, in Sociabilidad y liberalismo en la España del siglo XIX. Lleida: Mileio, pp. 73–102.

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Nadal, J. 1975. El fracaso de la revolución industrial en España. Barcelona: Crítica. Parra López, E. la. 1984. ‘La aceptación popular de la Constitución de Cádiz’, Trienio: Ilustración y Liberalismo: revista de historia 4: 32–43. Payne, S.G. 1976. Politics and the Military in Modern Spain. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Pérez Galdós, B. 1921. La Fontana de Oro. Madrid: Librería de los Sucesores de Hernando. Ramisa Verdaguer, M. 2011. ‘Prensa y Constitución en Zaragoza, 1813–1837’, Revista de Historia Jerónimo Zurita 86: 225–47. Riego y Núñez, R. de. 1976. La revolución de 1820, día a día: cartas, escritos, discursos, Gil Novales (ed.). Madrid: Tecnos. Robins, B. (ed.). 1993. The Phantom Public Sphere. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Roura i Aulina, L. 1988. ‘Ejército y Constitución, a partir de los diálogos doctrinales, en los orígenes del constitucionalismo español’ in Ejército, pueblo y constitución: homenaje al General Rafael del Riego, Anejos de la Revista Trienio: 20–31. Rubio Cremades, E. 1985. ‘La Periódico-manía y la prensa madrileña en el Trienio Liberal’, Anales de Literatura Española 4: 383–414. Ruiz Jiménez, M. 2007. Liberalismo exaltado: La confederación de comuneros españoles durante el Trienio Liberal. Madrid: Editorial Fundamentos. Ruiz Torres, P. 1981 Señores y propietarios: cambio social en el sur del País Valenciano. Valencia: Institución Alfonso el Magnánimo. Sánchez Hita, B. 2009. José Joaquín de Clarrosa y su Diario Gaditano (1820– 22) Ilustración, Periodismo y Revolución en el Trienio Liberal. Cadiz: Universidad de Cádiz. Santillán, R. de. 1960. Memorias 1815–1856. Pamplona: Gómez. Seoane, M.C. 1968. El primer lenguaje constitucional español Madrid: Editorial Moneda y Credito. Tuetro Bertrand, F. 1995. Riego, Proceso a un Liberal. Oviedo: Nobel. Vincent, M. 2007. Spain 1833–2002. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vilar, P. 1971. ‘Patrie et nation dans le vocabulaire de la guerre d’Indépendance espagnole’, Annales Historiques de la Revolution Francaise 206: 502–34. Zavala, I.M. 1967. ‘La prensa exaltada en el trienio constitucional: “El Zurriago”’, Bulletin Hispanique 69: 365–88.

Chapter 6

The Shape of the Public Sphere in Spain (1860–99) A Dream of Generalities Andrew Ginger

å By the latter half of the nineteenth century, Spain was one of the most established liberal polities on the European mainland. It had been ruled under a continuous succession of constitutional, parliamentary governments since 1834. This overriding fact remained constant even in the often violent instability and civil wars of the years up to 1875 and the frequent changes in the constitutional order. Following the 1868 Revolution, when the Bourbon monarchy eventually fell, destabilisation accelerated further, with a failed attempt at installing an alternative royal family (that of Amadeo of Savoy), and a series of conflicting efforts to create a republic. The aftermath of the 1868 rising has habitually been seen as a major turning point of the century. The forces unleashed found an unsteady and not always happy resolution in the form of the restoration of the Bourbons within a new version of the constitutional monarchy. Now, the main political parties agreed to permit one another’s alternation in power, if necessary facilitating this by electoral corruption, in order to salvage some stability.1 Even universal male suffrage was eventually reinstated (1885). As one would expect of a nineteenth-century liberal state, the notion of the public had considerable prominence in the Spain of those decades. In this chapter, I will explore some significant aspects of how the public sphere was conceived. The approach taken here is historical, in line with a number of recent studies of other countries in this period (for example, Dalleo (2011) on the specific circumstances of the Caribbean plantation societies, Swaim (2009: 17–21) on the concern with changing the traditional social order of Scotland from within or Välimaa (2012) on the centrality of a single university to the public sphere in Finland). At the outset, I will leave in abeyance any assumptions and theorised debates about what a public sphere

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involved or was. In particular, I will set to one side the question of whether the authentically public sphere is that which resides between the activities of the state and the private realm (for a useful recent summary of this assertion, see Calhoun (2012: 124–25)). Doubtless some will object that not everything deemed a public matter is an aspect of the public sphere, but that rebuke contains within itself the kind of intellectual commitment that I am seeking to suspend. Instead, I will work outward from the notion of the public itself, in an effort to trace a hypothesis about the shape of a public sphere as it was articulated in Spain. Even so, the historical approach taken here requires some further explanation. I do give consideration to whether the notion of the public was heavily politicised by the struggles for power in Spain or the articulation of rival ideologies. Yet, I have avoided assessing head-on the apparently momentous changes of the period from 1868 to 1875, or indeed whether the Restoration period helped or hindered the modernisation of Spain and the establishment of political plurality. Instead, I take a longer view of the notion of the public articulated in texts over the several decades considered here. The point of this chapter is to attend to the notion of the public as such and to note its explicit connection to specific ideologies only as those links are primarily invoked, which is much less frequently than might be supposed. In fact, the hypothesis presented here is that many aspects of nineteenth-century Spanish politics, economics and society that have had an important role in interpretation of the period were secondary to the concerns that dominated notions of the public. This is not to assert their irrelevance or unimportance as such, but rather to suggest that, so far as the notion of the public went, they were articulated in relation to and as dynamic variants on other more prominent considerations. It would be reasonable to suppose that nineteenth-century Spanish public life would be framed by a series of apparently striking developments during the century. The destabilisation of the old imperial Spanish state had led to a succession of uprisings, beginning with a rebellion in 1808 against occupation by the Napoleonic Empire. From 1812 onwards, rival constitutions were launched as ways to reconstitute politics, economics and society: such documents proliferated throughout the century. By 1834, with the establishment of a continuous liberal state, these became the main means by which the political framework was stated. Political parties – largely subdivisions of the original liberal revolutionaries – struggled for power, often violently, and came to be seemingly crucial features



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of nineteenth-century Spain. A combination of electoral processes, representative government and parliament, combined with the use of military and revolutionary uprisings, characterised society. Following the civil war with the absolutists in the 1830s (the Carlist wars), the militarisation of politics also led to precocious leftist radicalisation. From the Constitution of 1812 onwards, the notion of a nation-state, and that there was a nación, seemed to be a founding principle of liberal society. Despite various kinds of censorship, the press emerged as an important force. Ideological and philosophical rivalries loomed large. At the same time, and even with the confiscation of much of its land, the Catholic Church remained a powerful force in national life and, with the exception of a brief republic in the early 1870s, so did the historic monarchy. Once the especially intense revolutionary period of 1868–74 had passed, a so-called turno pacífico took its place, with the largest political parties – the conservative and more liberal wings of parliamentary constitutionalisms – taking turns to rule under a restored Bourbon monarchy, through a corrupt electoral system. Older, distinctive festivities such as bullfighting remained important, as did the legacy of Spain’s relationship with Islam and North Africa, even as efforts were renewed to make Spain more similar to its more powerful and prosperous European neighbours, such as France. While Spain lost much of its overseas territory by 1826, with the independence of large parts of the Americas, it remained and asserted itself as an imperial power, with valuable possessions such as Cuba and Puerto Rico, and its persistent use of slavery for much of the century. Despite marked economic growth and aspects of an entrepreneurial society, the economy could not rival that of the United Kingdom or in later decades Germany, and the fiscal position and national debt remained serious problems throughout the period.2 By taking a step back and looking at language used in conjunction with notions of the public, this chapter suggests that the public sphere in Spain emphasised very specific aspects of nineteenth-­ century society at the expense of much of the above. On the one hand, this serves as a significant corrective to emphases in recent historiography, diminishing the importance of some phenomena (such as political parties) and bringing others, identified in some of the historiography, still further into prominent relief (such as a focus on collective life). On the other hand, it suggests an objective, cherished by many educated Spaniards, which is not entirely consonant with those other historical realities or that treats them as means to or instances of that ultimate objective. I seek to take a distant approach to a corpus of texts, identifying and attending to concepts that seem

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to dominate over others. Through the analysis ventured here, a series of negative findings relegate some apparently prominent concerns: the notion of a nation-state and of nationalism or even an historic notion of a communitas, the role of political parties and contests, the concern with the public debt, the succession of constitutions, allegiances to philosophies and ideologies, among others. Prominent factors in other versions of European liberalism – the individual and the public–private division – are likewise relegated. In the shift of perspective, attention turns to matters that are less overtly to do with cultural or ideological allegiances, or even with more granulated realities of Spain’s situation, such as its debt. What comes to predominate is an interest in a geographically located administrative entity and its population (Spain and Spaniards), in terms of general laws and obligations, of a state apparatus and other institutions (such as academies) that realise them, and with a particular view to instructing and, to some degree, cleansing its people. Such obsessions persist in spite of all else, and all else serves them. This is a Spain where public functionaries and didactic teachers would prevail, less a nation-state than a dreamt-of exemplar of ordered existence. In part, this perspective brings sharply into relief a well-known aspect of nineteenth-century Spanish society, described long ago by Raymond Carr as the numerous ‘sections of the underemployed urban middle classes who were dependent on government posts for a livelihood . . . a class educated . . . to pretensions and prospects beyond the absorptive capacity of . . . society’ (Carr 1982: 167). Equally, there is something visionary here. While an analysis across centuries lies beyond the scope of this present chapter, there is something reminiscent here of what John Elliott discerns in Imperial Spain: an ‘organic conception of a . . . society dedicated to the achievement of the common good’, envisaged in a vast bureaucratic apparatus (2006: loc. 7815, 7122). Ultimately, in adopting the methods used here, I seek to reach a conclusion, however tentative, about the aspirations instantiated in a public sphere as it was articulated in Spain. It is in this way, via an indirect and implicit path, that I will address the question of whether enquiry into the notion of the public as expressed historically gives us a vision of the public sphere. On the one hand, I will seek to trace what notion of the public sphere held centre stage during the revolutionary and Restoration years, at this apparent high point of liberal Spain. On the other hand, I aim to articulate what vision of a public sphere liberal Spain might offer us.



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The ‘Public’ at a Distance One of the challenges in understanding the public sphere in late nineteenth-century Spain – as elsewhere and at other times – is to grasp what people most had in mind when they addressed ‘public’ matters. Any such empirical enquiry comes up against the sheer vastness and plurality of discussions of ‘public things’: the corpus is huge and diverse. Our habitual methods – the close analysis of texts and artefacts, contextualisation across and beyond these, the examination of their relationship to theories – falter before its scale. A simple search of the Spanish National Library catalogue for works with ‘public’ in their title throws up many pages of bibliography, hundreds of items for the period covered here (1860–99) alone. The problem is a familiar, more general and intractable one. The approach I take here is a form of ‘distant reading’, to borrow and rework a term famously advocated by the comparative literature scholar Franco Moretti (see Moretti 2013). This is to say that, rather than considering a necessarily rather limited corpus in detail, we should attend to features analysable and visible across a much larger corpus as a whole. In truth, the ‘distant reading’ approach, by definition, does not ‘solve’ the problem: it cannot do what close reading does. Rather, it provides additional and much lacking layers of perspective by giving us viewpoints across a considerably greater number of texts. The present chapter draws heavily on a distant reading of over 350 Spanish texts, using software (AntConc) that assists linguistics specialists in detecting trends across large amounts of language usage. In particular, I make use of lists that indicate the frequency of use of specific words across the corpus (word lists) and related evidence of collocations, that is, words used in the vicinity of a specified word or words. I have made some use of key-word-in-context (KWIC) – that is, examining a word in the immediate phrasing in which it is used – largely by way of a check on the other searches (for example, whether escuela refers mainly to a place of education or to a school of thought). The chapter makes no pretence whatsoever to methodological innovation or subtlety in the use of the software itself: these are very basic functions and outputs of a widely used package. Its contribution lies instead in its assessment and use of such evidence as ways of characterising the public sphere in Spain at the time.3 It is important to underline that this chapter does not follow the methods used in corpus linguistics proper and does not seek to. Rather, it uses frequently occurring words as a way of reading a large corpus of texts. I take the patterns of most used words and treat them together as a text

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that can be interpreted in relation to hypotheses about the ideologies of nineteenth-century Spain. Put more strongly still, I experiment in treating them as a form of collective dreaming; that is, as embodying an ideological aspiration – neither alien to the facts on the ground nor reducible to them – that is shared through its variants across a multitude of publications and authors. Evidently, such a method involves a gambit, as – from a pragmatic perspective – does any method of reading: that the results of such an endeavour might turn out to illuminate something of the past. The proof of such a pudding lies only in the eating. My hypothesis here is that this experiment in reading leads to results that appear sufficiently plausible insofar as they echo with other empirical evidence about nineteenth-century Spain, while challenging the way in which that evidence is sometimes prioritised and interpreted. In other words, the outcome has the characteristics of a provocative piece of historical argument. The corpus (367 published books totalling over 16 million word tokens, and 362 and 363 in two adjusted versions – see below) is made of digitised and searchable items from the Spanish National Library in the period 1860–99, returned by a title search for público/a (masculine and feminine versions of the word public, which would include the noun and adjective, and in this search picked up plurals).4 It thus consists of texts that are presented directly and explicitly as addressing a public matter and/or the public at large. The corpus is correspondingly diverse, ranging from aviary matters (Enfermedades de las aves (Illnesses in Birds) (Balmaseda 1889)) to a Tratado de contabilidad (Treatise on Accounting) (González Cedrón 1897). A number of texts concern ultramar: Spain’s continuing overseas territories in Cuba and the Philippines. The admission of such a miscellany of sources into the corpus is quite deliberate. It acts as a restraint on prior assumptions about what might or might not properly constitute a public sphere; the shared, more neutral starting point is simply that prominent reference is made to the public in the most obvious way that the publication is presented: its title. Moreover, such an approach is consonant with the gambit taken in the method of distant reading used here: that across a wide range of texts, there might be a shared dream of the public. At the same time, there are manifest limitations to any such corpus, whatever its advantages as a ‘distant’ reading. Evidently, there are other items that would tell us much about how the ‘public sphere’ was conceived. For better and for worse, the practical necessity of using materials that happen to be digitised has a randomising effect on the search, and in some instances the scanning of particular texts has been far less successful than in others: better because it increases the possibility of



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our dealing with a miscellany, but worse because it may exclude relevant variations that have simply not been digitised. Most frustratingly, from this perspective, Spanish National Library periodical material – despite its manifest importance to the public sphere (see Davies 2000; Ortiz 2000) – does not presently seem, for the most part, to be readily searchable in this form without very extensive manual copying of text from innumerable pdf files. That said, some effects of the limitations of varying filters on published material, notably those caused by distant reading in general, become a key part of the account of the ‘public sphere’ presented here. This is true too of flaws involved in attending primarily to the frequency of word use. On the one hand, the number of occurrences, in itself, provides limited information. For example, it cannot tell us so very much about the variations in terms of how a single term is used. Nor may we assume that, because a term is employed often, it is of special importance in conveying the significance of a given text or the particular thoughts of an author; rather, it may be an indication of its generality. On the other hand, I will argue that these very properties of frequently used words, in their own right, may be important in comprehending talk addressing and concerning the ‘public’.

The Notion of the ‘Public’ in Terms of Generality One fruitful approach to understanding the public dimension of Spanish life has been to look to the shaping influence exercised by key thinkers in the conception of public life and its interplay with the private and state spheres. For a long time, it has been recognised that the German post-Hegelian philosopher Karl Christian Friedrich Krause was a major source for reflection in Spain, in the reworking of his ideas by Julián Sanz del Río. Broadly stated, the appeal of this krausismo was its movement away from more speculative veins of Hegelian thought towards a normative and descriptive account of practical social activity and lived experience. This objective was to move beyond Spain’s intense conflicts, while enabling opposing elements to coexist (Capellán de Miguel 2006: 20–23, 171, 198). Among other examples of such figures, scholars have turned their attention more recently to the hygienist Pedro Felipe Monlau and the role of his work in expressing circulations between private live and wider society. Jo Labanyi’s classic study Gender and Modernization in the Spanish Realist Novel (2000) highlights the key role of hygienist intellectuals such as Monlau in these terms. However, when we look at the word

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list for the corpus studied here, such figures occupy a somewhat minor place. Krause ranks 26,002 for frequency; Monlau, with a little more success at position 10,689, merits a respectable 82 mentions, on a par with numerous other words such as vizconde (viscount). This is not a matter of Hispanists overestimating the significance of those particular people as opposed to others. Their fate is shared by Hegel (ranked 12,030) or Kant with 77 mentions, or Bentham with 41. By way of comparison, the term derecho/s (as a substantive right or law) has a frequency of 12,853, occurring some 156 times more often than Monlau; likewise, vida (life) occurs 9,218 times.5 A strong notion of derecho – both in the sense of rights and of the rule of law – has an obvious role in common characterisations of liberal society, and in Spain specifically from precedent of the 1812 Constitution onwards, though also in the framework of the organic visions of society conceived centuries before in Imperial Spain. Such terms could be invoked in any number of different intellectual systems or, indeed, without reference to anything so specific. On this account, the language that predominated across discussions was cast in broad and general terms rather than being tightly tied to a specific intellectual outlook or narrower school of thought. To put it more strongly, when viewed from a ‘distance’, the public sphere appears to be woven by a tissue of generalities. The philosopher Kwame Anthony Appiah has suggested that, in practice, many shared commitments to ethical positions do not necessarily depend on any deep level of agreement about the foundations of those beliefs. This is not evidence, Appiah avers, that such commitments are not shared in compelling ways (2010: 252–53). In fact, given their appeal to people of diverse outlooks, it can be taken to show their appeal. We may hypothesise that the same held for the vocabulary of the late nineteenth-century public sphere, and not simply in ethical but even in more descriptive language. Overall, what most kept the public sphere going was that people were talking about rights and law and life, not that they happened to be holding the views of Krause or Monlau. On the initial face of the evidence, the one thing that lends the choice of vocabulary more specificity is the amount of reference to Spain. The single word España (Spain) occurs 6,473 times,6 and the variants of español/a/es (Spaniard or Spanish, masculine, feminine, and plural) combined have a frequency of 6,470. Taken together, this amounts to over 12,500 mentions. This picture finds some further backing in a solid, if not especially remarkable, amount of reference to nationality: nacional/es (national, singular and plural) occurs 3,531 times and nación (nation) 1,913 times. On this account, it appears that



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the public sphere was conceived, to a considerable degree, within a wider effort aimed at, or debate about, the consolidation of a Spanish nation, following the collapse of most of the earlier empire. What predominates is the notion of a single polity primarily conceived as Iberian Spain. This evidence seems to lend weight to the view, widespread among historians of culture, society and thought, that nation-building was a primary and pervasive preoccupation among educated Spaniards. Public discussion concerned, and was a matter for, the communitas, the national community, as Portillo Valdés and others have stressed This was a key legacy of the uprisings of 1808 and of the Constitution of 1812: the enterprise of creating a state around a collective national subject (Portillo Valdés 2000: 153). On the face of it too, the corpus gives only limited succour to historians concerned to emphasise the transnational dimensions of public life (notably with implications for the Spanish-speaking world; Brickhouse (2004: 27–30)), and less still to those (like myself) who seek to revisit universalism and internationalism in Spain (for example, Ginger 2012). The highest-ranking reference to another independent country, France, has a frequency of 1,905, and with the variants of francés (French) totals just short of 3,000 mentions, a mere quarter of those to Spain and things Spanish. Seemingly, relationships with other cultures and societies, even neighbouring ones, were at best a secondary preoccupation. Universal/es (universal, singular and plural) trails behind things French, with just over 1,200 mentions, internacional/es (international, singular and plural) merits only 452 mentions and cosmopolitismo (cosmopolitanism) a mere 69. Even on a ‘distant’ reading, there is much that is deceptive about this impression. References to things Spanish are about equal in frequency to those concerning derecho/s. Those to ley/ es (13,636; laws whether of society or other phenomena) vastly outstrip those to nación and nacional/es. While one could conclude that mentions of laws and rights are being characterised here in local terms, one could as easily deduce that Spanishness, while undoubtedly important, was just one concern among many that were less particular to the country. Moreover, it is as much as anything a matter of a Spanish community being articulated in generalisable terms, for example, as a society of laws and rights. Such a view is only reinforced by the fact that, were we to alter the terms España and español/es to those referring any other country or nationality, there would be nothing untoward about how the result sat with the other most frequent terms found in the corpus: the law and rights could be as important matters for France as

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for Spain. Put at its most provocatively, from this perspective, the Spanish community seems to be interchangeable with any number of other societies. Stated more strongly still, nationality is less something with any specific content than it is a way of talking that is replicated across multiple polities. In weaving together the public sphere, Spanishness – like derecho – entails, in and of itself, few in-depth commitments to any specific cultural or intellectual outlook. Such observations beg to be reconciled with the relative reluctance to speak explicitly of other cultures and societies, or of universalism, internationalism or cosmopolitanism. It is likely that, in the subject matter under consideration here, a notion of generality better expresses the fabric of the public sphere than does, say, transnationalism or internationalism. The language of the public sphere is committed to things that could be generalised, above and beyond any overt connection either to other nationalities or even to explicit alternatives or supplements to nationalist loyalties. The point, then, is not that the general and the particular are fundamentally at odds with one another, but that the localised national group (the Spanish) articulates things that take the form of generality. We might reword Stalin’s famous phrase and speak of generality in one country.

Layers and Instability This is far from the end of the story. As we work down the word list for the corpus, we encounter a burgeoning variety of terms, from ácido (acid) (2,098 mentions), to animales (animals) (2,216 mentions) to universidad (university) (1,671 mentions), eventually even to those very specific names mentioned earlier. Mathematically, this is in part to be expected: the vast majority of words by definition will not feature among the select group of the most mentioned. The basic mathematical fact combines with the generality of the more frequent terms, and the heterogeneity of the language used overall, to create a more notable effect. While the metaphor is not perfect, it is as if the public sphere spoke was articulated – was woven, to continue my earlier image – through layers of language. It runs from a thick spread of dominant generalities into and out of a diversifying specificity of different degrees. This phenomenon echoes the contours of the corpus itself: a vast range of subjects are presented as public matters and/or as addressed to the public. While the more frequent kinds of generality provide bulk (so to speak) to the mass of language of the public sphere,



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detailed and variegated trails extend not only into and out of this core, but at times at quite some remove from it. However, the point I am making here is not simply a reiteration of a commonplace of patterns of linguistic usage, in which general terms might be statistically more frequent than specific; less still is it an attempt to make a statistical argument of the proportions of such frequency along the lines of Zipf’s law. This is because by generality I mean here something other than that the terms concerned are generic and high frequency. After all, in that sense, nación is not, on the face of it, much more or less generic than derecho, ley or España. Rather, I mean that the kinds of generalising word that predominate here tend to be those that are less overtly connected to a strong and overt form of cultural or ideological allegiance. (This is not, of course, to say that they do not ultimately manifest such allegiances.) Ostensibly at least, an assertion of the rule of law and rights carries less commitment to a specific cultural or ideological outlook than does an assertion of national identity or of an express philosophy. It should be noted that even the word Spain does not tell us much more than that there is a geographically existing state, just as, ostensibly, españoles does no more than evoke the existence of a population of that state. It is easy to overlook this when viewing nineteenth-century Spanish texts through the lens of nation-building ideologies. Our experience of the language of the public sphere is inherently mutable, just as the focus shifts about when we move down the word list. This is very apparent when we look at collocates of very frequently used terms. Público/a/s is, unsurprisingly, often encountered, with 12,475 mentions. When we search for collocates ten words either side of it, we find a rather different pattern of frequently used terms than we do if we look at the word list for the corpus as a whole. (It should be noted that while in corpus linguistics a smaller range of collocates might be preferred, I elect here the larger range of +/-10 because it gives richer information about discussions being undertaken in sentences in the vicinity of mentions of the public, and thus better serves the specific purpose of distance reading in this chapter. Collocates in the range +/-5 do not enable sufficient ‘distant reading’ of the sentences.) In the corpus as a whole, among the most deployed words are derecho and España, as we have seen, as well as ley (8,416 mentions), historia (history) (7,233), ciencia (science or knowledge) (5,959) and razón (reason) (5,745). When we look at the collocates of público/a/s, we encounter instead a dominant presence of instrucción (instruction) (2,330 – overwhelmingly used in the sense of education), higiene (hygiene) (934), then the familiar derecho (434),

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and further adrift, references to things Spanish (299). Such words echo with the efforts through the liberal period to (re)construct the public education system through state-controlled schools and the Central University from the 1840s and 1850s onwards (Carr 1982: 236), and with widespread, at times intrusive, efforts to improve public and private health (Labanyi 2000). The neglect of things Spanish in this instance is not solely explained by the fact that no one says España pública (public Spain), whereas we do say instrucción pública (public instruction); el público en España (the public in Spain) and similar combinations are possible. A world of law and rights, history, reason, science, knowledge and country transforms into one of education, hygiene, rights and law. If, rather, we pursue collocates of derecho/s, the notions of the natural (367 mentions) and civil (355) come to the fore, alongside references to Spain and the Spanish (471). España itself takes us to historia (history) (474) and to Francia (France) (239). These words in turn echo the widespread vogue for understanding the country in terms of its history (Moreno Alonso 1979), and centuries of emulation of and rivalry with the powerful neighbour state, tendencies exacerbated in the nineteenth century through the aftermath of the Napoleonic invasion and the ongoing efforts to mediate the innovations of the supposedly more advanced northern state. The very terms that provide the ‘bulk’ of generalities in the public sphere lead out into heterogeneous reconfigurations of what looms large. Likewise, slight alterations to the corpus can have notable effects. These reflect the problem that the corpus is itself limited within a vast swathe of texts dealing with public matters; changes in reference points may alter findings in not insignificant ways. One of the reasons that higiene features quite so highly in collocates of público/a/s is the presence of a Curso elemental de higiene privada y pública (Basic Course in Private and Public Hygiene) (1880 edition) by Juan Giné y Partagás. Throughout that text, the headings higiene privada and higiene pública appear on page after page. When such items are removed from the corpus, higiene remains prominent (246 mentions). However, it slips behind other frequent words such as administración (administration) (315). The latter echoes with the long, conflictive efforts through the century to build a functioning, postrevolutionary administrative structure, often against the odds of available resource or real social consensus or social realities (Carr 1982: 235, 347). Rather than being seen simply as a result of erroneous data handling or methodological flaws per se, such variations may be taken to underline an important reality. When dealing with public matters, our sense of what is predominant – what



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makes up the ‘bulk’ – is itself susceptible to shift around according to what, in given circumstances, engages our attention. These points have and had a very practical importance: no person ever attended to the public sphere as a whole. At the level of the sentence and the paragraph, the usage of generalities themselves varied considerably, as becomes apparent within KWIC searches. We can see this in stark but simple terms in two examples of the distinction between private and public domains. The text of the inaugural session of the medical academy in Barcelona for 2 January 1866 describes ‘interés privado’ (private interests) as ‘siempre egoísta’ (always selfish), and calls for it to be reconciled to ‘los fueros de la humanidad y los altos intereses de la salud pública’ (the prerogatives of humanity and the high interests of public health) (Real Academia de Medicina y Cirurgía de Barcelona 1866: 25). In contrast, in his inaugural address to the University of Barcelona, Professor Eustaquio Toledano in Discursos leídos ante el claustro de la Universidad de Barcelona (Discourses Read before the Faculty of the University of Barcelona) opposed mistrust of private efforts and celebrated ‘esa multitud de beneficios, que en otras naciones son debidos a la inciativa privada más desenvuelta’ (that multitude of benefits that are owed, in other nations, to the most uninhibited private initiative) (Toledano 1861: 26). The generalities, then, were locked into – though not exhausted by – disputes and differences of viewpoint, and vice versa. If the Spanish public sphere evoked a particular collective constituted in terms of generalities, it did so through continuously shifting perspectives and across the uneven terrain of argument.

Characterising the Generalities Private versus Public Public matters do not seem primarily to have been articulated in ­relation – by contrast or otherwise – to a private sphere or to the lives of individuals. The words privado/a/s (at all events, sometimes meaning deprived of as well as private) muster only 2,504 mentions, compared to the thousands more to público/a/s. Individuo/s (individual) attains 4,053, but still appears secondary compared to the attention to the generalities of law and rights. Even as a collocate of público/a/s (ten words either side), private is one reference point alongside many others. When the corpus is adjusted to remove the effect of texts where the word features insistently as a subtitle, privado/a/s figures 307 times, rather less than hacienda (treasury) or administración (administration)

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and far surpassed by derecho/s (502). It is dwarfed by instrucción. It is not that Spaniards ignored the public/private distinction – we have seen how they debated it, and they are concerned with it, as this data suggests. Rather, it is that the public sphere seems to be asserted in its own right instead of being dependent on any opposition to things supposedly outside it. The relative limits to preoccupation with private or individual lives corresponds with the emphasis upon the inherited notion of communitas that Portillo Valdés sees as central to the outlook of the historic 1812 Constitution. As Portillo Valdés suggests, the very notion of rights, which among other things protect private and individual lives, is largely cast in collective terms rather than as stemming from the private individual per se (Portillo Valdés 2000: 13–23). The rather middling place of libertad/es (liberty, liberties) in the word list might also confirm this (3,147 mentions). This is, more broadly, consistent with the observation made by John Butt in his classic essay Writers and Politics in Modern Spain (1978) that this is a culture emphatically concerned with collective and societal matters. It is through the latter that the individual comes into view, in a fashion consequent with trends in other forms of continental liberalism, such as that found in France. (With considerable exaggeration, Lucien Jaume famously referred to the result as ‘the individual effaced’ (L’individu effacé 1997).) Even so, the very notion of communitas or even nation may require some qualification here, at least so far as the public sphere goes. There is little talk of a comunidad (community) (329) and, as observed above, actual reference to the nación and nacional occupies a somewhat similar middling position to libertad/es. The word nación, the supposed key collective subject in much of the nineteenth-century imaginary, figures only 1,913 times, a similar amount to Europa (Europe) (1,960 mentions). The data may invite us here to distinguish more carefully between an overriding preoccupation with and loyalty to a country and its inhabitants (Spain and the Spanish), and a more specific sense of a nation. This result cannot be attributed to the predominance of a (supposedly) more antique idea of a patria as opposed to a putatively more modern nationalism and its advocacy of a homogeneous culture. Patria (fatherland, motherland), with 1,832 mentions, comes out not far from nación.7 Even combined, these two terms are dwarfed by direct reference to things Spanish. The fate of the more noncommittal word sociedad (society) (4,334 mentions), more prominent than reference to the nation and much less so than to things Spanish, perhaps serves to emphasise the overall impression. Once again, something more general – a broad concern with and attachment to the country



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and its people – vastly outweighs anything with more specific commitments, such as to formulate that preoccupation in the terms of a nation or a patria. The overall combination of evidence seen here suggests that this is not so much because a flawed effort at creating a modern, liberal state structure left Spain without a compelling sense of nationhood (Álvarez Junco 2013: 300); rather, it is because of the primacy of generality in the shape of the public sphere. If anything other than its origin (Spain, Spanish) overwhelmingly describes the collective subject, it is the very idea of the public, a term used almost exactly as many times as España and español/a/(e)s. How did this ‘public’ find expression and what forms did it take? In short, how was the public sphere instantiated?

The Instantiation of the Public Remarkably, the Spanish public evoked in the corpus is not strongly associated with a notion of public opinion per se, despite the latter’s vaunted status as a nineteenth-century idol, famously appearing personified on stage in Offenbach’s comic opera Orphée aux enfers (Orpheus in the Underworld) (1858). This is surprising if one supposes that a liberal public sphere was envisaged as a layer between government institutions and private life, in which critical debate took place among the public and in which opinion was thereby formed. It is, however, consonant with a notion of the public in which overt, ostensible allegiance to ideology and culture is secondary, and in which compelling general laws predominated. Opinión does not fare especially well in collocates of público/a/s. While far from irrelevant with 212 mentions, it trails rather pointedly behind ministerio (289; ministry or government in office) and administración (339). It meets a similar fate in the overall word list, with 1,939 instances. Debate and discusión hardly figure at all among collocates and not much in the word list either. Nor, strikingly, is a broader role for opinion substituted by more explicitly politicised terms of reference in the turbulent struggles of Spain’s parties and regimes. The word partido (party) figures just 834 times, conservador/a/(e)s (conservative, conservatives) just 255 times, liberal/es (liberal, liberals) 373 times and liberalismo (liberalism) 32 times. Rather, a broader and more general notion of the political takes its place closer to centre stage (a frequency of 6,431 for político/a/s (political, politician(s))). In the corpus as a whole, what really predominates is the notion of rights and jurisprudence (derecho/s), again with a very similar frequency to the idea of the public and of things Spanish. On the face

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of this evidence, this is less a public sphere concerned with collective opinion or political struggles per se than it is one that takes shape around jurisprudential or quasi-jurisprudential structures. It is preoccupied, on the one hand, with what laws say or might say and, on the other hand, with notions of reasonable and protected entitlements. Such interests appear to far outweigh any concern with the constitution and what is constitutional per se, again despite the continual and often violent struggles in Spain over what the constitution should be. Constitución and constitucional (constitution, constitutional) merit 1,844 mentions, far fewer than those to derecho/s. More frequent even than España/español/a/(e)s and derecho/s is ley/es (13,636 mentions). Combined with the count for derecho/s, the effect is overwhelming in emphasising the primacy of a jurisprudential outlook. There, is, though, something more still here. While KWIC searches confirm that latter usage of the term ley/es, they also, unsurprisingly, bring to light its use to refer to the laws of nature or the spirit. This underlines the broader concern in the public sphere with knowledge of compelling, even inescapable realities. The frequency of reference to ciencia/s (science and knowledge, 9,283 mentions) seems to confirm that preoccupation. The notion of razón/es (reason, explanation) – the means of reasoning itself – does rather less well, while remaining very prominent (6,903 mentions). This perhaps further emphasises that the primary interest is in the actual establishment (either by their introduction or their identification) of structures of collective reality. The term causa/s (cause, causes) – both causes and purposes – plays a key role, with 8,199 mentions, suggesting that reasons given are important when these enable us to identify how the structures of collective reality are such as they are. History – on which so much ink has been spilt with regard to Spain’s historicist obsessions – likewise has its strong place (7,233 mentions), but, as it were, in a supporting position like that of razón. The frequency of the term vida (9,218 mentions) – used across the corpus both to refer to human and more broadly biological life – ­underlines that the public sphere was concerned with such structures as they were instantiated in actual existence, as does the high frequency of the term historia. The public sphere is not a disembodied world of laws as such. Yet, at the same time, it is a pointedly unsentimental domain, remarkably unconcerned with feelings per se. The word corazón (both the metaphorical and physical heart) has but 1,609 mentions and sentimiento/s (sentiment, feeling) a similar 1,745 mentions. Amistad (friendship) does especially badly (326 mentions) and even amor (love) figures in a relatively lowly position (2,159 mentions). Nor do the arts



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come anywhere close to jurisprudence, laws and entitlements in the public sphere. Arte/s (art, arts) has a frequency of 4,521 mentions, whereas literatura (literature) has 1,064 and letras (letters, that is, written works, but also knowledge of reading and writing) musters 1,648. The very idea of a civilización (civilisation) merits only 1,147 mentions and cultura (culture) far fewer. On this account, the public sphere was much less concerned with overt expressions of affect and was much less bound by overt emotional or aesthetic experiences than it was characterised by the affirmation of collective structures in which we live and to which we belong. In this respect, the corpus contrasts markedly with the assertions of many nineteenth-century thinkers about both societal and aesthetic matters. Or, rather, it underlines the degree to which such intellectuals and artists were engaged in a forceful struggle to assert the importance of affect in a public sphere more immediately inclined to the identification of laws and knowledge. Feelings and, more prominently, history were articulated within a sphere bound most strongly by the pursuit of collective structures and certainties.

A Didactic, Administrative and Hygienic Sphere When we turn to collocates of public itself (ten words either side), it is impossible to overstate the vast, looming presence of instrucción (2,330 mentions), towering over any other rival concept. To put it at its most extreme, when people said public, they habitually said instruction. It is also worth noting the specific choice of word here: instrucción, not educación (education) (81 mentions) or even the closely related enseñanza (teaching) (272 mentions). The emphasis is not just on the institutional availability of education; it is on instructing people in things. In other words, the emphasis is implicitly, and in a strong sense, didactic. This is of a piece with the insistence on ciencia/s in the corpus more widely. What is important collectively is to tell people what they should know – that is the primary public concern. As I have noted elsewhere (Ginger 2008: 122–23), it is an error to leap from an emphasis on instruction to the conclusion that people ended up believing what they were told. Likewise, and as is consistent with the plurality of usages of general terms, the inclination to instruct may simply lead to a multitude of voices, each insisting that theirs is the correct version, and thus collectively creating a pluralised society. The point is rather that the overall focus was on being didactic and on encouraging institutions that could deliver on that aim. Escuela/s (school, schools) correspondingly features very strongly (484 mentions). However, in line with what historians have observed

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of the limits to available schooling in nineteenth-century Spain (Humlebaek 2015: 14), we should not assume that this total reflects reference to physically existing schools. The KWIC searches reveal numerous references instead to schools of thought. This is consistent with the contents of the corpus, which contains many instances of pronouncements given by Spanish intellectuals. A total of 154 items in the corpus (some 41 per cent) feature the word discurso in the title. To some degree, this will reflect what the Spanish National Library happens to have digitised, but the finding also evokes the extent to which the public sphere is Spain was constituted by people giving public addresses, often in academies or other learned societies (such as the influential Ateneo of Madrid), or writing treatises in which they discoursed on their learned opinion for the benefit of the public. Notably, in these collocates, the term academia (academy) (229 mentions) dwarfs universidad (university) (88 mentions) and its institutional world of higher education; 148 items in the corpus have the word academy in their title. To a significant degree, on this account, the Spanish public sphere was pedagogical above and beyond formal institutions of instruction, oriented towards didactically imparting learning to audiences. Even Spanishness itself is markedly secondary to the obsession with didacticism, marking up 327 collocates to the vast swathe of instrucción. The rather prescriptive outlook of the public sphere is exhibited too in the concern with hygiene (246 mentions on these collocates in the adjusted corpus), as Jo Labanyi (2000) has demonstrated. This is the desire to ensure cleanliness across society as a whole, interlinking public and private spaces in so doing. While hygiene is by no means as looming a concern as instruction, rights and laws or even Spanishness, its regulatory and advisory discourse far exceeds that dedicated, for example, to libertad (liberty) (57 mentions) or razón (71 mentions) or historia (82 mentions) among these collocates. The desire to cleanse the collective space came fairly easily to mind when explicit mention was made of things public. The public sphere was correspondingly concerned to instruct people in how to do so, not least through manuals and courses made available to people at large. Within the group of frequent collocates trailing behind instrucción, we find in prominent positions derecho/s again (545 mentions), hacienda (347), administración (339), gastos (expenditure) (334) and then rentas (income) (293) and ministerio (289). As well as reinforcing the overall concern with structures of laws and rights, this suggests that the public sphere was oriented to a significant degree towards state and state-related administration. Specific political affiliations – conservador,



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liberal, partido – hardly figure among collocates; it is the administration in itself that counts. In particular, the preoccupation is with the formal bureaucratic and decision-making institutions that manage state and quasi-state structures in the broadest terms (administración, ministerio). The one branch that is singled out is the instrument of government finance (hacienda, the treasury), in line with a basic concern with the generalities of money in and money out: gastos, rentas. Again, this suggests a concern with the mechanisms of delivery – basic financing – not least from the state sector. More still, it suggests that the preoccupation with rights and laws needs to be seen not so much as a test separate from consideration of the state bureaucracy, but as something wedded to it. This is confirmed by the high level of concern with instrucción pública: the state education system. That overall orientation to concern with the generality of the bureaucracy, government decision-makers, financing, and the role of law and rights far overrides the level of interest registered in the specifics of the generation of wealth or even the chronic fiscal problems of the Spanish state. In contrast with the understandable emphasis placed upon it by historians of all sorts, from political to cultural, deuda (debt) figures in a background position within the collocates of public: it has 144 mentions and just 729 in the overall word list. While clearly not irrelevant, it is overshadowed by the general activity of the treasury and of income and expenditure. Industria (industry) features lower still (57 mentions), as does comercio (commerce) (71 mentions); likewise, within the overall word list for the corpus, industria merits a relatively lowly 1,335 mentions, comercio 1,775 and agricultura (agriculture) just 774.

Conclusion: A Dream of Generalities On the evidence seen here, the public sphere in Spain in the second half of the nineteenth century was oriented towards the consolidation of a country and a people (Spain and the Spanish) more even than it was concerned with anything so specific as a nation or a patria or communitas. In turn, that country and people took shape in the public sphere less in terms of localised specifics or of commitment to particular ideologies or philosophies than in the articulation of what I have called compelling generalities. The public sphere was instantiated overwhelmingly around jurisprudence and the articulation of protected rights, and overlapped heavily with state administration and financing as the means of delivery on its concerns. It was legalistic and,

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to a degree, bureaucratic in its mindset, but was also concerned with preventing oppression. The public sphere was conceived in assertively collectivist terms, not primarily defined by reference to contrasting individual or private spheres. It looked less to opinion and debate per se than to assertions of knowledge of compelling realities that bound the collective in its lived experience. These, which included laws and rights, loomed large even over any loyalty to the country itself. Likewise, the public sphere was overwhelmingly didactic in its outlook, concerned with authoritatively imparting instruction and, to a degree, with cleansing itself. It was characterised by the strong presence of learned institutions from which interventions were continually made. None of this meant that the public sphere was rigid or monolithic, or that it was particularly resistant to pluralism; rather, the focus and emphasis of the public sphere’s generalities continually shifted and their usage was disputed. Plurality took shape through the didactic assertions of generality: much more diverse, heterogeneous and rich concerns were woven into the thick fabric of the generalities. In practice, the public sphere was a place of multiplicity and even instability. Some scholars of the public sphere (Habermas 1991), like those of civil society (Alexander 2006), have famously taught us to identify the high aspirations embedded in societal realities: the hope for a society governed by public reasoning, for example, or the instantiation of liberty and equality. In the Spanish public sphere, there lurked a dream too, of sorts. Its sense of its own practicality made it perhaps an uneasy bedfellow of utopias, a word that hardly figures in the corpus examined here. Yet it has about it something of an ideal to be realised. The public sphere dreamt of transforming a single country into a realm of instruction in shared knowledge, a collective governed by directive and prescriptive laws and rights, realised by its administrators. Shimmering on the public sphere’s horizon lay a didactic, jurisprudential, law-bound, hygienic, but unoppressive realm that would be called Spain. Andrew Ginger is presently Head of the School of Languages, Cultures, Art History & Music and a Chair of Spanish at the University of Birmingham, United Kingdom. He has previously held chairs at the Universities of Stirling and Bristol. He has written widely on the modern Hispanic world, ranging across the history of thought, literature and the visual arts, often taking a comparative approach. He is the author of four monographs: Political Revolution and Literary Experiment in the Spanish Romantic Period (Edwin Mellen Press, 1999); Antonio Ros de Olano’s Experiments in Post-Romantic Prose (Edwin



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Mellen Press, 2000); Painting and the Turn to Cultural Modernity in Spain (Associated University Press, 2007); and Liberalismo y romanticismo: La reconstrucción del sujeto histórico (Biblioteca Nueva, 2012). He is presently working on a project provisionally titled ‘Instead of Modernity: The Nature of Connections and the Aesthetic Appreciation of History’, concerning the supposed birth of cultural modernity and approaches to comparative study.

Notes 1. For a recent brief summary of these developments, see Humlebaek (2015: 17–21). 2. For a recent summary of much of this outline, see the ‘Introduction’ to Ginger and Lawless’ edited collection Spain in the Nineteenth Century (2018). 3. For my purposes here, I ignore in my analysis words that are in common use and whose frequency is to be expected. De is the most commonly used word, for example. There is a necessary element of human judgement here in assessing which words are specifically relevant to the notion of the public. 4. Texts downloaded from http://www.bne.es on 11 August 2016. 5. A check on KWIC results confirms that the use of derecho as an adjective is a rare usage; what predominates is the use of the substantive. 6. This is an adjusted figure. The words ‘Biblioteca Nacional de España’ are embedded through the digitised documents, occurring 2,721 times. As with nacional, I have discarded these references. 7. For a succinct statement of one important version of that distinction, see Viroli (1995: 1–17).

References Alexander, J.C. 2006. The Civil Sphere. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Álvarez Junco, J. 2013. Spanish Identity in the Age of Nations. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Anthony, L. 2014. AntConc (Version 3.4.3) (Computer Software). Tokyo: Waseda University. Appiah, K.A. 2010. The Ethics of Identity. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Balmaseda, F.J. 1889. Enfermedades de las aves. Havannah: Imprenta y Librería de Elías F. Casona. Brickhouse, A. 2004. Transamerican Literary Relations and the NineteenthCentury Public Sphere. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Butt, J. 1978. Writers and Politics in Modern Spain. London: Hodder & Stoughton. Calhoun, C. 2012. The Roots of Radicalism: Tradition, the Public Sphere, and Early Nineteenth-Century Public Movements. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Capellán Miguel, Gonzalo. 2006. La España armónica: El proyecto del krausimo español para una sociedad en conflicto. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva. Carr, R. 1982. Spain: 1808–1975. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Dalleo, R. 2011. Caribbean Literature and the Public Sphere: From the Plantation to the Postcolonial. Virginia: University of Virginia Press. Davies, R. 2000. La España Moderna and Regeneración: A Cultural Review in Restoration Spain, 1889–1914. Manchester: Spanish and Portuguese Studies. Elliott, J.H. 2006. Empire of the Atlantic World: Britain and Spain in America 1492–1830. New Haven: Yale University Press. Giné y Partagás, J. 1880. Curso elemental de higiene privada y pública. Barcelona: Librería de Juan y Antonio Bastinos. Ginger, A. 2008. ‘¿Un yo moderno para España? c.1830–c.1860’, in A. Blanco Arévalo and G. Thomson (eds), Visiones del liberalismo: Política, identidad y cultura en la España del siglo XIX. Valencia: Publicaciones de la Universitat de València, pp. 121–36. ____. 2012. ‘Universal Language and Cultural Translation in NineteenthCentury Photography and Geometry’, History of Photography 36(4): 385–96. Ginger A., and G. Lawless. 2018. Spain in the Nineteenth Century: New Essays on Experiences of Culture and Society. Manchester: Manchester University Press. González Cedrón, A. 1897. Tratado de contabilidad. Madrid: Imprenta de la Revista de Legislación. Habermas, J. 1991. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, T. Burger and F. Lawrence (trans.). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Humlebaek, C. 2015. Spain: Inventing the Nation. London: Bloomsbury. Jaume, L. 1997. L’Individu effacé : Ou, Le paradoxe du libéralisme français. Paris: Éditions Fayard. Labanyi, J. 2000. Gender and Modernisation in the Spanish Realist Novel. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Moreno Alonso, M. 1979. Historiografía romántica española: Introducción al estudio de la historia en el siglo XIX. Seville: University of Seville. Moretti, F. 2013. Distant Reading. London: Verso. Ortiz, D. 2000. Paper Liberals: Press and Politics in Restoration Spain. Westport, CT: Greenwood. Portillo Valdés, José María. 2000. Revolución de nación: Orígenes de la cultura constitucional en España, 1780–1812. Madrid: Agencia Estatal Boletín Oficial del Estado. Real Academia de Medicina y Cirurgía de Barcelona. 1866. Acta de la sesión pública inaugural. Barcelona: Imprenta del Diario de Barcelona. Swaim, B. 2009. Scottish Men of Letters and the New Public Sphere 1802–1834. Bucknell: Bucknell University Press. Toledano, E. 1861. Discursos leídos ante el claustro de la Universidad de Barcelona. Barcelona: Imprenta y Librería Politécnica de Tomás Gorchs.



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Välimaa, J. 2012. ‘The Corporatization of National Universities in Finland’, in B. Pusser et al. (eds), Universities and the Public Sphere: Knowledge Creation and State Building in the Era of Globalization. London: Routledge, pp. 101–19. Viroli, M. 1995. For Love of Country: An Essay on Patriotism and Nationalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Part III

The Twentieth Century

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Chapter 7

New Women for the Public Space Aurora Rodríguez Carballeira and the Eugenic Mother (1879–1956) Alba González Sanz

å Although there is a longstanding belief that Spain lacks a feminist movement comparable to those of neighbouring countries, particularly compared to England and its suffragette movement, the truth is that from the second half of the twentieth century, many women began to organise and protest their status in society (Díaz 2012: 52–53). The right to work and to an education were supported by broad sectors of writers and thinkers from different political cultures, who advocated for equal opportunities. There were even pre-twentieth century calls for political rights and the right to vote, though these were not without controversy (Arkinstall 2014: 19). In the 1920s and 1930s, a new kind of Spanish woman came to prominence. The term ‘modernas’ encompassed a large group of writers, artists, intellectuals and politicians. Largely based in Madrid, these modern women represented a generation associated with the breakdown of traditional femininity and its three pillars: home, motherhood and silence. Beyond the aesthetic clichés1 of the movement, such as short hair, smoking, driving, sports and changes in fashion, what we find is the prominent access of middle-class Spanish women to the public sphere. Professional women, students, political representatives, journalists and writers were gaining a presence in Spain’s urban centres. Female citizenship acquired a heretofore-­ unknown relevance throughout the state and, during the years of the Second Republic, was protected by fundamental changes in law. The 1931 Constitution and the legislation derived from the Magna Carta included, for the first time in Spain, true universal suffrage, civil marriage and divorce, the preservation of citizenship after marriage to a foreigner, the elimination of the crime of adultery and paternity testing, among other advances that made both sexes equal, at least on paper.

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Among all the individual stories that tell of the large-scale change to women’s place in the Spanish cultural imaginary and day-to-day life, the one analysed in this chapter treads the border between genius and madness. It is the story of a longing to create women capable of redeeming, once and for all, all others. Aurora Rodríguez Carballeira (1879–1955), an upper middle-class woman from Ferrol in Galicia, conceived, both physically and intellectually, a ‘eugenic child’ (Sinclair 2011: 24), whom she called Hildegart and trained from infancy in the study of sexual education and the problems related to inheritance, genetics, sexuality and eugenics. The child prodigy astonished Madrid in the early 1930s, but, by 1933, not yet nineteen years old, she was killed by her own mother after attempting to extricate herself from the relationship. The ensuing social scandal lasted until the trial in 1934 and was then forgotten until the second half of the twentieth century, when the psychologist’s report on Aurora (Rendueles Olmedo 1989) was discovered and Spain’s new democracy made it possible to revisit the story.2 My proposal is to look at the peculiarities of Aurora’s reformist plan, which was supposedly inspired by socialist utopias (de Guzmán 2014: 93), and at the strange and problematic role played by Hildegart in the developing role of Spanish women in the modern public sphere.

To Write Is to Exist: Women in the Public Sphere The study of the configuration of the public sphere in Western life has occupied feminist theory almost since Habermas’ classic description in 1962. The public realm that fundamentally brings together political, economic and cultural aspects supposes the existence of a private sphere, to which women are confined, according to Rousseau’s contracturalist theory applied to the political configuration of modern states (Pateman 1988). Moreover, this private sphere is not a space of intimacy as it is for a man, but an ambivalent space with which the domestic (relating to care and reproductive work) acquires particular importance as such tasks are devalued, while tasks conducted in the public sphere are considered ‘productive’ (Federici 2012). Feminist theory, beginning with Nancy Fraser’s (1990) fundamental article, questions the scope of Habermasian theory and the limits of democracy in relation to women, excluded from a paradigm of analysis of the public sphere that does not consider gender as a category. Authors such as Linda Kerber (1988) also clarified that social separation in public and private spheres, in a spatial sense, is not clearly defined and



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contains destabilising and borderline elements. Such access to reading and subsequently to writing is central to our understanding of Spanish women’s entry into the public sphere. Habermas distinguishes between public political opinion, which was closed to women, and participation and literary opinion, in which they could take part both as readers and writers. Looking at Germany, Hook-Demarle (2006: 199) claimed that ‘women’s access to the public domain is first and foremost an indirect insertion into masculine areas, those of politics and history, by means of resorting to the falsely neutral instrument of literature’. Indeed, my previous studies (González Sanz 2018) bear out the fact that while the Habermasian theory of the configuration of the public sphere is complicated to apply in Spain, it is true that partial access to a public voice was achieved through literature and, particularly, through the press. Newspapers, including those targeting a female readership, began to feature articles that little by little articulated a clear political reality, impugning the social order and sowing the seeds of feminist theory and practice. On the other hand, comfortably off or middle-class women participated in the public sphere through social means, using the creation of the Junta de Damas de la Sociedad Económica de Amigos del País: they lobbied for education for poor children, control of the Inclusa orphanage and trade schools (Bolufer 1998), a control that would be maintained until the nineteenth century (Burguera 2012). This access to the public sphere through typical ‘feminine’ concerns had the double effect, as studied by Jo Labanyi (2011), of grouping female participation around apparently minor topics whose underlying class conflict was often ignored. At the same time, this served as a politicising and participatory element even for those women who explicitly rejected such emancipatory demands, later called feminists. Thus, rallies, articles, combative prose and propaganda were already well established in Spain by the time Hildegart began her work, which was not limited to writing, but also included militant links to political parties (first to the Spanish Socialist Party PSOE and later to the Partido Republicano Federal). The story of Aurora Rodríguez Carballeira is also distinctive, as she did not choose to take her own place, through writing or political participation, in public life; instead, she chose to create a better kind of woman, in the shape of her daughter, driven by a conviction in her own educational and personal limitations. She expressed herself not in the first person, but through an intermediary who she formed, instructed and guided. Essentially, she re-created herself in the figure of Hildegart and so joined the utopian and reformist tradition invoked by Fourier, which imagined

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scenarios and agents of redemption that came together in the 1930s in the image of the modern woman. If we consider that the ‘woman question’ was the topic of literature and social reform of the nineteenth century (Labanyi 2011) and that this question spoke to the conflict between constricting Spanish women to the domestic angelic model and the desire of some to be the subjects of their own lives and to pursue education, work and participation in the political collective, Rodríguez Carballeira offers a radical solution to the conflict by creating, in flesh and blood, a new model woman. Her creation also hides, under its modern exterior, certain conflicts within Aurora related to gender ideology and her conception of motherhood that are important to explore. In this story, the mother matters as much or more than the designer daughter who was launched into the public sphere.

The Early Years of a Visionary In telling the story of Aurora Rodríguez Carballeira, particularly where it concerns the birth, education and eventual murder of Hildegart, we face an apparently insoluble problem: most of the information that is available was provided by Rodríguez Carballeira herself in the wake of killing her daughter. Both the interviews with Eduardo de Guzmán for the newspaper La Tierra and her later declarations during the trial, as well as the expert reports and psychiatric report from Ciempozuelos, rescued by Rendueles Olmedo, form part of an elaborate narrative of justification by a woman who had almost certainly taken leave of her senses. This is not so much because of her ideas on eugenics, which Alison Sinclair (2011: 28) judges to be typical attitudes of the time despite the distance we feel from them now, but rather because of her visionary conviction of carrying out a mission of excellence, which led her both to create and in complete rationality to kill her daughter when she considered this project to have failed. De Guzmán (2014: 86) acknowledges the difficulty of considering Aurora simply ‘crazy’ and quotes, without naming, the female doctor of the time who said of her: ‘If all genius can be seen in some way as a disorder of the brain, we can certainly be sure that her mind does not function with appealing regularity.’ It is symptomatic of the era and its pseudoscientific theories that the explanation follows Lombroso and his daughter Gina’s (who Hildegart (1932: 51) quoted in various works) idea of ‘superior degeneration’. Aurora and her actions were products of her time, but her crime must also be understood in its contemporary context. However, I do not intend to try to understand her reasons for filicide or the



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extent of her madness as a supposed degenerate genius; instead, I am interested in the intellectual path that led a young, self-taught woman from an affluent background to dedicate her life to the redemption of humankind through a range of strategies, particularly through the conception of a daughter who would be a saviour to womankind, though this implies a reorientation of the significance of maternity in the public and political realm. Aurora said that she educated herself in her father’s library. Her father had links to the region’s progressive political movements, but was described by his daughter as a weak man, married to a woman with whom his daughter felt no bond whatsoever and whom she despised, along with her brother and sister. A highlight of her readings in the home library was Charles Fourier, who she described as an influence and portrayed as a man intolerant of injustice, concerned since childhood with the weakest members of society, including animals3 (de Guzmán 2014: 89–93). It is important to note that Hildegart was not her first attempt to mould a child into excellence. Aurora’s sister, who she despised as intellectually limited and a slave to her instincts, bore a child out of wedlock who would become the musician Pepito Arriola.4 Aurora lavished time and effort the child, awaking his musical vocation and talent (Cal 1991: 36–37; Sinclair 2012). The child prodigy was snatched from her guardianship in 1899, when his mother became aware of his talent and the potential status and money that this could bring her. After the failed guardianship of her nephew, Aurora conceived the idea of a community inspired by Fourier’s phalanstery model, inhabited by new men and women who would improve the human race both physically and intellectually. If Hildegart was born in 1914, although Eduardo de Guzmán, Rosa Cal and Carmen Domingo insist that Aurora abandoned the idea of the colony at the dawn of the First World War upon the death of her father, we can see that the two ideas overlap and that the conception of her child was finally achievable; likewise, we can consider the dates are not in particular agreement in Aurora’s account and that this mismatch is reproduced in subsequent works about her. There were many so-called socialist utopias, but Charles Fourier’s was one of the most quickly adopted in Spain (Espigado 2002). Women in particular found it interesting, for its conception of the relationship between the sexes was stripped of hierarchy and subjugation to the family that characterised many other contemporary reformist models. The community, called Armonía, was based upon the idea of balance between different characters and abilities. Freedom of love would reign organically because desire was not disdained as a driving behavioural

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force. These ideas, which were advanced particularly in terms of how they understood women, were expunged by Fourier’s own followers who, after his death, eliminated the passages in his works that were not in line with the sexual mores of the time, as Espigado Tocino points out. Nonetheless, the idea of a utopian community ran deep throughout the nineteenth-century psyche. Many progressive ideologies would make it their own, driven by a desire to reform the bourgeois class divisions and capitalism that defined society and excluded a larger part of the population. To what extent does Aurora’s idea resemble that of Charles Fourier? According to his own statements and in spite of his ideological self-­ ascription to utopian socialism, little. As Guillermo Rendueles Olmedo (1989: 83) points out, the similarities end at the basic idea of a ‘social colony’. Aurora wanted this colony to be a place for the creation of a new strand of mankind, which would improve society through the rational application of the eugenic doctrines of the time; that is, by combining men and women with desirable features and attributes. The influence of Gall is soon revealed to be as strong or stronger than the spatial notion of a chosen community that would revolutionise humankind. In fact, Espigado (2002: 347) points out that Fourier does not judge motherhood to be a woman’s main purpose, considering that only an eighth part of the members of Armonía would feel a genuine compulsion to raise children. In contrast, all of Aurora’s reformist plans see motherhood as a woman’s destiny. She coincides with Fourier in the selection of spaces and individuals, but she assigns these latter no other function than reproduction and childcare. As we shall see, just as she strove throughout her life to eliminate all relationship with the sexual (which she described in her interviews with de Guzmán in terms of affront or vice), so she strove to do the same for her utopia, and again in the life of her daughter, whom she guided as a being dedicated fully to knowledge and transformation, without granting her a life of her own. Aurora planned to look for a location in Madrid – the climate and nature of Galicia were not adequate to her needs – and contract members in optimum physical and moral condition, who at certain ages (twenty-five for women and thirty-five for men) would conveniently reproduce.5 Children would be raised by the community, with no notion of individual families, and would not be named until they were six or seven years old, when their personalities were more developed. Moreover, with the aim of avoiding the interference of sexual desire in the search for refinement and intellectual improvement among the community, Aurora proposed a reversible vasectomy for the men, a



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technique that at the time sounded like pure fiction. She decided that the girls of the colony would become teachers, both in order to pass on knowledge and to guide the process of selection of the talents and abilities of each member. The idea of desire, of the whole categorisation of emotions and attachments devised by Fourier that would be come into play with an as yet unconceived idea of love, a renewing and revolutionary love, did not even exist in her concept of the colony. Aurora abandoned the pursuit of her idea before 1914, but only temporarily. She took it up again in prison, after the death of her daughter, when she tried to reform the penal institution after observing how badly it functioned (Rendueles Olmedo 1989: 157) and again in her first months in the psychiatric hospital in Ciempozuelos, convinced that psychiatry offered the best scientific application for eugenics to completely reform society (Rendueles Olmedo 1989: 166). But before these scenes of imprisonment came the brief life of her daughter. We find some of the mother’s ideology in the theoretical work surrounding Hildegart, but particularly in her incarnation as a project to express the conception of public, and eugenic, motherhood.

Redeeming Women from Their Nature: The Creation of Hildegart We are lucky to have exceptional documentation of the conception and education of Hildegart from before she became a public figure. On the one hand, Aurora made sure that the media was aware of the phenomenon that was her daughter, bidding for and being granted interviews in the press of the time (Domingo 2008: 64). This desire for notoriety is propaganda, in fact, of the mother herself, as much as for the exceptional child, for Aurora was always the protagonist of her daughter’s life. Moreover, when in 2011 Alison Sinclair published an essential study on Hildegart that detailed the young woman’s relationship with Havelock Ellis, the appendix included Hildegart’s correspondence with the renowned English sexologist with the aim to forming a subsidiary of the World League for Sexual Reform in Spain. In this correspondence, Hildegart describes her exceptional situation, referring to herself as a ‘eugenic child’ (2011: 24) and detailing her education in full. This account, which coincides for the most part with that publicised in the Spanish press and that which Aurora would tell after the murder in interviews and during the trial, must be true to explain the depth, solvency and rigour of Hildegart’s published work during the end of the 1920s.

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Aurora convinced herself of the necessity of having a daughter to redeem all womankind and, to do so, she chose a man adequate to her purposes, who was prepared to be a ‘physiological collaborator’, without assuming paternity of the child (Guzmán 2014: 97). She described their sexual encounters as ‘carnal affront’ and was convinced, though there was no proof, that she would conceive a girl (2014: 103). She moved to Madrid to have the child and followed a strict diet and program of sleep and showers, complemented by exercise. She lived in total ignorance of the war raging in Europe to avoid upsetting herself (2014: 108). Hildegart was born on 9 December 1914 and immediately began what we might consider to be a training programme. As she would tell Havelock Ellis, at eleven months she learned the alphabet through a game with pieces of wood. At twenty-two months, she read fluently and by three she could write, which led to her becoming a qualified Underwood House typist at the age of four. Her education then began, always at home and under Aurora’s supervision, until she was ten years old. She finished high school at record speed and entered university at the age of thirteen. At sixteen, she finished a law degree and moved on to study medicine. Along with her native Spanish, she spoke English and French fluently, and also knew German, Portuguese, Italian and Latin. She told Ellis that she was a pianist with a great love of music (Sinclair 2011: 170–72). According to Eduardo de Guzmán, and confirmed by other biographical sources, Hildegart joined the youth brand of PSOE as soon as she was old enough and began her political career when Spain was still a dictatorship under Primo de Rivera. She was an excellent orator and frequently featured publicly in the movement, in addition to being one of the few frequent female writers in El Socialista. Along with her studies and activism, she began to publish pieces on eugenics, population control, contraception and sexual reform. With the proclamation of the Second Republic and PSOE’s movements within the structure of the new state, Hildegart distanced herself critically, and finally abandoned the part altogether, accusing her companions of having abandoned their revolutionary aims. She immediately joined the Partido Republicano Federal (which had been Aurora’s initial aspiration for her daughter’s political career, she later told De Guzmán) and began to publish in other anarcho-syndicalist papers such as La Tierra. There she wrote explaining the motives behind her shift in political allegiance, defining herself as a ‘Marxist without a party’ (Domingo 2008: 100) and attacking some of her former colleagues. Her correspondence with Ellis largely centred on the Spanish Constitution and the League for Sexual Reform, which was initially led by Gregorio Marañón and



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contained many reputable citizens from the worlds of law and medicine. Sinclair’s study (2011) details the complexities of setting up and running this initiative in Spain, where traditional morality weighed heavy in questions of marriage, divorce and homosexuality. Hildegart would hold the post of secretary of the League for Sexual Reform until her death and was responsible for two issues of the organisation’s magazine, Sexus. Aurora killed her daughter on 9 June 1933, following an argument in which Hildegart made clear her desire to break free of her mother’s influence. She had not been away from her mother for even a single day since her birth. Aurora killed Hildegart in cold blood and afterwards went to turn herself in. In prison, before the trial, she explained that her daughter had twisted the path laid out for her and was also the target of an international conspiracy that sought to separate her from her mission of redemption.6 Faced with such a situation, she, the creator, decided to finish with her failed creation (de Guzmán 2014: 164). Aurora’s insistence led to her being considered sane for the trial, fully responsible for the crime she had committed. As Carmen Domingo explains (2008: 23), the trial brought to the forefront the conflict between conservative and progressive beliefs in the Second Republic. The defence insisted that Aurora was mentally unstable, while the prosecution, in the person of Juan Antonio Vallejo-Nájera, insisted she was sane and therefore criminal. During the debate, he highlighted the pernicious nature of certain progressive ideologies on women and the fact that mother and daughter had been close to intellectuals and prestigious republican politicians. Accepting Aurora as mad would separate her from these people. If, on the other hand, she was established to be a criminal, it would not be difficult to infer the criminality of this new model of femininity that Hildegart had represented, this ‘public woman’, with its connotations of prostitution. Such a link would confirm the dangers of allowing Spanish women access to the public sphere. Two sides faced off during the trial, two models of understanding women in public, two understandings of what role women should occupy in Spain: for Vallejo-Nájera, they belonged in the home, centred on motherhood and all things private and sacred, as they would be forced to do again with the return of the traditional nineteenth century discourse and the Sección Femenina of the Falange movement. And Vallejo-Nájera, not many years later, would embark upon a repressive and eugenic psychiatric project with these ‘red’ women, aiming to isolate the Marxist gene through imprisonment, torture and cruel experiments (Bosch Fiol et al. 2008).

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However, something that has not been considered up until now is that Aurora herself is an element located between the progressive and the regressive, given that she must guide and educate Hildegart. She is a mother-teacher, an essential feature of the identity of bourgeois motherhood, of the nineteenth century ‘angel in the home’. There is an element of the domestic and traditional in her role (studied by Blanco (2001)) to provide an avant-garde intellectual education, and the resulting Hildegart treads a complex line. Her maternal education is intimate, dependent and indebted to the idea of nineteenth-­ century motherhood, which is especially relevant if we consider that nineteenth-century Spanish Feminism fought against this model: schooling girls was a battle since the Ley Moyano was passed in 1857 and such issues as coeducation or the establishment of egalitarian curriculums, a march of progressivism in Spain that ranged from free education to the educational policies of the Second Republic. Hildegart’s education prepared her to be a modern, groundbreaking woman, which sat uncomfortably with the reality of always having a mother at her back. But this mother, with her old-time practices and seemingly modern ideas, is the true political subject of the story of Aurora Rodríguez: her daughter Hildegart highlights the contradiction between private education provided by a mother and public exposure, a discourse on equality that implies the construction of the personality as an ­autonomous subject. It was Aurora who asked to be interviewed by her daughter’s former colleagues so as to speak of her project, rather than Hildegart’s writing or ideologies. In published reports she justified herself and insisted that her side of the story needed to be understood. Here, as in her later accounts to Ciempozuelos, Aurora laid out the reasons she believed that womankind could be redeemed by her own exceptional daughter. She herself was the subject that she attempted to replicate in Hildegart to create a new kind of woman-mother with a clearer eugenic vocation than most Spanish women. For the beliefs that Rodríguez held about the rest of her sex plant more than a few problems from the story of Spain’s fight for emancipation. Although Ana Muiña depicts her has a cultured woman and a feminist (2014: 11), the truth is that Aurora’s stated opinions on her own sex are closer to traditional misogyny than any other analysis of class or power relationships, as Sinclair has already pointed out. (2011: 28). In the interview conducted before the trial, she stated that: vice makes me feel disgust and repugnance. My dislike towards women in general may be due to this. It is difficult to find a sole noble



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thought in them because they don’t think with their minds, only with their sex. Even those who are mothers are just so for their pleasure in sex and their primitive instincts. They failed to understand the importance of being a mother. (De Guzmán 2014: 91)

When she was in the asylum, Aurora stated that women were more in need of redemption than men precisely because they are closer to being animals, to a pure state of nature, as they are incapable of thinking without their sex, and so turn themselves into playthings at the mercy of men. The psychiatric report even refered to her rejecting the concept of women having a soul, or the ability to feel, which she does attribute to men (Rendueles Olmedo 1989: 16). Nonetheless, she conceived the idea to have a daughter who would free all other women and, in these terms, she explained her project to de Guzmán: A woman who would be an example to and a model for all women, because humanity will not be liberated as long as women are not liberated. It is worth remembering that women are the essential factor in the creation of life, even if men’s vanity leads them to believe the opposite. (2014: 107)

Psychiatric and psychological studies of Aurora note the Freudian conflict that underlines her childhood: her adoration of her father, her rejection of her mother and the repression of everything related to sexual feelings. At the same time, they highlight the desire for justice that motivated her concern for those less fortunate, starting with her own sex, although perhaps viewing it through the theoretical lens of another socialist utopia, Proudhon in La Pornocratie, according to Rafael Huertas (2008: 247). In other words, Aurora was moved by a desire to liberate women as demonstrated by the importance that she bestowed on them as creators of life and sexual subjects, which she considered negative and limiting. Yet she did not consider herself a woman; she did not consider herself like the others precisely because she felt no desire for either men or women. The megalomania of her intention to elevate motherhood to a liberating science using herself as an example accounts for this. Aurora claimed to have conceived Hildegart during a ‘carnal affront’, from which she took no pleasure, and she rejected any impulse even towards masturbation, which she considered a vice. Later, from prison, she also rejected lesbian relationships, which she condemned as deviant (Rendueles Olmedo 1989: 14–15). In fact, in her justification of the murder of her daughter, Aurora told the psychiatrists that she had a male brain and that she

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was prepared to donate it to science. Such was not the case with her daughter, she said, who had proved to have a female brain and was therefore susceptible to the weakness of the flesh and unable to carry out her redemptive mission (Rendueles Olmedo 1989: 34). She declared that Hildegart was also failure because the genetic material provided by her father contained symptoms of immorality and a lack of rigour, which Aurora was not aware of at the time (de Guzmán 2014: 83). It is necessary to focus on this conception of motherhood as a sacred mission, one that must be governed by rational principles to create an improved and improving being. Hildegart told Ellis that her code name in the Masonic lodge she belonged to was ‘the Red Madonna’ (Sinclair 2011: 176) and it was thus that the sexologist subsequently labelled her in an article.7 This, in combination with Hildegart’s ‘mission’ as laid out by her mother, encapsulates the paradox in the maternal ideology she expresses. Scholars have generally considered that, despite the ‘physiological collaborator’ that she needed to get pregnant, Aurora is symbolically another red virgin (Caamaño 2008: 6), and the conception of Hildegart is another story of immaculate conception (Rendueles 1989: 92) and parthenogenesis (Caamaño 2008: 8). Aurora believed her daughter would be the first in a lineage of mothers who, following her own example, would reproduce with selected but unknown men and by doing so would progressively improve the human race (Rendueles Olmedo 1989: 29). Hildegart’s writing contains two recurring ideas relating to this maternal genealogy that even today are tremendously radical: total support and respect for single mothers, and the description of a maternal utopia called a ‘eugenic matriarchy’, a justification of Aurora’s model, considering Hildegart as a paradigm of redemption: It first appeared in Russia and neighbouring countries, although it had important repercussions in North America. According to this type of matriarchy, women take care of/care for the eugenic child, encapsulating in her the features of the head of the family, in charge of education and instruction/upbringing. It is probably a more logical trend, although only applicable in extraordinary/unusual/special cases where the physical health of a man is preferable to his mental excellence, only present in the woman. [This] Eugenic matriarchy, with its Russian roots and as-yet only limited implementation, is the modern eugenics course we predict will be most likely to have a future among intellectual women. (Hildegart 1930: 47)

And although Aurora’s ideas are rife with the imbalances of eugenic theory, as well as the paradox of wishing to resituate traditional



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motherhood as an element of the modern woman, here we also have the key to interpreting the presence of other women in politics during this period. The way of gaining legitimacy for many Republican politicians, and later for fighters and militia in the Spanish Civil War, was to cling to motherhood and desexualise it by operating as a figure who was of all men and yet of none, as a homeland, denying sexuality obtain legitimacy in word and action. The case of the Argentine Mika Etchebéhère, who served as a captain with the Partido Obrero de Unificación Marxista (POUM) until the unification of the Republican Army, is particularly interesting in this respect because she herself was aware and explained in her autobiography Mi guerra de España (1976) the need to assume a maternal role, to be of all and of none, to be respected by the men she commanded. The value the men saw in the captain is due to the fact that, unlike other women, she did not relate to men in sexual terms and had converted the traditionally feminine act of caring into an aspect of her legitimacy to issue orders in war.8 By strictly applying the eugenic doctrine, Aurora Rodríguez conceived of women as superior and essential in both giving and conserving life. She exalted motherhood as a tool for change and progress, and devised a plan to make eugenic reproduction into the salvation of everything good and just in the world. The use of motherhood as an empowering strategy was not new in the feminism of the time, but women in various places and engaged in various struggles soon discovered that it was a double-edged sword. It placed them in the public sphere, but by virtue of their relationships, and not as autonomous or certainly as sexual subjects (Offen 2000: 60). Maternity was already the subject of much scientific thought. If by the end of the eighteenth century the scientific establishment was already targeting women’s bodies regarding private hygiene, the discouragement of the use of wet nurses, and through diagnosing every female problem as ‘hysteria’, then by the early twentieth century, Spain found itself with campaigns by the medical establishment to appropriate motherhood. Doctors believed, for the first time, that women were unable to realise alone that very experience that defined them and all their sex. In this context, Aurora’s disparaging distinction between mothers and birthers can be understood to be in tune with important initiatives – which objectively saved the lives of many women and children of the time – such as the Casa de Maternidad and La Gota de Leche de Gijón (García 2009). These were also double-edged initiatives, asserting control over the female body as a strategy for avoiding female and infant mortality. These ideas appear in Hildegart’s writing when she speaks of the ‘vitapolis’ in La rebeldía sexual de la juventud (The Sexual Rebellion

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of Youth). The Vitapolis was a city governed by rational and eugenic principles that she described as follows, borrowing ideas from her mother’s Fourierist community: a city where life is given, of nurseries where a more perfect, infinitely superior race is created, and where the years [in a person’s life] set aside for procreation are dedicated to living for the selection of faculties and temperaments, for the search for a complementary being that might lead to the birth of other, more perfect beings. (Hildegart 1931: 279)

Aurora’s idea, it is worth noting, had already raised her nephew as a prodigy, ‘a son who does not becoming a step in human progress and come to perfect, with his talent and example, the generation of which he forms a part, has no reason to be born’ (de Guzmán 2014: 91). Aurora’s whole project to improve the world can be understood as a way of viewing life as something needing constant improvement and perfection through rational principles of equality and justice that would bring happiness to perfect human beings within a ‘maternalist’ state. The Spanish woman of the future, redeemed and able to participate in the public sphere in the attainment of a fairer world, is the ‘eugenic mother’ rather than the daughter who initiates the chain, and such is the root of the complexity of the figure of Hildegart in Spanish feminism. Shirley Mangini (2001) points out that Hildegart defended ideological presuppositions about modern women without being one herself and that in many ways she could not act differently. The redeemer of women called successively to motherhood with unknown men, she was not herself a free subject; she had no meaning or purpose outside of the mission she had been created to fulfil. Aurora considered Hildegart’s murder a just and necessary act because if she were separated from her mother, she would be perverted and would become a physical and ideological prostitute in the service of ideas opposed to those who had created her. Aurora insisted that she should not be considered insane during the trial and considered her jail sentence her greatest success (de Guzmán 2014: 201), giving an explanation of the murder of her daughter that claims that the soul of Hildegart returned to her, was reintegrated and was hers (de Guzmán 2014: 192). Ana Muiña writes of Aurora as a mother, comparing her: allegorically, to those symbolic ‘mothers’ (Church, State, institutions, laws) which have since time immemorial exercised control over women – always claiming to do so for our own good – using the same



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methods Aurora used with Hildegart: monitoring, constant scrutiny, judging, disciplining, creating dependency, piecing together a person who is subservient in what she does and who she is to a self that others have designed, and as such, presents a false identity of herself. (Muiña 2014: 14)

Apart from the paradox of considering someone representing Foucauldian institution (as Guillermo Rendueles Olmedo described Aurora upon analysing her clinical history in 1989) a feminist, this quote strikes me as important for the light it sheds on Aurora’s conduct towards her daughter. Aurora conceived herself as the model figure and if she did not carry out her plan with her own life, it was because she lacked preparation; as such, she required her daughter who, practically defining the term, was the object of biopower until her death.

Final Reflections The case of Aurora Rodríguez Carballeira provides an exceptional example among the various proposals for social reform that were devised at the beginning of the twentieth century. It also provides a handful of contradictions that go beyond what can be expected of the ideology and science of the time: an educated but self-taught woman conceives of the redemption of other women whom, deep down, she despises in many of the same terms as are employed in traditional misogyny. She exalts conscious motherhood that insists in the relational identity of mother, turning them into life-givers and educators who should focus their efforts on those goals, leaving aside the sexual impulses she considered aberrant, and any other feminine concerns apart from reproduction. Above all, redemption is brought by a being deprived of all freedom, while being simultaneously prepared to participate in political and sociocultural life in Spain in a groundbreaking and affirmative way, a being who should begin the replication of eugenic mothers, but who, when she wants to separate from her own, is considered a failure and forces Aurora to reject her. Perhaps in this last point lies the great paradox of Aurora and, by extension, of Hildegart within the history of Spanish feminism. The story of their goal to redeem women from oppression is based on an unparalleled heteropatriarchal argument that defines women fundamentally as mothers. To achieve this goal, Aurora constructed a girl with some of the trappings of a modern woman, without entirely

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being one, and launched her in the public sphere. Desire and sexuality were, for example, analysed and defended in writing by Hildegart, but were not represented in her appearance; her body was presented as entirely desexualised. The tragic end of the story of Aurora’s misogyny saw her resort to violence, unable to tolerate the fact that the object of her desire and care was abandoning her. And, despite the paradox, we find ourselves facing the brief life of a young woman capable of affirming herself as an intellectual, politician and propagandist during a period in time that was central to the history of Spanish women. A young woman whose personal development included, let us not forget, the will to free herself from her own mother and to be consistent with her own writing, an aim that led to her death. It is a complex but clearly outstanding and necessary story, and Hildegart’s work itself still needs and deserves, with the exception of the fundamental work by Alison Sinclair, a careful reading that will consider it on its own terms, without reference to her murder or the paradox of her life. Alba González Sanz obtained her Ph.D. in Gender and Diversity as well as her BA in Spanish Philology from the Universidad de Oviedo, Spain. She is the author of the monograph Contra la destrucción teórica: Teorías feministas de la España de la Modernidad (KRK Ediciones, 2018), which analyses the history of emancipatory ideas in Spain in the period leading up to 1936, in dialogue with their corresponding European-wide feminist debates. Her research interests centre on the construction of female authorial citizenship in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, as well as essayistic prose on the topic of women’s emancipation. She has also worked as a parliamentary assistant on issues of equality-focused public policies in the Spanish Congreso de los Diputados.

Notes 1. The aesthetics of the happy 1920s is characterised by the flapper, who broke with the traditional idea of nineteenth-century femininity. Mary Nash (1983) has pointed out that similar changes could be seen throughout Europe. Sonia García (2009) has studied the way in which it developed in Spain, where changes in fashion tended to arrive in the provinces some time before the social changes underlying them. Ángela Ena (2001) documents the presence of these new models of femininity in the stories and novels of female writers of the time. These writers value intelligence, liveliness and an athletic build more than traditional beauty or the social values of the previous century.



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2. At the time, Aurora was found guilty and sent to prison. However, in 1936, she was transferred to the psychiatric centre in Ciempolzuelos after another evaluation of her mental health declared her insane. She died at Ciempozuelos in 1956. 3. Aurora’s life story can be read in the interview conducted over several days with the writers of La Tierra, which Eduardo de Guzmán would later publish in an extended version as Aurora de sangre. Vida y muerte de Hildegart (Dawn of Blood: The Life and Death of Hildegart), republished in 2014 by La Linterna Sorda. I use it as a guide in this biographical summary, except where otherwise noted. 4. José Rodríguez Carballeira (Pepito Arriola) was born in Betanzos in 1895 and died in Barcelona in 1954. He was launched to fame when just four years old as a virtuoso pianist, although he also distinguished himself as a composer and violinist. The Royal Family paid for his musical studies in Germany and he was relatively famous both in Berlin and in various tours of the United States, Europe and Latin America until his return to Spain in 1946. 5. These ages may coincide with ideas planted by Malthus, later described by Hildegart, whose plans for reducing excess population and guaranteeing better and healthier offspring was to delay the age of having children as much as possible, maintaining an iron chastity until then. Hildegart, in her book Malthusismo y Neomalthusismo: El control de la natalidad (1932), would consider both methods ineffective as they went against the natural sexual impulse. She opted for contraceptives as a strategy of population control. 6. This paranoia may have been rooted in the invitations that both H.G. Wells and Havelock Ellis extended to Hildegart to travel to England and broaden her studies (de Guzmán 2014: 162). 7. The use of ‘red virgin’ for political women can also be seen applied to the French anarchist Louise Michel (1830–1905), but also to the militant Catalan anarcho-syndicalist Teresa Claramunt (1862–1931). 8. There is much work yet to be done on the topic of this Argentine in the International Brigades who came to Europe to create the revolution and ended up playing a major role during the Spanish Civil War. I refer to her autobiography, republished in 2014, and to the passages that refer to the female condition and how it should be hidden to maintain authority to give orders. This in relation to menstruation, to not fraternising with men from other divisions without some from her own to back her up, and to avoid sexual relations that would make her just ‘the woman’ like any other on the symbolic plane.

References Arkinstall, C. 2014. Spanish Female Writers and the Freethinking Press 1879– 1926. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Blanco, A. 2001. Escritoras virtuosas: narradoras de la domesticidad en la España isabelina. Granada: Universidad de Granada.

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Bolufer, M. 1998. Mujeres e Ilustración. La construcción de la feminidad en la Ilustración española. Diputación de Valencia: Institució Alfons el Magnànim. Bosch Fiol, E. et al. 2008. ‘La psicología de las mujeres republicanas según el Dr. Antonio Vallejo-Nájera’, Revista de historia de la psicología 29(3–4): 35–40. Burguera, M. 2012. Las damas del liberalismo respetable. Madrid: Cátedra. Caamaño, B. 2008. ‘Hildegart Rodríguez, la Virgen Roja’, Ojáncano: revista de literatura española 34: 3–26. Cal, R. 1991. A mí no me doblega nadie: Aurora Rodríguez: su vida y su obra (Hildegart). A Coruña: Ediciós do Castro. Díaz, A. 2012. Salir del tiesto: Ensayistas españolas, feminismo y emancipación (1861-1923). Oviedo: KRK. Domingo, C. 2008. Mi querida hija Hildegart. Barcelona: Destino. Ena, A. 2001. ‘Jaque al ángel del hogar: escritoras en busca de la nueva mujer del siglo XX’, in M.J. Porro (ed.), Romper el espejo: La mujer y la transgresión de códigos en la literatura española. Córdoba: University of Córdoba, pp. 89–111. Espigado, G. 2002. ‘La mujer en la utopía de Charles Fourier’, in D. Ramos and T. Vera (eds), Discursos, realidades, utopías: la construcción del sujeto femenino en los siglos XIX–XX. Barcelona: Anthropos, pp. 321–72. Etchebéhère, M. 2014. Mi guerra de España. Oviedo: Cambalache. Federici, S. 2012. Calibán y la bruja: Mujeres, cuerpo y acumulación originaria. Madrid: Traficantes de Sueños. Fraser, N. 1990. ‘Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy’, Social Text 25–26: 56–80. García, S. 2009. Mujeres modernas, madres conscientes y sufragistas exaltadas: Ideas de feminidad y debates feministas en Asturias (1919–1931). Oviedo: KRK. Guzmán, E de. 2014. Aurora de sangre: Vida y muerte de Hildegart. Madrid: La linterna sorda. González Sanz, A. 2018. Contra la destrucción teórica: Teorías feministas en la España de la Modernidad. Oviedo: KRK. Habermas, J. 2009. Historia y crítica de la opinión pública. México: Gustavo Gili. Hildegart. 1930. El problema eugénico: Punto de vista de una mujer moderna. Madrid: Gráfica Socialista. ——. 1931. La rebeldía sexual de la juventud. Madrid: Javier Morata. ——. 1932. Malthusismo y Neomalthusismo: El control de la natalidad. Madrid: Javier Morata. Hook-Demarle, M-C. 2001. ‘Leer y escribir en Alemania’, in G. Duby and M. Perrot (eds), Historia de las mujeres 4. El siglo XIX. Madrid: Taurus, pp. 181–215. Huertas, R. 2008. ‘Las heridas de la ciencia: a propósito del caso Hildegart’, in P. Fernández and M.L. Ortega (eds), La mujer de letras o la letraherida: Discursos y representaciones sobre la mujer escritora en el siglo XIX. Madrid: CSIC, pp. 243–62.



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Kerber, L. 1988. ‘Separate Spheres, Female Worlds, Woman’s Place: The Rhetoric of Women’s History’, Journal of American History 75(1): 9–39. Labanyi, J. 2011. Género y modernidad en la novela realista española. Madrid: Cátedra. Mangini, S. 2001. Las modernas de Madrid: Las grandes intelectuales españolas de la vanguardia. Barcelona: Península. Muiña, A. 2014. ‘Hildegart, la mujer rota’, in E. de Guzmán (ed.), Aurora de sangre: Vida y muerte de Hildegart. Madrid: La linterna sorda, pp. 10–38. Nash, M. 1983. Mujer, familia y trabajo en España (1875–1983). Barcelona: Anthropos. Offen, K. 2000. European Feminisms, 1700–1950: A Political History. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Pateman, C. 1988. The Sexual Contract. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Rendueles Olmedo, G. 1989. El manuscrito encontrado en Ciempozuelos: Análisis de la historia clínica de Aurora Rodríguez. Madrid: Endymion. Sinclair, A. 2011. Sex and Society in Early Twentieth-Century Spain: Hildegart Rodríguez and the World League for Sexual Reform. Cardiff: University of Wales Press. ——. 2012. ‘La forja del prodigio: Pepito Arriola’, in K. Bacon and N. Thornton (eds), The Noughties in the Hispanic and Lusophone World. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, pp. 142–62.

Chapter 8

Miguel de Unamuno’s Notion of Public Sphere Stephen G.H. Roberts

å Miguel de Unamuno’s imagination was concrete and visual in nature. When, for example, he gave expression in his poetic collection El Cristo de Velázquez (The Christ of Velázquez, 1920) to the multiple dichotomies that he believed existed between faith and doubt, faith and reason, body and soul, humanity and divinity, and life and death, he did so by associating such abstract notions with the different parts of the body of the crucified Christ and with the chiaroscuro effects caused by the stark contrast that Velázquez establishes between the lit Christ on the Cross and the dark and foreboding background of the painting. When it came to the abstract notion of the public sphere, that space where the intellectual has his or her being and endeavours to forge his or her readership and give shape to his or her imagined community, Unamuno would also conceive this sphere in a concrete way, as an inhabitable space in which he and his readers could meet and interact. Unamuno’s notion of public sphere was in fact inseparable from his idea of nationhood and from his evolving thoughts on the role of the intellectual. As we shall now see, Unamuno needed first to reconceive and recast the very idea of the Spanish nation, and then to conceive and fashion the very idea of the modern intellectual before he could give shape to his idiosyncratic notion of a public sphere. We shall follow this process and then consider how Unamuno attempted to conflate the notion of a public sphere in his mature works with that of a republic, even if he was never quite able to transform his own intellectual concept of a republic into a fully political one. In his first major work, En torno al casticismo (On Authentic Tradition, 1895), Unamuno sets out to define his idea of nation, of Spain, and he does so temporally and spatially, that is, by giving it temporal and spatial coordinates. As is well known, En torno al casticismo opens with an attack on the casticistas, the exponents of a dogmatic and inquisitorial Spanish



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traditionalism who, as the fifth and final essay in the work will claim, are turning Restoration Spain into a political, cultural and scientific wasteland.1 The casticistas are narrow-minded patriots who fear that outside or foreign influences are undermining their collective character (Unamuno 1991a: 37–38); they wish to build walls around their homeland and to render their culture as exclusivist as possible (1991a: 40); they defend the distinctiveness and originality of that culture, even if it means taking pride in what are actually collective vices or defects (1991a: 52); and, above all, they hate and fear the present, and turn for solace to the dead past, which they mould and adapt according to their needs (1991a: 52–55). Unamuno will take a good deal of pleasure in En torno al casticismo in castigating this inward-looking and traditionalist spirit in the name of his recently acquired progressive socialist and internationalist beliefs, defending the ‘barbarism’ of foreign and international ideas against the ‘savagery of those who want us to live in the jungle where the savage is self-sufficient’ (1991a: 47) and claiming that ‘to insist on being different from everybody else, on avoiding or delaying our absorption into the general modern European spirit, is to want to destroy our inner humanity, to choose death’ (1991a: 56); the aim of all pueblos (peoples), he concludes, must be to lose themselves ‘in eternal humanity’ (1991a: 57). And yet Unamuno also reveals in En torno al casticismo that he is critical of certain aspects of this internationalist spirit too. What seems to worry him here is that the internationalists run the risk of overlooking the specific and concrete context in which human beings actually live. This worry manifests itself in different ways throughout the work. First, Unamuno goes out of his way to underline the fact that while science may speak an international and cosmopolitan language, art and literature adopt a local or a national voice in order to enunciate universal truths (1991a: 46), and he spends most of the work analysing such literature and art in order better to understand the Castilian and, through it, the Spanish character. Second, despite his socialist convictions, he emphasises that his interest in this work lies not in the notion of social or historical classes, but rather in the concrete pueblo (1991a: 165). Third, despite his frequent references to the goal of integrating all pueblos into the abstract community of humanity, he still establishes a clear distinction between two types of belonging, the ‘sentimiento de patria’ (feeling of homeland) and ‘cosmopolitismo’ (cosmopolitanism) (1991a: 63), and shows much more interest in the nature and qualities of the former. Unamuno therefore makes no effort to conceal his mistrust of what he would later call an ‘internacionalismo sin patria’ (internationalism without a homeland)

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(Unamuno 1966: IX, 268) and clearly registers his unease with the abstract tendencies of those he refers to as ‘the systematic despisers of what is castizo and their own’, those progressive internationalists who dream only of the implantation of a rootless cosmopolitan culture and whose motto seems to be ‘¡Que nos conquisten!’ (Let us be conquered!) (Unamuno 1991a: 38). In short, Unamuno makes clear from the very first pages of En torno al casticismo that he is opposed not only to the narrow-minded and exclusivist views of the casticistas, but also to the abstract internationalism of certain progressives: ‘Both those who ask that we more or less close the borders and build walls round the countryside and those who ask more or less explicitly to be conquered are out of touch with the true reality of things’ (Unamuno 1991a 38–39). What Unamuno himself is looking for is a space somewhere between the traditionalists and the progressives, between the one extreme at which there is a drive to conserve one’s culture at any cost and the other where there is an impulse towards a deliberate and even wilful renunciation of that culture (1991a: 40). He is searching for a sort of midpoint where the forces of tradition and progress can meet and interact, and where he will finally be able to locate and anchor his chosen community. And the first part of that search will be conducted in En torno al casticismo primarily in temporal terms, that is, through an exploration of the notion of the intrahistorical present. As we have already seen, the main criticism that Unamuno makes of the casticistas and traditionalists is that they live towards the past: they seek their traditions in ‘el pasado muerto’ (the dead past), that is, in ‘the past of our caste or, rather, of the caste that lived here before us on this land’ (1991a: 51–52). The progressives, meanwhile, those who, like Unamuno himself, have been attracted to the internationalist ideals of movements such as socialism, live towards the future, forever dreaming of change and far-off utopias. Both positions, as a consequence, overlook the present; neither is rooted in the present moment. In the light of this fact, Unamuno sets out to look for a present moment where past and future can meet, a temporal space where the past – tradition – flows into the present and makes it pregnant with future possibility – the possibility of progress. And he discovers that present in and through the concept of intrahistoria. Unlike the casticistas, who seek traditions in the past, Unamuno claims that true tradition – what he calls ‘la tradición eterna’ (eternal tradition) (1991a: 49) – actually lies in the depths of the present (1991a: 51). The present moment, like the sea, is actually made up of surface and depths: the great events of history, the matters discussed in the newspapers, take



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place on the surface, while the traditions and values that are laid down by the past collect in the intrahistorical depths and are given expression in and through the lives of ordinary men and women as they go about their daily tasks (1991a: 49–50). However, contrary to the belief of some commentators, such as Jon Juaristi (1998: 255), these intrahistorical traditions and values that have accumulated in the depths of the present moment are not static and unchanging or cut off from the historical surface. Rather, writing that ‘history springs from non-history, the waves are waves of the tranquil and eternal sea’ (Unamuno 1991a: 50), Unamuno is at pains to point out that there is a symbiotic relationship between the intrahistorical and historical realms: the intrahistorical traditions and values have been created and continue to be created as a result of the events that take place in the historical realm, while those historical events are informed – or, at least, should be informed – by the traditions and values that underlie and underpin them. As he puts it, ‘tradition is the substance of history’ and ‘history is the form of tradition’ (1991a: 51). To all intents and purposes, therefore, the intrahistorical depths act as the substance of the present historical moment; together, they form what Unamuno calls ‘el presente total intrahistórico’ (the total intrahistorical present) (1991a: 62), that is, a deep present where past and future, tradition and progress come together. It is here, in this deep present, that Unamuno will ultimately be able to root and anchor himself as an intellectual; as we shall see later, he will come to perceive it as the place from which he can reach out to, act on and fuse with the body of the nation. It is here too that he can start to construct his chosen community. This community will be located first of all at the point where tradition and progress meet and fuse. The intrahistorical life of the silent masses, he tells us, represents both true, eternal tradition and the very substance of progress itself (1991a: 50); for that reason, as he would say in a talk that he gave in the Ateneo de Valencia on 24 April 1902 and was published the following day in El Mercantil Valenciano, ‘the homeland has to be made, by bedding progress down on tradition; but on deep tradition, on the tradition that lies beneath history, not on the historical legend that has been forged by so-called traditionalism’ (Unamuno 1966: IX, 75). But Unamuno’s chosen community will also be located in more spatial terms too, that is, at the point where localism and internationalism, the bearers of tradition and progress respectively, meet. The pueblo that Unamuno discovers in En torno al casticismo in the intrahistorical depths of the present moment is actually, as the rest of the work reveals, the Castilian one, even if Unamuno often seems to use it

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as a synecdoche for the entire Spanish pueblo. And Unamuno dreams of this essentially Castilian pueblo freeing itself from the nostalgic and exclusivist traditionalism of the Spanish casticistas, and becoming a truly localist community sustained not by dead traditions and values from the past, but rather by its own vital and living traditions and values. At the same time, however, he also reminds us that those traditions and values that should guide and inform it are in fact the local expression of universal traditions and values. Unamuno emphasises that the intrahistorical pueblo is built on the rock of what he calls ‘the eternal tradition which is universal, cosmopolitan tradition’ (Unamuno 1991a: 56), explaining that ‘in intrahistoria, alongside the diffuse and despised mass, there lives the principle of deep international continuity and cosmopolitanism, the universal human protoplasm’ (1991a: 167). All pueblos share a common humanity, he explains, and run a great risk if they overlook the fact that differentiation should be no more than the prelude to integration: ‘It is madness to want to shed the depths that are common to all of us, the identical mass on which are moulded the differential forms of what unites us and makes us resemble each other, that which makes us fellow human beings, the mother of love, humanity!’ (1991a: 52). Therefore, the goal of each pueblo, in this case the Castilian pueblo, is not to cultivate its individual and local differences in order to lay claim to some sort of spurious separateness and originality, as the casticistas in Spain have done (1991a: 167), but rather to look beyond ‘lo accidental, lo pasajero, lo temporal, lo castizo’ (what is accidental, transient, temporary, castizo [supposedly pure and authentic]) to those elements of its local character that are genuinely universal and human (1991a: 56). Thus, it can be seen that Unamuno recognises two contradictory impulses at work in his notion of community. On the one hand, there is the impulse towards the local, which he explores in En torno al casticismo in relation not to his native Basque Country, but to his newly adopted region, the one that he claims has done more than any other to create modern Spain – namely, Castile. On the other hand, there is the impulse to transcend the local in order to arrive at the international, the cosmopolitan, the universal, the human. Unamuno feels that the living community that he seeks can only be created by tying these contradictory impulses together in such a way that the resultant tension serves to deepen and purify the local, transmuting it into a worthy expression of the universal: ‘In order to discover humanity within us and reach the new pueblo, it is important that we analyse ourselves, because what is accidental, transient, temporary, castizo, through the very act of sublimation and exaltation, ends up destroying



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and therefore purifying itself’ (1991a: 56). And he leaves us in no doubt that the midpoint that can serve to hold these impulses together is in fact the Spanish patria (1991a: 64). By this, he does not mean the current Spanish nation, an entity that he associates with the centralist (that is, anti-local) and xenophobic (that is, anti-international) prejudices of the casticistas, but rather a new community based on and built out of the intrahistorical pueblo, which he here refers to as the ‘pueblo nuevo’ (new pueblo) (1991a: 56 and 145). Castile first created the Spanish nation; now all the regions of Spain must help towards ‘making Spain fully Spanish’ (1991a: 66), towards the creation of a new Spanish community, and they can do this by striking the correct balance between their localist and their universalist tendencies: But if Castile has made the Spanish nation, the Spanish nation has become ever more Spanish by increasingly fusing together the rich variety of its inner contents, absorbing the Castilian spirit into one that is larger and more complex than it, that is, the Spanish spirit. This is the deeper significance of the increasingly lively urge towards regionalism, an urge that Castile feels too; this urge is the symptom of the process by which Spain is becoming ever more Spanish, the prodrome of the deep labour of unification. And all unification comes about through a process of inner differentiation and a process of submission of the whole to a unity that is superior to it. (Unamuno 1991a: 66)

In short, Unamuno makes clear that his chosen community, his new Spanish patria, is a dynamic entity that will be created out of the tensions that exist between the centripetal and differentiating force of localism and the centrifugal and integrating force of internationalism: ‘It is important to show that regionalism and cosmopolitanism are two facets of the same idea and the supports of true patriotism, that all bodies support themselves through the interplay of external pressure and internal tension’ (1991a: 66). From the fusion of these antagonistic tendencies comes a new sense of belonging, a new form of patriotism, since, as he puts it, ‘the growth in love for one’s local world is fertile and healthy only when it goes hand in hand with the growth in love for the universal human homeland; from the fusion of these two types of love, the first of which is principally emotional and the second principally intellectual, springs true patriotic love’ (1991a: 143–44). Therefore, we can see that Unamuno in En torno al casticismo fashions a space, a national space, that is located at the meeting point of past and future, of tradition and progress, and of localism and internationalism. This is not for Unamuno an abstract space, but rather a

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concrete and dynamic force field, a locus of tension and conflict where opposites meet and clash, and release boundless mental and emotional energy that the writer associates with the very notion of patriotism itself. It is also quite clearly the realm of the Unamunian intellectual, whose job it is to transform the myriad national tensions and conflicts into verbal debates through which the nation can continue to negotiate both continuity and change. As such, it should come as little surprise that Unamuno should conceive this national space principally as a linguistic space, that is, as a space that is made, literally, out of language. It is language, and more specifically the Castilian language, that defines its reach and that binds individuals together and turns them into a community. It is in fact language, as he makes clear in the essay ‘El pueblo que habla español’ (‘The Spanish-speaking Pueblo’), published in El Sol (Buenos Aires) on 16 November 1899, that acts as the blood of this community (Unamuno 1966: IV, 572); language, as he adds in ‘Lengua y patria’ (‘Language and Patria’, Mercurio (New Orleans), September 1911), that therefore represents the very ‘núcleo y raíz del patriotismo’ (nucleus and root of patriotism) (Unamuno 1966: IV, 598). Ever since the early 1880s, Unamuno had in fact developed a whole philosophy of language that would ultimately underpin his notion of nationhood and his linguistic brand of nationalism. José Antonio Ereño Altuna, in the Introduction to his edition of Unamuno’s doctoral thesis (which dealt with the origins of the Basque race and language), has shown how the young Unamuno was influenced by the linguistic and philological ideas of Herder and Humboldt, for whom a language not only expresses but also forms the character and worldview of the people who speak it (Unamuno 1997: 39–40). Unamuno himself claims time and again, for example in ‘Pequeñeces lingüísticas’ (‘Linguistic Trivialities’), published in La Nación (Buenos Aires) on 15 June 1910, that language inhabits the deepest part of our being and acts as what he calls ‘la sangre del espíritu’ (the blood of the spirit) of both the individual and the community to which he or she belongs (Unamuno 1966: IV, 380). Each of us thinks, feels and has his or her being in our own particular native language, a fact that creates an immensely powerful bond with our fellow-speakers, since that language gives us not just ‘a special way of conceiving reality but even a way of feeling it’ (1966: IV, 380). As he claims in ‘Comunidad de la lengua hispánica’ (‘Community of the Spanish Language’), a radio talk broadcast throughout Spanish America in 1935, a language carries with it a whole worldview that has been built up over the centuries, ‘a way of seeing and hearing the universe-world, a conception of life and of human



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destiny, an art, a philosophy and even a religion’ (Unamuno 1966: IV, 652–53), and therefore acts, as he adds in ‘Dostoyeusqui, sobre la lengua’ (‘Dostoyevsky on Language’, Ahora (Madrid), 16 June 1933), as the living expression of the values and traditions of one’s community (Unamuno 1966: IV, 1404). To live in one’s language is therefore to live in tradition itself, in the living and dynamic tradition of one’s pueblo; it is to bind oneself to one’s ancestors, those in the past who have helped to create the language as it now is, and to one’s descendants, those who will continue the task of developing the language, that is, of constantly transforming tradition into progress. Such notions, expressed in essays as far apart in time as ‘The English-Speaking Folk’, published in La Vida Literaria (Madrid) on 11 March 1899 (Unamuno 1966: IV, 507–9) and ‘La raza es la lengua’ (‘Race is Language’), which appeared in El Norte de Castilla (Valladolid) on 14 December 1932 (Unamuno 1984: 120–23), reveal how Unamuno builds on the ideas first put forward in En torno al casticismo in order to present language as the bearer of the intrahistorical values of his pueblo and as the substance that binds the past to the future, tradition to progress, the dead to the living and both to those who are as yet unborn (see Unamuno 1991a: 64). In short, Unamuno identifies the potential constituents of his chosen Spanish community and patria as ‘those who think and therefore feel and act in Spanish’ (‘La fiesta de la raza’ (‘Festival of the Race’), published in El Liberal (Madrid) on 12 October 1923; Unamuno 1966: IV, 646). The Spanish language is their badge of identity and the unifying space where they can express themselves and have their being. It is also the battleground where all the members of Unamuno’s community can live according to the underlying, intrahistorical values of their ­community – values that, in works such as Vida de Don Quijote y Sancho (The Life of Don Quixote and Sancho, 1905) and Del sentimiento trágico de la vida (On the Tragic Sense of Life, 1912), Unamuno gathered together and presented in terms of an essentially quixotic philosophy that involves individuals affirming themselves and attempting to impose themselves on each other in order to live on within and through them. By living in such a way, they can help to give new form to the traditions that are expressed in the Spanish language or even, as he says in ‘Más sobre la crisis del patriotismo’ (‘More on the Crisis of Patriotism’), create new national traditions on the basis of the old ones (Nuestro Tiempo (Madrid), 10 March 1906; Unamuno 1966: III, 874–75). So, as he puts it in the article ‘El frío de la Villa-Corte’ (‘The Cold of the Capital City’, Nuevo Mundo (Madrid), 2 February 1917), ‘la lengua es una patria’ (language is a homeland) (Unamuno 1966: IV, 1017);

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it is through the Spanish language that Unamuno can finally mark the limits of his territory, that he can beat the bounds of the space that his imagined and desired community inhabits. But this linguistic understanding of community and nation also brought with it a certain responsibility that would serve to turn Unamuno – and the Unamunian intellectual – into what can only be called a linguistic policeman. From his earliest major texts onwards, Unamuno was very conscious of certain trends or forces that, in his eyes, were conspiring to undermine the reach and integrity of his linguistic community. Within Spain herself, as the articles entitled ‘La crisis actual del patriotismo español’ (‘The Present-day Crisis of Patriotism’) of December 1905 and ‘Más sobre la crisis del patriotismo’ (‘More on the Crisis of Patriotism’) of March 1906 attest, he is particularly critical of the regional nationalists, above all the bizkaitarras and the catalanistas, whom he describes as being conservative, reactionary, ‘ecclesiastical’ and, above all, self-obsessed and blindly anti-Castilian (Unamuno 1966: I, 1289–91 and 1294–96). Unamuno in fact rejects any regional spirit, and not just the Castilian one that is so often confused with the spirit of the Spanish nation herself, when it starts to show signs of being inward-looking or ‘defensive’ (1966: I, 1290–91). Each region must rather be ‘offensive’ and expansive and must try to impose its conception of life and also of what the patria común (shared patria) should be on the others (Unamuno 1966: I, 1290–91 and III, 865–66). As he puts it in the essay ‘Su Majestad la lengua española’ (‘Her Majesty the Spanish Language): Here, in Spain, each region must strive to expand its own spirit, to give it to the other regions, to give them whichever ideal of civil and public life it may have; to stamp its own seal on the other regions. The patriotic duty, and, even more importantly than patriotic, the human duty of Castile is to attempt to Castilianise Spain and even the world; of Galicia, to Galicianise it; of Andalusia, to Andalusianise it; of the Basque Country, to make it Basque; and of Catalonia to Catalanise it. (Unamuno 1966: IV, 375)

Now, in the case of the Basque Country and Catalonia above all, Unamuno was particularly concerned that the use of regional languages would prevent the inhabitants from taking part in this patriotic struggle to renew the nation, a struggle that, he believed, could only take place in Castilian. He therefore exhorted all the regions of Spain to use Castilian, but, at the same time, to pour their own spirit into the language so that they could each try to impose their own worldview onto it and thereby participate in the task of creating a new ‘conciencia colectiva nacional’ (collective national consciousness) (Unamuno



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1966: I, 1291). He made this controversial point particularly forcefully in the talk with which he opened the Juegos Florales in Bilbao on 26 August 1901, where he told his fellow Basques to desist from using euskera (the Basque language) and to express their personality in Castilian instead so that their assertion of difference might be no more than a first step towards a higher integration: ‘And that is how one helps to create a Spain that is new, great, strong, cultured and able to become part of the great human Republic’ (Unamuno 1966: IV, 240–42). But what the Basques would be contributing to above all by pouring their spirit into Castilian would be to the creation of the language itself, that is, the creation of the very substance out of which Unamuno’s imagined community and patria are made. This is why Unamuno does not only encourage the Basques to participate in this task, but goes on in essays such as those on the crisis of Spanish patriotism to invite all the pueblos or regions of Spain to do so too (Unamuno 1966: I, 1297 and III, 870–73). If all the pueblos and regions of Spain do this, then they will meet on the linguistic battlefield that is their patria and, together, will help to forge a new and dynamic form of Castilian, which Unamuno refers to in the first instance simply as ‘Spanish’ (Unamuno 1966: IV, 242–43). And, by bringing together and fusing their own versions of the language, they will also fuse their individual spirits and traditions, and thereby create the common Spanish tradition that, as he says at the end of ‘Más sobre la crisis del patriotismo’, will represent ‘the ideal of Spain’ (Unamuno 1966: III, 875). And Unamuno in fact goes one final step further in his conception of this linguistic patria. On frequent occasions, for example in ‘Su Majestad la lengua española’, he is keen to point out that Castilian Spanish is the national language not only of Spain herself but also of ‘twenty-odd nations spread throughout the whole world’ (Unamuno 1966: IV, 376). Each of these nations and each of the regions and pueblos of Spain must therefore pour its own national or regional spirit into the Castilian language so that, together, they can transform it into what he refers to in his 1901 Bilbao talk as ‘super-Castilian, the Spanish or Hispanic language, which is single and various, flexible and rich, as extensive as its dominions’ (Unamuno 1966: IV, 242). Unamuno thus expands his linguistic patria to include all the Spanish-speaking nations, all those men and women throughout the world who express themselves and their spirits through the medium of the Spanish language, since, as he puts it in ‘El pueblo que habla español’, the Spanish historical race is ‘the one whose blood is its language’ (Unamuno 1966: IV, 572). This will be Unamuno’s longer-term response to Spain’s loss of her overseas colonies in the early nineteenth century and then in

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1898: he will propose a cultural and spiritual unity that expresses itself and has its being in a common language, which, he says in ‘Lengua y patria’ of August 1911, ‘represents today the main heritage of all the Hispanic peoples, our wealth, the flag that must fly over our merchandise’ (Unamuno 1966: IV, 598).2 Therefore, Unamuno’s role as an intellectual is to make the Spanish language into a spiritual home where individuals can live according to his quixotic philosophy of mutual imposition and where the pueblos, regions and nations that make up the Hispanic world can try to impose their worldview on each other and, in the process, participate in the creation of a new language and a new spirit, which he calls in a talk delivered in Valladolid on 8 May 1915 the ‘alma común española’ (common Spanish soul) (Unamuno 1966: IX, 318). Drawing on his nineteenth-century liberal roots, he feels that his duty is to make of the Spanish language a true vehicle for the free commerce of ideas and personalities (Unamuno 1966: IV, 597–99) and thereby to ensure that both individuals and collectives are able to enter into a free, unimpeded and essentially quixotic ‘lucha por la personalidad’ (struggle for personality) (Unamuno 1966: IX, 318). In short, Unamuno places himself at the very heart of an imagined and quixotic community that he himself has constructed out of the Spanish language. As an intellectual, a man for whom language is the very membrane that links him to his readers, to his fellow men and women, it seems entirely appropriate that his patria should be a linguistic one, a universe made out of words, Spanish words. And there is no doubt that this new national space that he has defined, this linguistic patria, also represents and constitutes Unamuno’s notion of a public sphere. The intellectual gives expression to himself or herself, to his or her worldview, in and through language; it is words that allow him or her to become a part of the national consciousness, to reach out to others, to enter their minds and to form a lasting community with them. Unamuno’s notion of public sphere is thus, to all intents and purposes, his own space as a writer and his own relationship with his readers writ large on the body of the nation and, beyond, on the wider Hispanic world. He conceives of it in a fundamentally literary way, that is, as a community of writers and readers who express themselves in and through their work, and live on in each other’s and the collective memory. But even though he once admitted that his generation had committed the mistake of confusing its pueblo with its público (see ‘La hermandad futura’ (‘The Fraternity of the Future’) of July 1918; Unamuno 1966: VIII, 409), Unamuno’s notion of public sphere was never restricted to the idea of



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a Republic of Letters or a simple community made up of writers and their readership. Rather, as we have repeatedly seen, the space where the Unamunian intellectual expresses himself or herself and has his or her being is the same space that is inhabited by the nation as a whole, that linguistic space where everyone has – or should have – a voice. It is there, in that public sphere made of language, that Unamuno will play his fundamentally educational role, awakening individuals and regions alike to the need to learn about themselves and each other, to enter into debate and to give expression to the multiple viewpoints that, together, make up the worldview and outlook of the larger community. Unamuno’s main vehicle when carrying out this role would be the new press of the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century, the newspapers and journals that were crying out for a new type of writer who could offer a personal but informed interpretation of the multiple crises afflicting the modern world. In his search to fill this role, Unamuno would invent, in the first decade of the twentieth century, a new form of essay that was fundamentally confessional and educative in nature and then, from the First World War onwards, a new form of journalistic article that combined reportage and commentary, and aimed not simply to inform, but also, more importantly, to educate its readers.3 With these articles, which he published at a rate of one every two or three days between 1914 and 1923, Unamuno would become a ubiquitous presence on the national scene, his voice being heard and his opinions debated throughout both Spain and Latin America. And it would be in these journalistic articles that he would also begin to associate the notion of a public sphere with that of a republic. Unamuno had always believed that his educational role had a political dimension to it, but from about 1914, he became more explicit about the nature and contents of this role, explaining that it involved him putting ideas into circulation, spreading culture and helping thereby in the creation of a true public consciousness that would be the essential first condition for the introduction of democracy (see, for example, Unamuno 1966: IX, 314). Then, with the increasing corruption and authoritarianism of the Restoration political system during and after the First World War, Unamuno started to politicise even further both his role as an intellectual and his notion of the public sphere. Although he would cling to the idea that intellectuals should stand free of political parties and even ideological dogma, he increasingly felt that they should strive to turn the political system into a tool that could help to bring about the true education of the Spanish people, and it is in this context – as we see, for example, in the article entitled ‘La sabiduría de

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la corona’ (‘The Wisdom of the Crown’, El Mercantil Valenciano, 5 April 1922) – that he starts to adopt and appropriate the term ‘republic’: And those of us who in one way or another find ourselves leading the pueblo, the masses, have to guide it towards a place where there will be maximum publicity, maximum freedom and maximum responsibility too. We have to guide it towards a place where there is no secrecy, where there are no secrets, because secrecy is the essence of despotism. We have to guide it towards a regime of publicity, that is, towards a republican regime. (Unamuno 1996a: II, 322)

Here, in these words, we have Unamuno’s most politicised definition of the public sphere he wishes to inhabit as an intellectual. He calls it a republican regime, but goes on to define this term in a very specific way, that is, as a regime of publicity and truth, a democratic regime that truly represents the public opinion of the country (see, for example, Unamuno 1996a: I, 94 and II, 68). In reality, Unamuno hesitated over the question of whether Spain needed a monarchy or a republic and even suggested that the nation’s problems might lie not so much in the institution of the monarchy as in the monarch, Alfonso XIII, himself (Unamuno 1996a: I, 13). The examples of Belgium, Italy and Great Britain proved, after all, that a monarchy could in fact be patriotic, popular and democratic, and Unamuno was happy to suggest that if Spain had ‘a broad, progressive and modernising monarchy’, then he would support it to the hilt (Unamuno 1996a: I, 91 and 55). It was for this reason that he wrote in ‘La sombra les es necesaria’ (‘They Need the Shadow’, El Mercantil Valenciano, 30 July 1920), in what can be seen as a passionate defence of his own prerogative as an intellectual, that ‘every regime of complete publicity, whoever reigns or governs, is democratic, is republican’ (Unamuno 1996a: I, 322). These words sum up the position that Unamuno would hold for the rest of his life, but especially during the dictatorship of General Miguel Primo de Rivera (1923–30), when he would play a leading role in defence of a public sphere that had been fatally undermined by the regime’s elimination of political freedoms and introduction of censorship.4 It was then that he would start to celebrate the revolution that he had seen taking place in the final months before Primo de Rivera’s coup, when, he claimed, ‘a public opinion had been created that was imposing itself on Parliament, and Parliament, in turn, was imposing itself on the Executive’ (Unamuno 1996b: 45). With claims such as these, Unamuno seems not only to be canvassing support for his opposition to the dictatorship, but also defining his ideal political regime, and although he does not mention it here, it is more than



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clear what his duty as an intellectual consists of within such a regime: it is to wake the citizens of Spain up to their civic duties and to get them to participate in the res publica; it is to inhabit the mediatic edges of politics and, from there, encourage and channel debate, form and inform public opinion, and create the conditions in which that public opinion can play a decisive role in the very processes of political decision-making. This, finally, is Unamuno’s mature conception of the public sphere, a conception that remains fundamentally intellectual in nature, but recognises that the education of a nation is also, necessarily, a political affair. Unamuno and his fellow citizens should ideally be the inhabitants of a truly republican regime in which the chief virtues are openness and publicity: the openness and publicity that an intellectual needs to express his or her views and that each and every citizen needs in order to be able freely to express theirs. Despite returning from exile in 1930 as the herald of a future republican regime, it is well known that Unamuno would be disappointed with the actual Republic that was set up in 1931.5 He soon came to believe that, with laws such as the Ley de Defensa de la República, which, in his view, outlawed radical criticism of the regime and served to place limits on the freedom of speech, the Second Republic was doomed to become a ‘parliamentary dictatorship’ (see Pascual Mezquita 2003: 288 and 294). Even more significantly, he bemoaned the fact that the new regime was constructed and run on the basis of party politics, since this meant that criticism and dissent had increasingly to be expressed and channelled through the political parties themselves, and that there was less room for the voice of the individual protester and nonconformist, especially if that protester was seen to be a wild boar, as Unamuno was once called in the Cortes, that is, a solitary and autonomous figure functioning on the very margins of political power (see Pascual Mezquita 2003: 218). As such, it should come as little surprise that Unamuno occasionally gave the impression of being out of place in the Republic or that he should sound a nostalgic note when talking about the Restoration system, claiming in a talk that he gave in London in February 1936, for example, that the period between 1875 and 1923 was one in which liberals like himself were able to ‘awaken consciences because we always maintained our independence and freedom, free from so-called party – party! – or government interests’ (Pascual Mezquita 2003: 366). Nor should it surprise us that Unamuno constantly attacked the political parties and party politics between 1931 and 1936. The parties, he tirelessly claimed, were not really political – that is, doctrinal or programmatic – organisations, but merely ‘clienteles for the

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winning of – perhaps the assault on – power and the sharing out and administration of power’ (Pascual Mezquita 2003: 265). Worse still, they were closed and bureaucratic organisations that demanded total obedience from their members and were focused solely on winning votes and power, hardly the best organisations, he felt, to be creating a Constitution or running the country (Pascual Mezquita 2003: 215 and 266). Unamuno, of course, made much of the fact that he did not himself represent a particular party, claiming instead that he was a representative of the people (see Pascual Mezquita 2003: 191) and even telling the Cortes on 25 September 1931 that ‘it is Spain that has brought me here; I see myself as a representative of Spain; not the representative of a party, not a Castilian representative, not a republican representative, but a Spanish representative’ (Unamuno 1966: IX, 394). With criticisms such as these, Unamuno was expressing his discomfort with the new notion of public sphere that had come to the fore in the 1930s: a public sphere that was defined and controlled by democratic and party politics and by a press that seemed to be more interested in the interview and the soundbite than in the carefully argued article or essay, and in opinion polls rather than the true ‘conciencia pública civil’ (civil public consciousness) of the nation (see, for example, Unamuno 1979: 179-82). He would forever hold to his older notion of the public sphere, the one that he had developed within and against the Restoration system and that drew on an intellectual’s, rather than a politician’s, understanding of public activity. As he put it, an intellectual like himself, ‘seeking for readers to whom to tell the truth, must, in all conscience, serve the intimate discipline of moral integrity, which lies above all the political parties and their wretched interests’ (Unamuno 1966: VII, 1129). In short, the public sphere offered by the new regime was not one that Unamuno either recognised or welcomed, and the voice of this once supremely influential intellectual would gradually become fainter and ultimately become lost amidst the polarisation and violence that started to engulf the Second Spanish Republic. All of this, together with his belief that the Republic had gradually come under the sway of more radical elements, goes some way towards explaining why Unamuno initially gave his support to the military insurgents in July 1936. In an interview with the Salamanca newspaper El Adelanto published on 18 August 1936, he virulently attacked the Republican government, which, he claimed, had become infected with the ‘illness’ and violence of anarchism, and went on to affirm in a characteristically defiant way – a way that chimes perfectly



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with his understanding of his role as a public intellectual – that ‘I haven’t changed. It’s the regime in Madrid that’s changed. When all this comes to an end, I’m sure that I shall, as always, oppose the victors’ (Pascual Mezquita 2003: 394). Just three months later, in the private diary that he bitterly entitled El resentimiento trágico de la vida (On the Tragic Resentment of Life), he started once again to formulate the same idea, but immediately interrupted himself to add, in reference to the Nationalists, that: ‘Tomorrow we shall have to fear the heroes with nothing to do. They freed us from the savagery of Moscow but must not be allowed to implant Spanish Catholic-traditionalist stupidity’ (Unamuno 1991b: 47). In the very last days of his life, Unamuno had come to realise that the Civil War was not in fact going to safeguard or restore his role as an intellectual or his idiosyncratic understanding of the public sphere, but had in fact, as he so movingly suggested, left his life project in ruins (1991b: 31–32). Stephen G.H. Roberts is Associate Professor and Reader in Modern Spanish Literature and Intellectual History at the University of Nottingham, United Kingdom. He has published numerous articles and book chapters on the literature, politics and philosophy of Miguel de Unamuno, and is the editor of the book entitled Miguel de Unamuno: Political Speeches and Journalism (1923–1929) (University of Exeter Press, 1996) and author of the monograph Miguel de Unamuno o la creación del intelectual español moderno (Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca, 2007). He has also published on the intellectual relationship between Spain and Latin America, on late nineteenth and early twentieth-century poetry and prose fiction, and on Spanish cinema, with articles and book chapters on Galdós, Rodó, Ortega y Gasset, Juan Ramón Jiménez, Federico García Lorca, Pablo Neruda, Juan Antonio Bardem and Víctor Erice. He is currently finishing a literary biography of Federico García Lorca and a monograph on Unamuno’s period in exile (1924–30).

Notes This chapter draws on several sections of my book Miguel de Unamuno o la creación del intelectual español moderno (Roberts 2007). 1. For useful overviews or analyses of En torno al casticismo, see Butt (1972); Ramsden (1974); Shaw (1975); Berchem and Laitenberger (1997); Juaristi (1997); Rabaté (2016). 2. On this point, see Roberts (2004).

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3. On Unamuno’s invention of the modern essay and the modern press article, see Roberts (2007: 85–91 and 170–76). 4. On Unamuno’s opposition to Primo de Rivera’s dictatorship, see Ouimette (1983); Urrutia (1997: 235–60); Ouimette (1998: 180–213); and Roberts (2016). 5. On Unamuno’s relationship with the Second Republic, see Bécarud (1965); Bécarud and López Campillo (1978); Urrutia (1997: 261–313); Ouimette (1998: 213–74); and Pascual Mezquita (2003: 13–90).

References Bécarud, J. 1965. Miguel de Unamuno y la Segunda República. Madrid: Taurus. Bécarud, J., and E. López Campillo. 1978. Los intelectuales españoles durante la II República. Madrid: Siglo XXI de España Editores. Berchem, T., and H. Laitenberger (eds). 1997. El joven Unamuno en su época. Actas del coloquio internacional Würzburg 1995. Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, Consejería de Educación y Cultura. Butt, J.W. 1972. ‘Unamuno’s Idea of “Intrahistoria”: Its Origins and Significance’, in N. Glendinning (ed.), Studies in Modern Spanish Literature and Art Presented to Helen F. Grant. London: Tamesis Books, pp. 13–24. Juaristi, J. 1997. ‘Unamuno: guerra e intrahistoria (1874–1905)’, in J.C. Mainer and J. Gracia (eds), En el 98: Los nuevos escritores. Madrid: Visor Libros. Fundación Duques de Soria, pp. 35–66. ——. 1998. El linaje de Aitor: La invención de la tradición vasca. Madrid: Taurus. Ouimette, V. 1983. ‘El destierro de Unamuno y el ataque a la inteligencia’, Cuadernos de la Cátedra Miguel de Unamuno 27–28: 25–41. ——. 1998. Los intelectuales españoles y el naufragio del liberalismo (1923– 1936), vol. I. Valencia: Pre-Textos. Pascual Mezquita, E. 2003. La política del último Unamuno. Salamanca: Globalia Ediciones Anthema. Rabaté, J-C. 2016. ‘Unamuno before 1902: Writing Nation, History, Politics’, in J. Biggane and J. Macklin (eds), A Companion to Miguel de Unamuno. Woodbridge: Tamesis Books, pp. 7–28. Ramsden, H. 1974. The 1898 Movement in Spain. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Roberts, S.G.H. 2004. ‘“Hispanidad”: El desarrollo de una polémica noción en la obra de Unamuno’, Cuadernos de la Cátedra Miguel de Unamuno 39: 61–80. ——. 2007. Miguel de Unamuno o la creación del intelectual español moderno. Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca. ——. 2016. ‘Exile 1924-1930: Essays, Narrative and Drama’, in J. Biggane and J. Macklin (eds), A Companion to Miguel de Unamuno. Woodbridge: Tamesis Books, pp. 53–74. Shaw, D.L. 1975. The Generation of 1898 in Spain. London: Ernest Benn. Unamuno, M. de. 1966. Obras completas, M. García Blanco (ed.), 9 vols. Madrid: Escelicer.



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——. 1979. República española y España republicana, V. González Martín (ed.). Salamanca: Ediciones Almar. ——. 1984. Ensueño de una patria. Periodismo republicano 1931–1936, V. Ouimette (ed.). Valencia: Pre-Textos. ——. 1991a. En torno al casticismo, L. González Egido (ed.). Madrid: Espasa Calpe, Colección Austral. ——. 1991b. El resentimiento trágico de la vida, C. Feal (ed.). Madrid: Alianza Editorial. ——. 1996a. Miguel de Unamuno’s Political Writings 1918–1924. Volume I: La anarquía reinante (1918–1920); Volume II: El absolutismo en acecho (1921–1922); Volume III: Roto el cuadro (1923–1924), G.D. Robertson (ed.). Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. ——. 1996b. Political Speeches and Journalism (1923–1929), S.G.H. Roberts (ed.). Exeter: University of Exeter Press. ——. 1997. Crítica del problema sobre el origen y prehistoria de la raza vasca, J.A. Ereño Altuna (ed.). Bilbao: Ediciones Beitia. Urrutia, M.M. 1997. Evolución del pensamiento político de Unamuno. Bilbao: Universidad de Deusto.

Chapter 9

Spanish Modern Times A Cinematographic National Sphere in the First Third of the Twentieth Century Marta García Carrión

å Starting in May 1896, ‘animated images’ or ‘moving images’ began to be screened in several cities across Spanish territory. At the very beginning, they were shown in some of the main provincial capitals, in populated towns (usually with a large working-class population, such as Avilés, Manresa or Alcoi) and in holiday destinations, all well connected via railways (Martínez Herranz 2001). Throughout 1897 and 1898, the cinematograph was exhibited in smaller cities and places outside the main commercial and ferial routes, while its arrival in rural areas took place some years later. At the time, few could think that the new invention would soon become one of the most powerful mass cultural industries of the twentieth century, but it was undoubtedly a sign of modern times. Moving images synthesised modernity: technical development, speed and new urban leisure for a world in dramatic change. As a matter of fact, although modern film spectacle tended to shift culture and leisure habits for a growing mass of Spaniards and eventually displaced other forms of entertainment, this process should not be interpreted as a break with the past. The first developments in relation to cinema were integrated into and in interaction with established cultural patterns, and early film participated fully in the reinvention of ‘traditions’ and the modern fascination with them. According to Charles Musser (2006: 176), early cinema was not just the shock of the new, but the reworking of the familiar, not only a reworking of old subjects in a new language, but also of established methods of seeing and reception. For years, film screenings in Spain shared spaces with other spectacles, from visual shows and magic tricks to variety performances, theatre plays or zarzuela,1 a mixture of shows that lasted in picture theatres until the 1920s. Besides this, popular culture was also a basic source for film narrative. The best



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examples are the screen adaptations of zarzuelas: up to thirty-five films since the end of the nineteenth century until 1919 (Cánovas 2011). There were also bullfighting films, an essential part of the film repertoires of pioneers in Spanish film production (Bello 2010). In this way, film spectacle was born into a settled cultural sphere that cinema itself transformed. Yet what was cinema’s place in the conformation and development of a public sphere in Spain? It is challenging to try to apply Jürgen Habermas’ concept of the public sphere to the field of cinema. First of all, Habermas’ theory was not conceived for the cinema age, but for the beginning of the contemporary era. The rise of mass culture and entertainment industries was part of the wide transformations in every field of European societies between the last decades of nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth century that forged the mass society. The roles of the states and individuals regarding politics and culture were not the same as those in the eighteenth century or the beginning of the nineteenth century, nor were their relationships. Besides this, Habermas elitist consideration of culture and his critical regards towards mass culture largely left mass culture outside this space of ‘free inquiry and discussion’ that he identified as the public sphere. In his strict definition, the Habermasian concept of the public sphere cannot be applied to cinema. However, the analysis of cinema could be interesting precisely in order to question it and offer a broader and more complex view of the public sphere. With the aim of providing an ample perspective on these questions, the following pages will address different issues, from the role played by the state, the film industry and cinematographic culture, the relationship between cinema and intellectual and political circles, to Spanish film imaginaries or cinema-going practices.

Cinema as a Cultural and Social Challenge It seems likely that the audience in the first cinematographic screenings belonged to well-off urban classes, since the spaces where they were exhibited (theatres and cafés with a certain prestige) guaranteed that this was too expensive a form of entertainment for most of the population. However, very soon film screenings began to appear in all kind of spaces dedicated to entertainment, from theatres and cafés to travelling film shows at fairs and local festivals, and salones where moving images alternated with any other kind of spectacle. These were the years of the ‘cinema of attractions’, according to the terminology

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coined by Tom Gunning (1986), an exhibitionist cinema that favoured spectacle over narration, which encouraged visual curiosity from the new technological possibilities and openly requested the complicity of the spectator. Hence, the cinematograph became a cheap and popular entertainment. Thereby, in its origins, cinema’s place was rooted in the same field of fairground rides and ludic shows, far from the realm of aesthetics, culture or art, in a moment when institutional arts and popular entertainments were conceived of as two autonomous and incompatible areas. Miriam Hansen (1993) has stated that early cinema and its exhibition practices would provide the conditions for an alternative public sphere linked to peripheral social groups, particularly women, the new urban working classes and immigrants. Hansen’s considerations link in certain respects with those Habermas critics who emphasise that his conceptualisation of the public sphere is a gendered and class-­limited notion; cinema and mass culture may well be seen as an another sphere between the individual and the state. It is important to stress that the cinematograph was born and established as a popular show, outside the cultural world, just at the time when in Spain, as throughout Europe, the figure of modern intellectual was being built (Storm 2002) and a culture of elites was defined against the democratisation of culture (Sieburth 1994). In an intellectual atmosphere concerned about how to define and explain the phenomenon of mass culture (and the ‘masses’ as a social and political subject), the cinema provoked mixed reactions. From the beginning, the discourses that attributed endless possibilities to cinema coexisted with those that demonised it. Among the latter, the association between the cinematograph and an audience of uncultured ‘lower classes’, often feminised,2 and the fear that film could degrade and debase them even more than they already were prevailed. In actual fact, there are no sociological studies to support this equation between the cinematograph and the lower classes, which very likely was related to the cultural panics facing the transformation and expansion of culture in Spain as in other countries (Sassoon 2006: 832–49). The reactions of Spanish intellectuals towards cinema over the first few decades of the twentieth century give us important keys to understand the challenges, fears and hopes that the film medium raised (García Carrión 2013a: 54–86). Some years ago, Rafael Utrera (1989) challenged the commonly extended assertion that those intellectuals belonging to the fin-de-siècle generation paid no attention to cinema. But the fact is that the authors who were interested in cinema, such as Ramón del Valle Inclan, Azorín or Manuel Bueno, did not develop



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said interest until the second or third decade of the twentieth century, while writers such as Miguel de Unamuno and Antonio Machado expressed an openly hostile attitude towards cinema. The same could be said about modernist poets, among whom only Manuel Machado paid attention to film (and only from 1916 onwards) or realist novelists such as Emilia Pardo Bazán, who in 1908 expressed her contempt for fiction films even though she could value film’s ability to reproduce reality (however, by 1920, she had improved her consideration towards cinema). Ramiro de Maeztu valued film as a technique to synthesise nature and movement, but he never was keen on cinema as a spectacle, outlining its pernicious impact on audiences that were interested only in its most sordid themes. The Catalan intellectual world was especially concerned about cinema, probably because between 1906 and 1923, Barcelona was the most important centre of film production and distribution in Spain and the city had an outstanding density of picture theatres. The Catalan cultural movements of Modernism and Noucentisme,3 despite their different programmes, agreed in their opposition to cinema with arguments of an obviously elitist content. Adrià Gual, a playwright and poet closely aligned with the modernist sensibility, was an exception: he included film screenings in theatre performances as soon as 1904, and soon after he became personally involved in the film industry. The Noucentisme movement was especially involved in the criticism of the cinematograph, and intellectuals such as Eugeni d’Ors, Josep Carner (probably the most important writers in the Catalan language at the time) and Ramón Rucabado repeatedly wrote against cinema, whose rapid expansion they saw as a cultural and social enemy of their project (Minguet 2000–1). Overall, if the cinematograph had been hailed as a scientific breakthrough, it had become a form of entertainment for the lower social sectors. That is the reason why during its first twenty years of life, cinema was the subject of the indifference or the scorn of many journalistic outlets and most intellectuals. This discourse on cinema also included strong arguments on its pernicious influence on spectators’ behaviour, the social menaces that the proximity of men and women in the dark spaces of film projection entailed, and even the safety hazards offered by picture theatres (mortal accidents and fires were a recurrent argument used by the enemies of the cinema). These were likewise the first concerns about cinema deployed in the political world. The Catholic sectors focused on the harmful physical and psychological effects of watching films, especially on children, the dangers offered by the picture theatres and the immorality of the films that perverted minds and incited crime. In fact, similar arguments were used from

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opposite ideological positions, as in the case of the Socialists (Montero and Paz 2002). Spanish Republicans, who explicitly appealed to ‘the people’ and their culture as the subject of their political programme, largely ignored the cinema.4 The Spanish government showed a rather limited attention to the cinematograph over the first two decades of the twentieth century. In 1908 and 1913, some regulations to improve health and safety conditions in film screening spaces were approved, after frequent interventions in Parliament motivated by fires and mortal tragedies that had taken place in picture theatres in various parts of Spain (Díez 2003: 211–16). Of stronger resonance was the official introduction of film censorship in 1912 by the Ministry of Internal Affairs (which provincial governors were designated to implement), arguing for the pernicious effects of immoral and criminal issues on children and youths, something that had already aroused the protest of some organisations (González Ballesteros 1981: 109–10). It is also worth noting that in 1918, the Ministry of Education created a commission to study the introduction of the cinematograph in schools as well as the shooting of educational films. One of the initiatives proposed by the commission was to encourage city and provincial councils to finance films about landscapes, art, industries or typical traditions that could be projected in primary schools to support the school programme (Álvarez 2002). Although this recommendation was not followed, it is a sign of a change in the perceptions about cinema and its role in society: maybe it was, or could be, more than a cheap form of entertainment. The year 1915 opened a new stage in the consideration of cinema in the Spanish cultural world, with the beginning of the publication of what can be considered the first film criticism in Spain in the pages of España, an intellectual and political review. The fact that the first specific space devoted to film criticism in a ‘serious’ media was in the flagship publication of the so-called generation of 1914, and apparently commissioned by the most influent intellectual of his time, José Ortega y Gasset, is most certainly representative of a change in the appraisal of cinema. Although Ortega’s intellectual formation was strongly elitist, the presence of film criticism and coverage in all the major publications under his influence (España, El Imparcial, El Sol, Crisol and Luz) proves his interest in cinema (although he did not make any explicit reflection on the world of cinema that went beyond scarce references throughout the 1920s). Three authors were in charge of writing on cinema in España: Federico de Onís, Alfonso Reyes and Martín Luis Guzman. All three approached cinema issues without the prejudices of other intellectuals, considering film an autonomous



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language that deserved intellectual interest, either for its aesthetic potential or its social significance.5 By the mid 1910s, cinematography was a consolidated mass culture industry and one of the preferred forms of entertainment in Spain (Uría 2008: 367–74), and it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore or belittle it without further consideration. Certainly, the years of the First World War demonstrated the possibilities of the use of film as a propaganda weapon, and European governments and political circles began to pay a closer attention to the film industry. From the end of the 1900s onwards, filmic language and aesthetics had developed in more sophisticated and complex ways, and the cinema of attractions had given way to narrative integration. Attending a public space where films were screened entailed a collective social experience that generated a habit of cinema-going and built a regular film audience in Spain (Palacio 2003). Film screening gradually ceased its roaming and fairground character, and the network of permanent picture theatres widened. The recognition of cinema as an art promoted in 1911 by Ricciotto Canudo’s ‘Manifesto of the Seven Arts’ would have a wide impact in cultural realms in the following years, in Spain as elsewhere.

Cinema and the Integration of a National Public Sphere during the Roaring Twenties The 1920s was finally the key moment in the consolidation of cinema in Spanish mass culture. The picture theatre network tripled in a few years: from 1.818 picture theatres in 1925 to 2.192 in 1927 and 4.338 in 1930 (García Fernández 2002: 224). The territories with a higher density of cinemas were Catalonia and Valencia. Bigger and more luxurious picture theatres were built and despite the significant differences between cinema palaces and neighbourhood movie theatres, the price of film tickets was still very competitive in comparison with other spectacles (Díez 2003: 28–30). To a large extent, cinema strengthened its role as an interclass entertainment directly responsible for the transformation of Spanish society towards modern urban mass culture practices (Ramos 2002: 124–31). The emergence of a regular market of film premieres, which allowed the audience to anticipate and organise their leisure time, favoured in those years the emergence of a cinephile culture, as was the case in other European contexts (Jullier and Leveratto 2010). The 1920s was also the decade in which cinema was definitively located in the Spanish intellectual sphere, especially in the second

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half of the decade. On the one hand, almost no intellectual or artist in the 1920s was oblivious to the cinema and the ‘cinematophobes’ were fewer and fewer. The attraction towards what was already considered to be the seventh art affected writers of different generations and interests. Certainly, those related to an avant-garde sensibility showed a greater inclination towards the art they regarded as the characteristic of modernity (Morris 1980; Minguet 2000). Especially significant was the common fascination that the members of the so-called generation of ’27 had with cinema (Gubern 1999). Rafael Alberti, César Arconada, Federico García Lorca and Luis Buñuel were literally fascinated by cinema, a captivation shared with the humourists of the ‘other generation of 27’, such as Miguel Mihura, Enrique Jardiel Poncela and Edgar Neville, and artists such as Salvador Dalí, Maruja Mallo, Josep Renau and Manuel de Falla. Cultural journals such as Revista de Occidente, Ultra or La gaceta literaria opened their pages to the cinema with eagerness. Besides this, in the second half of the decade, there was a qualitative leap in the cinematographic press due, particularly, to the birth of two key publications: La pantalla and Popular Film. Film magazines (nearly eighty circulated during the 1920s) provided a privileged space for opinions and discussions about the seventh art and spurred Spanish society into the cult of cinema. The cultural anxieties about cinema changed. Now, the ‘Americanisation’ of the Spanish people because of Hollywood films, a fear spread amongst all European countries (de Grazia 1989), the necessity of a strong Spanish film industry or the depiction of the nation on film came to the fore. In general, the issues of the morality of cinema and the dangers that cinema-going entailed were relegated in favour of discussions on developments within film aesthetics or the role of cinema in society and arts. Although some Catholic sectors maintained their hostility to cinema, there was a noticeable change, through discourses that insisted on the potential immorality of cinema, but abandoned its straightforward condemnation and instead began to advise the audience about ‘good’ and ‘bad’ films, and encourage filmmaking according with Catholic values (Pérez López 2006). The interferences of Primo de Rivera’s dictatorship in the world of cinema were scarce. The limited efforts in the use of film as political propaganda by the dictatorship were placed in the last years of the decade with the filmmaking of documentaries concerning the Spanish presence in Morocco or events such as the Ibero-American Exposition in Seville (Fernández Colorado 2001; del Rey 2013). Also, Primo de Rivera’s governments reorganised the censorship system, now channelled through the Security General Bureau, while some



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Provincial Boards of Child Protection, associated with civil governments, participated actively in censorship tasks (particularly in the case of Barcelona). In 1930, the last government of the monarchy opted for a more centralised model, conferring exclusive competence over censorship to Madrid. In addition, from 1924, the government launched a surveillance policy focused on foreign films that might be offensive to the Spanish nation through diplomatic channels (Díez 2009), in response to the strong controversies which had been sparked in the Spanish public opinion over the representation of Spain in films (García Carrión 2013a: 165–80). Overall, however, the film industry remained oblivious to the public authorities (Primo de Rivera’s censorship was a far cry from the strict control imposed years later by the Francoist dictatorship) and rested on private initiatives. Following the First World War, American companies took control of film distribution in Spain and imposed their material by selling full-packaged film lots, a situation that would only become consolidated in the following decades (García Fernández 2002: 148–76). As also happened practically all over Europe, Hollywood had begun to rule the screens and its film production system and narrative styles became the reference for the film industry and the audience. There is no question that Hollywood films had a deep and longlasting impact on the spread of American references and imaginaries among the Spanish population, although their consumption has to be placed within a national public sphere. As a matter of fact, the big Hollywood companies’ distribution networks, marketing strategies and even at times production were outlined according to the different national markets (Higson and Maltby 1999). Many key aspects of cinema exhibition were defined by the framework created within the nation-state: from the use of Spanish language in intertitles to promotional material, the chronology of premieres or the images allowed by censorship. Besides this, Spanish cinema contributed significantly towards the construction of a ‘national audience’. Throughout the 1920s, the Spanish film industry did not achieve a stable system, and production was very fragmented into multiple short-lived companies; in fact, just a few companies carried out continuous production for some years. Atlántida SACE was undoubtedly the most important film producer in the first half of the decade. To a large extent, rather than the film companies, it was the technical and artistic teams that gave continuity to Spanish film production of this period. In any case, Spanish film production had the national sphere as its creative and commercial frame of reference. At times, some films were not screened beyond a particular region or province, but mostly producers and filmmakers envisaged

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a national audience for their films. In order to attract this audience, Spanish cinematography turned to national culture. Avant-garde film experimentations, such as Luis Buñuel’s first films, were drops in a sea of narrative films that combined the international developments of film styles with the Spanish popular culture sources they appealed to (Benet 2012: 62–77). A substantial part of Spanish film plots were adaptations from the theatre scene, particularly lyrical theatre and zarzuela (Cánovas 2011), or novels (Sánchez Salas 2007). Also, figures mythologised by popular culture as national icons such as bullfighters or bandits found their way into the movies, as happened with regional folk dances, songs and costumbrismos.6 Though it is somewhat well known, it is worth pointing out that silent cinema was anything but silent. The musical accompaniment and sound effects, but also other live shows such as songs, folk dances or theatre performances, were part of the experience of the Spanish spectators during the 1920s. These strategies proved successful and, in spite of the precarious economic and technical development and the impossibility of competing on equal terms with Hollywood, many Spanish films were successful among the audiences. Films produced in Spain during the 1920s were thus located within a process of cultural transference and feedback of national references: stories and characters that passed from the novel to the theatre and afterwards to film, bullfighters or Spanish team football players (like ‘el Algabeño’ or Ricardo Zamora) who could alternate bullrings and sport fields with screens, successful films adapted into short popular novels or theatre plays and songs of diverse origin incorporated into film projections also played by brass bands or radio. Mass culture industries, with cinema at the top, shaped a ground of narratives and practices that integrated a shared national cultural sphere. In relation to this point, we bring up one of the aspects insufficiently addressed by Habermas that the emergence and development of the public sphere in Europe was parallel to the configuration of the nation-states and the rise of nationalism: public spheres were conformed as national ones (Eley 1992). Karl Deutsch (1966) theorised the nations as a realm of shared social communication, a perspective subsequently developed by different scholars and disciplines. But the development of mass leisure industries has not been sufficiently addressed by the historiography from the perspective of its participation in the construction of a national public sphere, and cinema is a suitable example of this (Schlesinger 2000). The Spanish nation-state, at least from the Restoration period onwards, fostered the creation of a national political and communication sphere through the confluence of practices promoted by the state and those generated by civil society



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(Archilés and García Carrión 2012). The film industry (production and exhibition), independent from the state but delimited by its frame, contributed in a decisive way to build this national public sphere shared by Spaniards without distinction of gender or class.

Talkies, Popular Culture and Cultural Homogenisation: Cinema during the Second Republic (1931–36) During the transition from the 1920s to the 1930s, Spanish cinema was affected by two main questions. The first one drastically transformed cinema worldwide: after several systems had been tested for years, voices and sounds were successfully incorporated into motion pictures – films talked. This was not a mere technical change; it was a true revolution that shook the film industry, made way for different developments in film language and altered audience habits. However, the conversion was slow and challenging in Spain. In the early 1930s, film production activity in Spain was practically nil due to the lack of the required sound studios. A substantial part of the Spanish artistic and technical staff moved abroad in order to work for European or American companies. Also, the introduction of talkies meant a brief crisis for the exhibition sector in the early 1930s, but the number of picture theatres evolved from 3,200 to 3,500 between 1933 and 1935 (García Fernández 2002: 251). For some years, movie theatres that could project talkies coexisted with those that only screened silent films. The eventual triumph of talkies put an end to the pliability and the mixture of live shows with projections that was so characteristic of silent film: film viewing became a well-codified experience. Cinemagoing continued being an interclass spectacle. Film tickets had a wide price range from 5 pesetas to 25 cents, which allowed every social class to attend (Díez 2003: 30–34). Sound cinema also created a major problem for understanding films: that of the language of each motion picture. During the Republican years, three solutions coexisted – Spanish-speaking talkies produced by Hollywood, film subtitles and dubbing – although the latter two, and especially the last one, were those that tended to predominate from 1933 onwards.7 Regarding language in talkies, it is worth stressing that sound cinema became a powerful means for the linguistic homogenisation of the Spanish public sphere. If during the silent film period the presence of languages spoken in Spain other than Castilian (for instance, Catalan) in the intertitles, promotional material or written film culture was derisory, their use in sound film was

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even more marginal. In the case of subtitling, it is almost impossible to list any films from the 1930s that were subtitled in languages other than Castilian, and only a few exceptions in Catalan were fostered by nationalist groups. Also, very few commercial feature films were shot in Catalan. Spanish was also the language for film dubbing, a practice that became commonly used well before its mandatory imposition in 1941. As a matter of fact, this mandatory imposition was already discussed in 1934 and backed by politicians, sectors of the film industry and film critics from all political sectors. Although during the years of the Second Republic culture in Catalan or Galician enjoyed a significant boost, cinema practices strengthened the public presence of Spanish in territories where a substantial part of the population spoke other languages. The second major change at the beginning of the 1930s was, precisely, the proclamation of the Second Republic in April 1931, the first full democratic experience in Spain in the twentieth century within a European context characterised by the decline of liberal democracy. The influence of the new political system in the world of cinema was more nuanced. Despite having sparked protests, the censorship system continued to function. For its application, the first Republican government prompted some decentralisation and gave competences not only to the General Security Bureau in Madrid but also to the Civil Government in Barcelona, both institutions with valid authority throughout all national territory. A second rearrangement by the right-wing government in 1935 went back to a centralised model and involved further precision in the design of coercive mechanisms (Martínez Bretón 2000). In addition, and as had happened in the previous decade, the controversy in public opinion about foreign films that offended Spain spurred the government into action, resulting in a decree in October 1935 that directly prohibited the exhibition of films that undermined the prestige of the nation. Also, some protectionist measures were approved, but they were deemed insufficient by an autochthonous film industry that demanded more decisive laws. The government-sponsored Pedagogical Missions used film for educational purposes, with travelling projections supervised by the filmmaker José Val de Omar (Holguin 1999: 861–63). Beyond this, there was hardly any involvement by the various governments of the Republic in the world of cinema. The most serious attempt to create a state organism for film policy came with the constitution of the Cinema Council (first in March 1933 and again in October 1934).8 However, the Council had a purely virtual existence, as it failed to undertake any effective activity and the start of the war definitively thwarted any development.



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After the paralysis brought about by the adaptation to sound film, the Spanish film production industry gradually reorganised itself from 1933 onwards. Sound studios were built, new producers began to shoot talkies, and filmmakers, and actors and technical staff could work again in Spanish territory. Between 1934 and 1936, film production in Spain established a fairly solid foundation with the regular activity of companies such as Cifesa, Filmófono and Exclusivas Diana. These producers reinforced the nation-state-wide scope of film production since the Spanish nation was the target audience (something that did not exclude exporting to other markets, especially Latin American), thus forging a more integrated national film market. In this sense, the premiere of Cifesa’s Nobleza baturra (F. Rey, 1935), simultaneously released on 12 October 1935 in thirty-five Spanish cities, was significant. If until then it had been customary to organise film distribution regionally, this premiere signalled a major transformation. The producer took advantage of a date related to the film plot, but also with a particular importance in the Spanish nationalist imaginary (the combined festivities of the Virgin of Pilar and the Fiesta de la Raza day) to draw a pattern of simultaneous premieres nationwide, a practice that years afterwards would become commonplace. The Spanish film industry also managed to launch commercial strategies such as a national star system that promoted the popularity of Spanish actors. In addition to their presence on film screens, their faces and lives filled the pages of newspapers and magazines. Spanish film stars such as Imperio Argentina and Miguel Ligero became public figures well known to Spaniards (and not just to cinephiles) and who could vie in terms of popularity with Hollywood stars. Between 1934 and 1936, Spanish cinema had a brief ‘golden age’ because of its box-office success in spite of the competition posed by the all-powerful Hollywood. Despite the politicisation experienced by Spanish culture during the Republican quinquennium (Mainer 2006), the bulk of film production in Spain during those years was made up of pure entertainment. This does not mean that the world of cinema was oblivious to political activity. In fact, politics flooded some film publications such as Popular film and Nuestro cinema, and cinema discussion was incorporated into the political press, for example, in working-class oriented left-wing publications. Some cine-club sessions in certain Spanish cities also had a political slant (Hernández and Ruiz 1978). The interest in cinema’s potential to transform society, either as a means of education or political action, shot through the entire political spectrum (Holguin 1999). Communists and anarchists were particularly interested in film as a weapon to be used in relation to class struggle (García Carrión

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2013a) and some Catholic groups became aware of the need for direct involvement in cinematography (Sempere 2011). But film production in Spain remained a leisure industry and commercial producers were not interested in showing political content on the screen. The comparison between the two main producers of the Second Republic, Cifesa and Filmófono, is noteworthy. Cifesa’s owners were directly linked to a right-wing party (Fanés 1989), while the people in charge of Filmófono, Ricardo Urgoiti and Luis Buñuel, had a left-wing political affiliation (Fernández Colorado and Cerdán 2007). However, both companies maintained a very similar production policy: large-budget films of a significant technical quality, production organisation trying to follow the Hollywood system and, above all, popular Spanish arguments and themes. In actual fact, the films of Cifesa and Filmófono were quite similar in many ways. From some politically engaged (especially left-wing) sectors, the predominance of commercial films that did not explicitly address the social and political issues was interpreted from a pejorative view of cinema as a capitalist tool that alienated the masses and neutralised their critical capacity (a vision of mass culture that can be linked to the critique of the Frankfurt School, which to a large extent influenced Habermas). Others tried to take advantage of the kind of films that were popular. Luis Buñuel himself, strongly committed to communism in those years, did not make political films. Besides his singular poetic-ethnographic documentary Tierra sin pan-Las Hurdes (1933), Buñuel’s main cinematographic activity during the Second Republic was as executive producer in Filmófono. He supervised, and on many occasions personally directed, the company’s feature films (although he never appeared in the credits). For him, rather than an openly political cinema, the best way to connect with the working classes was through commercial films that appealed to Spanish popular culture (Gubern and Hammond 2012). Films produced in Spain during the Second Republic were strongly linked to those made during the 1920s in spite of the political changes that had taken place. In fact, the large number of remakes of films from the previous decade shows the continuity with the creative basis and themes of Spanish silent film. The aim was to make a ‘national cinema’, films related to the national culture that could conquer the Spanish audience. Once more, the dialogue with popular theatre, zarzuela, the bullfighting world, popular songs or regional folklore set the course for Spanish film in the ‘golden age’ between 1934 and 1936. However, some specific characteristics set the films of this period apart from those of the previous decade. First of all, if during the 1920s



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most of the folklore from the various Spanish regions was shown onscreen, in the years of the Republic, the prominence clearly shifted to Andalusian folklore (Claver 2012), followed by Madrid or Aragón picturesqueness (García Carrión 2013b). Sound cinema also opened up new perspectives for the cinematic representation of popular culture. Although music was an important element of silent film screenings, the soundtracks incorporated into films gave them a more important narrative role. Musical film was a prominent genre and it is not surprising that the leading roles in some of the most popular Spanish films during the Republic relied on popular music singers, such as Imperio Argentina and Angelillo, or flamenco dancers such as Carmen Amaya. In turn, songs that had become popular through their use in films went from screens to the record industry. Musical and narrative features of zarzuela, flamenco copla or jotas9 merged with the international narrative trends of musical film (Benet 2012: 97–110). In this regard, the years 1934–36 evidenced the real transformation of elements taken from theatre and folklore into film language, on account of the work of filmmakers such as Florián Rey, Benito Perojo, Jean Gremillon and Luis Buñuel, and the economic efforts of consolidated producers. Zarzuela and flamenco are probably the best examples of this transformation. The former had undoubtedly been the stage show preferred by the Spanish public for decades. Despite being in crisis since the 1910s (because of the competition provided by new spectacles such as cinema), film gave a new life to zarzuela in the 1920s. But films like La Dolorosa (J. Gremillon, 1934) or La verbena de la Paloma (B. Perojo, 1935) were ones that reinvented the features of costumbrismo that were the trademark of zarzuela: they were not just ‘filmed theatre’, but rather a purely cinematographic expression. As for flamenco, during the first decades of the twentieth century, it had been reinvented by writers and artists (from the Machado brothers to García Lorca and Falla) and had become a central element in the Spanish nationalist imagination as a spontaneous and immemorial demonstration of Andalusian folk culture. Flamenco had also successfully spread within Spanish society through cafés and theatres, and its arrival in the movies culminated its merchandising and popularisation through modern leisure practices. The critical reception of those Spanish films indicates that the presence of folklore, although debated, was widely accepted as the true incarnation of the Spanish people and their culture, even by critics with social concerns and left-wing positions (García Carrión 2013a: 328–36). The protests against folklore’s topical exploitation did not mean a denial of its suitability when it came to representing Spain on film. As can be noted

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in other cultural areas, in the years of the Republic the reinvention of popular folklore and its identification with the Spanish people seems to have been firmly established and could even be linked to a political commitment (Cobb 1981). Ultimately, during the years of the Second Republic, a more integrated national film culture was reinforced. Sound cinema and the organisation of the film industry did nothing but strengthen a national public sphere, in the sense pointed out above. Scholars have usually emphasised the influence of Hollywood cinema and the consequent spread of American cultural references and lifestyles in Spanish society (González Calleja et al. 2015: 1036–41), but no less important was the ability of Spanish cinema, through the popularity of Spanish stars and films, to boost a horizon of shared references nationwide. Popular films of the Second Republic arguably fuelled the transformation of ‘traditional’ Spanish cultural forms into a modern mass culture.

Epilogue: Cinema during Wartime The outbreak of civil war on 18 July 1936 altered the normal development of the Spanish film industry, and filmmaking became largely focused on propaganda efforts. In the Republican side, cinema involvement in the war effort was very immediate, since most studios and film production infrastructures were in territories which remained under Republican control (Sala 1993). The rebels took longer to develop a film production of their own, and for some time they needed to use infrastructures sited in Lisbon, Rome or Berlin (Díez 2002). The case of Cifesa, the main production company during the Republican years, is representative of the changes brought on by the war. Throughout the war years there were in fact two Cifesas, as the company was split into two. The Cifesa main headquarters were in Valencia and Madrid, which were Republican territories, and the company happened to be administrated by a board made up of workers, until in May 1938 it came under State control. The Republican Cifesa produced some propaganda documentaries and a film war newsreel. Meanwhile, Cifesa’s owner, who was right-wing, made the producer branch office in Seville a key film centre at the service of the Francoist faction, collaborating with the Office for Press and Propaganda and Falange’s propaganda section (Fanés 1989). The main producer of commercial cinema had turned into two propaganda machines for two opposing causes. Spaniards did not stop going to the movies during the war, despite the difficult circumstances for civilians in the rearguard. The studies



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on billboards during the Civil War years indicate that picture theatres combined some films with political content (documentaries, newsreels, Soviet films in Republican areas) with a majority of entertainment feature films, particularly American and Spanish commercial films from previous years (Cabeza 2005; García Carrión 2017). Perhaps unsurprisingly, the films shot during the Second Republic continued being screened in territories controlled by both sides; after all, they were part of a nation in dispute. Marta García Carrión is Profesora Ayudante Doctora in the Department of Modern and Contemporary History of the Universitat de Valencia, Spain. She obtained her Ph.D. in history at the Universitat de Valencia and received the award of premio extraordinario de doctorado for her dissertation. Her research has focused on the cultural history of cinema in Spain and the study of film language and culture in the process of nation-building in Spain during the first third of the twentieth century. She is the author of three monographs: Sin cinematografía no hay nación. Drama e identidad nacional en la obra de Florián Rey (Institución Fernando el Católico, 2007); Por un cine patrio: Cultura nacional y nacionalismo español 1926–1936 (Publicaciones Universidad de Valencia, 2013); and La regió en la pantalla: El cinema i la identitat dels valencians (Afers, 2015). She has also published more than twenty papers and articles in history journals and chapters in edited collections. She has been a guest researcher at the London School of Economics, the Centre de Recherches sur les Mondes Iberiques Contemporaines de la Université Paris IV–Sorbonne, the Laboratoire d’Études Romans de la Université Paris 8-Saint Denis and the Escuela Española de Historia y Arqueología in Rome. She is currently Vice-Dean of the Faculty of Geography and History in the University of Valencia.

Notes This chapter is a result of the work undertaken as part of the research project HAR2014-53042-P funded by Spanish Ministry of Economics and Competitiveness and of the Excellence Group GVPROMETEO/2016/108 of the Valencian government. 1. Zarzuela is the most popular Spanish operetta, with thousands of compositions and a wide audience from the nineteenth century onwards. 2. This happened within a broader discourse that pejoratively associated mass culture with women, as opposed to a ‘high’ culture that would remain the prerogative of men (Huyssen 1986: 44–62). In fact, the noticeable presence

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5. 6. 7.

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of women in film audiences was perceived as an alarming social phenomenon that confirmed the breakdown of traditional values and challenged the divisions between cultural and domestic spheres. Noucentisme was a cultural movement at the beginning of the twentieth century akin to the revival of classicism and linked to Catalan nationalism. With one notable exception: the writer Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, the Republican leader in Valencia, had an intense relationship with the film industry from the 1910s. However, Blasco Ibáñez regarded cinema as an artistic medium and a lucrative business, not as a political instrument, and he no longer lived in Spain during those years. The Catalan Republican Antoni Rovira i Virgili was an isolated voice who in 1913 pointed to cinema as a potential tool for the instruction and politicisation of the people (García Carrión 2013a: 64). See compilations of their writings about cinema in Reyes, Guzmán and de Onís (1963); and González Casanova (2003). Costumbrismo, derived from costumbre (custom), was a literary and artistic movement devoted to representing the true customs of the Spanish people. In the early years of sound film, the Hollywood strategy of producing talkies for the Spanish-speaking market encountered open hostility from the majority of those involved in the Spanish film culture, especially in relation to the usage of Hispanic American actors and, consequently, their national accents. In fact, this generated a noisy controversy in Spanish public opinion that triggered a nationalist linguistic discourse based on the purity of the Castilian standard (García Carrión 2013a: 261–92). In September 1932, the Catalan Regional Government launched a Catalan Cinema Committee, but the suspension of regional autonomy rights after October 1934 and the Catalan government’s financial problems prevented any continuity of activities (Escudero 1983–84). Copla is one of de most popular forms of Spanish folk song and jota is a folkloric song and dance from many Spanish regions, even if the Aragonese one is the best known.

References Álvarez, N. 2002. ‘Cine y educación en la España de las primeras décadas del siglo XX: Tres concepciones del cine educativo’, Tarbiya 31: 39–66. Archilés, F., and M. García Carrión. 2012. ‘En la sombra del Estado: Esfera pública nacional y homogeneización cultural en la España de la Restauración’, Historia contemporánea 45: 483–518. Bello, J.A. 2010. Cine mudo español 1896–1920: (Ficción, documental y reportaje). Barcelona: Laertes. Benet, V. 2012. El cine español: Una historia cultural. Barcelona: Paidós. Cabeza, N. 2005. El descanso del guerrero: el cine en Madrid durante la guerra civil. Madrid: Rialp. Cánovas, J. 2011. ‘Identidad nacional y cine español: el género chico en el cine mudo español: A propósito de la adaptación cinematográfica de La verbena de la Paloma (J. Buchs, 1922)’, Quintana 10: 65–87.



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Claver, J. M. 2012. Luces y rejas: estereotipos andaluces en el cine costumbrista español (1896–1939). Seville: Centro de Estudios Andaluces. Cobb, C. 1981. La cultura y el pueblo. España, 1930–1939. Barcelona: Editorial Laia. Deutsch, K. 1966. Nationalism and Social Communication. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Díez, E. 2002. El montaje del franquismo: la política cinematográfica de las fuerzas sublevadas. Barcelona: Laertes. ——. 2003. Historia social del cine en España. Madrid: Fundamentos. ——. 2009. ‘Primo de Rivera y la censura diplomática (1923–1930)’, in J.M. Caparrós (ed.), Historia & Cinema. Barcelona: Publicacions Universitat de Barcelona, pp. 61–78. Eley, G. 1992. ‘Nations, Publics, and Political Cultures: Placing Habermas in the Nineteenth Century’, in C. Calhoun (ed.), Habermas and the Public Sphere. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 289–339. Escudero, C. 1983–84. ‘El Comité de Cinema de la Generalitat de Catalunya’, Cinematògraf 1: 35–50. Fanés, 1989. El cas Cifesa: vint anys de cinema espanyol (1932–1951). Valencia: Filmoteca Valenciana. Fernández Colorado, L. 2001. ‘La realidad de la duda: El cine español de propaganda en los albores de la Segunda República’, Cuadernos de Historia Contemporánea 23: 125–40. Fernández Colorado, L., and J. Cerdán. 2007. Ricardo Urgoiti: Los trabajos y los días. Madrid: Filmoteca Española. García Carrión, M. 2013a. Por un cine patrio: Cultura cinematográfica y nacionalismo español (1926–1936). Valencia: Publicacions Universitat de València. ——. 2013b. ‘El pueblo español en el lienzo de plata: nación y región en el cine de la II República’, Hispania 73(243): 193–222. ——. 2017. ‘Ballarins i treballadors. el cinema a la ciutat de Valencia durant la Guerra Civil’, in J. Navarro and S. Valero (eds), València capital de la República: 1936–1937: Com es viu una guerra? Valencia: Ajuntament de València, pp. 303–25. García Fernández, E. 2002. El cine español entre 1896 y 1939: Historia, industria, filmografía y documentos. Barcelona: Ariel. González Ballesteros, T. 1981. Aspectos jurídicos de la censura cinematográfica en España. Madrid: Editorial Complutense. González Calleja E. et al. 2015. La Segunda República española. Barcelona: Pasado y presente. González Casanova, M. 2003. El cine que vio Fósforo: Alfonso Reyes y Martín Luis Guzmán. México DF: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Grazia, V. de. 1989. ‘Mass Culture and Sovereignty: The American Challenge to European Cinemas, 1920–1960’, Journal of Modern History 61(1): 53–87. Gubern, R. 1999. Proyector de luna: La generación del 27 y el cine. Barcelona: Anagrama.

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Gubern, R., and P. Hammond. 2012. Luis Buñuel: The Red Years, 1929–1939. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Gunning, T. 1986. ‘The Cinema of Attractions. Early Film, its Spectator and the Avant-Garde’, Wide Angle 8(3–4): 63–70. Hansen, M. 1993. ‘Early Cinema, Late Cinema: Permutations of the Public Sphere’, Screen 34(3): 197–210. Hernández, J.L., and E.A. Ruiz. 1978. Historia de los cine clubs en España. Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura. Higson, A., and R. Maltby (eds). 1999. ‘Film Europe’ and ‘Film America’: Cinema, Commerce and Cultural Exchange, 1920–1939. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Holguin, S. 1999. ‘Taming the Seventh Art: The Battle for Cultural Unity on the Cinematographic Front during Spain’s Second Republic, 1931–1936’, Journal of Modern History 71(4): 852–81. Huyssen, A. 1986. After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism. London: Macmillan. Jullier, L., and J. M. Leveratto. 2010. Cinéphiles et cinéphilies. Paris: Armand Colin. Mainer, J.C. 2006. Años de vísperas: La vida de la cultura en España (1931– 1939). Madrid: Austral. Martínez Bretón, J.A. 2000. Libertad de expresión cinematográfica durante la II República Española (1931–1936). Madrid, Fragua. Martínez Herranz, A. (ed.). 2001. Los orígenes del cine en España. Monographic Issue Artigrama 16. Minguet, J.M. 2000. Cinema, modernitat i avantguarda (1920–1936). Valencia: Edicions 3i4. ——. 2000–1. ‘Classicisme i cinema. Eugeni d’Ors, el noucentisme i les arts industrials’, Locus Amoenus 5: 291–304. Montero, J., and M.A. Paz. 2002. ‘Ir al cine en España en el primer tercio del siglo XX’, in J.V. Pelaz and J.C. Rueda (eds), Ver cine. Los públicos cinematográficos en el siglo XX. Madrid: Rialp, pp. 91–136. Morris, C.B. 1980. This Loving Darkness: The Cinema and Spanish Writers, 1920–1936. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Musser, C. 2006. ‘A Cinema of Contemplation, a Cinema of Discernment: Spectatorship, Intertextuality and Attractions in the 1890s’, in W. Strauven (ed.), The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, pp. 159–79. Palacio, M. 2003. ‘Los públicos cinematográficos de la década decisiva (1905–1915): El cine y el espacio público español’, in A. Quintana (ed.), La construcción del públic dels primers escpectacles cinematogràfics. Girona: Museu del Cinema/Ajuntament Girona, pp. 47–58. Pérez López, P. 2006. ‘Los católicos españoles y el cine’, in J. Aurell and P. Pérez (eds), Católicos entre dos guerras: La historia religiosa de España en los años veinte y treinta. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, pp. 305–26. Ramos, M.D. 2002. ‘“Neutralidad” en la guerra, “paz” en la Dictadura: Las transformaciones de la vida cotidiana (1917–1930)’, in A. Aguado and



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M.D. Ramos, La modernización de España (1917–1939). Madrid: Síntesis, pp. 91–151. Rey, A. del. 2013. ‘El cine como plataforma política, un sueño imposible del general Primo de Rivera’, Iberic@l 4: 11–23. Reyes, A., M.L. Guzmán and F. de Onís. 1963. Frente a la pantalla. México DF: Dirección General de Difusión Cultural. Sala, R. 1993. El cine en la España republicana durante la guerra civil (1936– 1939). Bilbao: Mensajero. Sánchez Salas, D. 2007. Historias de luz y papel: El cine español de los años veinte a través de su adaptación de narrativa literaria española. Murcia: Filmoteca regional Francisco Rabal. Sassoon, D. 2006. The Culture of the Europeans: From 1800 to the Present. New York: HarperCollins. Schlesinger, P. 2000. ‘The Sociological Scope of “National Cinema”’, in M. Hjort and S. Mackenzie (eds), Cinema and Nation. London: Routledge, pp. 19–31. Sempere, I. 2011. ‘En defensa de la moral: la fundación de Ediciones Cinematográficas Españolas durante la II República’, in J. Pérez Perucha (ed.), Aurora y Melancolía: el cine español durante la II República (1936– 1939). A Coruña: Vía Láctea, pp. 127–37. Sieburth, S. 1994. Inventing High and Low: Literature, Mass Culture and Uneven Modernity in Spain. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Storm, E. 2002. ‘The Rise of the Intellectual around 1900: Spain and France’, European History Quarterly 32(2): 139–60. Uría, J. 2008. La España liberal (1868–1917). Madrid: Síntesis. Utrera, R. 1989. Modernismo y 98 frente al cinematógrafo. Seville: Publicaciones de la Universidad de Sevilla.

Chapter 10

What Was Public Opinion in the Francoist ‘New State’? Information, Publics and Rumour in the Spanish Postwar Era (1939–45) Francisco Sevillano

å Addressing the nature and the status of public opinion at a given point in the past also requires understanding the ways in which historians’ notions of ‘politics’ have evolved. Since the 1980s, political history has focused on a multifaceted sense of ‘the political’. The formerly unidimensional plane of ‘politics’ (as laws, institutions, governments and public administration, decision-making, groups and confrontations) now appears as a multidimensional projection, the vanishing point of which is focused on culture and an understanding of the ‘collective conscience’ and the ‘representations’ that mediate in the social practices of individuals. This perspective, which has influenced AngloAmerican and European historiography, has likewise had a renovating effect on Spanish political history. This can be seen in the scholarship on the Francoist dictatorship, particularly in terms of the cultural and symbolic dimensions of the relationship between society and the dictatorial regime. Everyday experiences and the processes whereby individuals internalise ‘politics’ have therefore become objects of study. The quest for legitimacy constitutes an essential element in political domination, as is attested to by the attention historians have devoted at an international level to the manipulation of the masses, to forms of charismatic leadership and to popular reactions under fascist regimes, particularly in the Italian and German cases.1 Accounting for the links between culture, propaganda and opinion that were established by the Francoist ‘new State’ and its mechanisms for indoctrination, as well as their relationship with Spaniards’ consciences, is important in order to understand the extent to which collective opinion essentially functioned as a tool of social control, given the restrictions placed upon the public sphere by censorship and propaganda. While the coercive use



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of communication is not exclusive to any one type of political system, dictatorial regimes offer a special kind of social communication (Postoutenko 2010). In the case of the Francoist dictatorship in Spain, propaganda and the control of the media destroyed the autonomy of the public sphere and transformed it into a space between the leader and the political community that was predicated on a discourse of shared identity against a common enemy (Sevillano 2007, 2017). This amounted to a process of pathological communication, which is wider and more prevalent than the expression of public opinion in the form of political discussion, and that distorts the latter (Watzlawick, Beavin Banelas and Jackson 1967). The public sphere essentially became a phenomenon of social control of the collective conscience, one that would be interwoven with the representations being disseminated by the media. This is the perspective that underlies this chapter, which focuses on the practical effects of communication on behaviour, arguing that the communication flows in Spanish postwar society, lacking an interaction between the emission and the receiving of messages, created a state of everyday tension between social coercion and forms of collective expression among individuals. Information control and the effects of regime propaganda constrained the public sphere and generated a ‘spiral of silence’ dynamic that affected interpersonal relationships. After the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in the summer of 1936, the politics of information became articulated through a control of the press and other media under the direction of the rebel authorities, with the pretext of guaranteeing ‘order’ and the ‘common good’; with the declaration of a state of war in the insurgent camp, this meant information control through military censorship. Although the rapid fascistisation of the Francoist ‘new State’, as well as the granting of control over information policy to the unified Spanish Fascist party (Falange Española Tradicionalista y de las J.O.N.S.), go some way towards explaining the totalitarian objectives which inspired the Press Law of 1938 and the communication politics of those early years, the truth is that measures such as the purging of the press corps, the imposition of penal responsibilities on individual publishers and publishing companies, and the imposition of prior censorship primarily favoured the coercive restriction of information.2 Propaganda and information control thus constrained the public sphere, generating a spiral of fear of isolation in the event that an individual expressed views that were not approved of.3 In an atmosphere of everyday fear and silence, coercive political and social pressure effectively drowned out any public proposition. At the same time, the regime’s propaganda labelled the public itself as deviated

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and also attempted to restrict the circulation of rumours that had been fostered by the absence of channels for free expression. Indeed, the mechanism of turning opinion into a phenomenon of social control aimed to take over nonpolitical spheres and tried to guarantee a broad popular consensus around shared values, ideas and objectives, all of which would be encapsulated in the figure of the Caudillo,4 Francisco Franco (Sevillano 2000a). Collective identities are therefore not to be taken as predetermined, but rather as built through processes of social communication.

Propaganda: The Matrix of the ‘Pueblo’ The new regime’s propagandistic discourse stigmatised the liberal public sphere. By revising what it termed the ‘old’ concept of the press, this discourse criticised the very premise that the press should operate as a ‘fourth power’. Instead, and forsaking the idea that ‘the public’ might hold opinions of its own, the normative and pedagogical nature of the press rendered it a crucial tool in the formation of popular culture and a collective consciousness. As Falangist writer Samuel Ros explained in a newspaper column entitled ‘El público no existe’ (‘The Public Does Not Exist’), published on 8 July 1939 in the Francoist daily Arriba, the public was a feature of liberal society that had been overcome by the ‘nuevo orden’ (new order) (Ros 1939). Appealing to said public would merely constitute another of the ‘tópicos, espantapájaros y esperpentos’ (commonplaces, scarecrows and farces) that tarnished the new ideals and went against the ‘nuevo estilo’ (new style). In the name of the public, he went on to argue in the same article, it had become common to excuse the social injustices of that earlier time in which men were self-enclosed into the most individualistic and egotistical version of the private sphere, and were measured by their financial capacity: ‘men worth ten pesetas, or twenty-five, or thirty, or a hundred’. He wrote that: The public is the faceless puppet, without lineage or a known grave, that results when a social body is organized as a democracy. The public exists when the individual is nonexistent, because within this paradox lies the kernel of truth: liberalism is the negation of the individual within the collective, in exchange for hurling a man’s soul into the enclosure of the private.

According to Ros, ‘el público’ (the public), which he considered to be nothing more than a nameless and confused mass, had been



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vanquished from Spain, although people still talked about it. The new national-syndicalist order allowed individuals to be reintegrated as part of ‘el pueblo’ (the people), into – and at the service of – the state by organizing them according to their professional occupation in a corporative and hierarchical fashion. But the ‘pueblo’ had to help by not presenting itself as a public any longer. According to a leader article published in Arriba on 27 February 1940, the existence of a public opinion disconcerted and poisoned the masses. Freedom, as understood within the tradition of democratic thought, had caused harm to the masses of readers, as they had been poisoned on a daily basis by a sectarian and anti-national press. Because of this, and as was argued in the preamble to the 1938 Ley de Prensa, it was necessary to set down rules that would anchor journalism in truth and responsibility, and that would place it both at the permanent service of national interest and against the advances of public opinion: Public opinion advances. It advances daily, in both the most ludicrous and the cruellest of fashions. People talk, shout, and opine endlessly with no regard for any possible higher limitation. And they do not realize that, with their irresponsible attitude, they are shackling and chaining themselves further, because the unconscious anguish that constrains their being propels them towards a ‘not knowing what they want’, because they are beyond any reverence. This is the essence of disorientation . . . What ‘public opinion’ is entirely lacking is precisely this sense of reverence. And it is lacking it because it has not seriously considered what it is surrounded by . . . Coming to terms with ‘what is’ might bring about the immediate submission of agglomerations to real life. And this would turn them into effective collective bodies.

This article in Arriba concluded that the mission of the ‘hombres superiores’ (superior men) was first and foremost to create the skeleton that would grant the ‘masa desarticulada’ (unarticulated masses) a certain structure. Mass media, institutionally organised into a single propaganda organism, was to play a crucial role in this task, as was also the case with the redefinition of the journalist’s role. The new mass communication media, such as radio and cinema, would serve this project. A lengthy commentary published in the weekly Radio Nacional emphasised that the media influenced perceptions by operating as an environment, thus altering ways of thinking and acting and of perceiving the world (La radio como formadora de una psicología

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colectiva 1939). The article argued that propaganda, and particularly that which was broadcast through the radio, exercised its influence mainly by sustaining and conforming to a collective mindset rather than specific opinions: It has been said that propaganda is as indispensable to contemporary States as are guns or standing armies. For propaganda does not merely exercise the function of righting consciences and of convincing the unbelievers of a specific political ideology. Instead, we must understand that the key mission of any propaganda is to keep alive certain ideals in the minds of the people . . . What is meant by this is that even if propaganda, through the use of its visual, written or auditive resources, does not achieve resounding successes in terms of persuasion, it may still accomplish that permanent and priceless goal of keeping the fire of ideals constantly alive . . . In this sense, all propaganda – and particularly the radio – can be considered to be a creator and shaper of a specific collective psychology.

As the shaper of a collective consciousness, propaganda was therefore seen as the creator of the environment in which individuals obtained information beyond their personal scope. Opinion thus had to be shaped in a top-down rather than bottom-up fashion. Mass media would become a pseudo-environment that would stimulate individual behaviour through collective psychology: When men believe that they are thinking by themselves, they are really thinking through the media at their disposal and the news they receive of the wider world. And given that man cannot derive an understanding of his reality through his own means, he must by force wait for it to be administered to him. The modern State has readily taken notice of this, and that is why it pays so much attention to propaganda mechanisms, as shapers of the psychology of peoples . . . The creation of a collective mindset – by tying all opinion to the common denominator of shared ideas – is extraordinarily important in order to facilitate any type of politics. And, in this sense, we must look to the radio as the most powerful weapon for the formation of collective states of conscience, it being a priceless instrument at the service of policy.

The journalist and critic Bartolomé Mostaza published an article entitled ‘El cine como propaganda’ (‘Cinema as Propaganda’) in the weekly Primer Plano, which was the official outlet of the Departamento Nacional de Cinematografía (National Cinematography Department) (Mostaza 1940). In it he argued that, in addition to its aesthetic



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qualities, cinematography was the supreme vehicle for propaganda, given its capacity to ‘plasmar’ (portray) events that were far from real: Resisting its influence requires superhuman capacity. When watching movies, human viewers are dragged along by the vital momentum of each scene. Cinema is, perhaps, the one art which people live with almost complete reality. Because of this, it would be foolish to refrain from using it in order to instruct the masses, to move them, to push them towards a particular project, to teach them what the politician considers to be crucial or convenient. Words alone can be tiresome or be misunderstood or disbelieved; mere photography might suffer from inexpressiveness. But both things conjoined in the moving image become the most powerful magnet with which to draw individual wills toward a particular idea.

On 20 May 1941, and in the very specific political context of the Second World War, the press and propaganda services, which had been under the remit of the Ministerio de la Gobernación (Home Affairs Ministry), were integrated by law into the organism charged with conforming to the state’s political doctrine, through the creation of a Vicesecretaría de Educación Popular (Subdepartment for Popular Education) within Falange.5 As the new national secretary for Education Patricio González de Canales wrote, the aim of all propaganda actions should be to explain the philosophy and the destiny of Spaniards (González de Canales 1943). National unity was the guarantor of Spanish identity – a unity that was presented as rooted in fidelity to God, his doctrine and his disciples. Thus, political unity and religious unity were presented as the legacy bestowed by tradition. Journalists were urged to become the main agents of a propaganda that would help forge the soul of the nation and unite the motherland. Another article from this period insisted that the journalist’s mission was a social one and that the ‘new State’ encouraged this by including him within its remit, stressing his responsibility, praising his conscience and linking him to ‘the most delicate aspects of government’ (García Luengo 1943). Thus, a type of doctrinal journalism was proposed, one that would emphasise teaching instead of information, in order to educate the Spanish people on the essence of the nation, on the tradition and the landmark achievements of Spanish history and on the foundations of their state. Journalists had to become ‘professors of patriotism and national-syndicalism’ (García Luengo 1943: 2). Given that educating the masses was one of the principal tasks of state policy, the journalist would watch over the creation of moral harmony and

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solidarity among Spaniards by worshipping and praising the virtues of the Spanish people (García Luengo 1943: 3).

Against Rumours The persistence of rumours regarding the politics and circumstances of everyday life (and especially the provision and prices of basic goods) led the media to stigmatise those who spread them and to link the very concept of rumours – and by extension of the public and of opinions – to the idea of an internal enemy (Sevillano 2007; Domínguez Arribas 2009). The outbreak of the Second World War led to intensified warnings against the threat posed by an ‘enemigo interno’ (enemy within) who would be lurking around undetected, whispering among the people. In this context, it was crucial to remain united around the figure of the Caudillo and within the Movimiento,6 stressed the clergyman Félix García in an article published in Arriba on 7 September 1939. This same author insisted, in another article published on 22 September entitled ‘¡Alerta con la mediocridad!’ (‘Watch out for Mediocrity!’) that everything that had survived and endured in Spain had been in the name of a unity of action and spirit (García 1939a). In contrast, all schisms or heresies had sprung from discord and aggressiveness. It was therefore urgent to isolate any seed of discord or confusion that mediocre men might be sowing through their whispering: A mediocre man hates talent and abhors clarity, he operates in the shadows and is a master in the arts of insidiousness and of labyrinth-building. He entangles even the most radiant of conducts and the most generous actions in order to make them seem illicit. The mediocre man has a negative talent, which he applies with insistent industriousness to the task of demolition and intrigue. He withdraws from collaboration and service, he has no large thoughts, he harbours no desire for perfection. He wishes for nothing other than a field ready for the limitless reign of mediocrity. Hence his sparing no means when it comes to neutralizing those who are most qualified, and his readily allying himself, for the achievement of his dark arts, and unhindered by any feeling of repugnance, with the servants of hatred and the amassers of darkness, that is, with the makers of discord.

Murmuring was insistently denounced, as in the article entitled ‘Alerta contra la insidia’ (‘Watch out for Insidiousness’), which was published in the front page of Arriba on 29 September 1939 (García 1939b).



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Murmurers, the piece warned, were attempting to defame the best individuals; furthermore, and following standard Francoist discourse, these efforts were presented as linked to the activities of Freemasons and opponents of the regime. The outbreak of the Second World War polarised Spanish society and created a new climate of unrest regarding the future of the ‘new State’ (Sevillano 2000b). In this atmosphere, concern over the circulation of rumours led to an intense, sustained and lengthy propagandistic campaign. The constant warnings against those who spread rumours tried to stifle the latter, thus plunging rumouring too into silence. Once more, it was father Félix García who stressed this in an article entitled ‘Alerta con la hipocresía’ (‘Watch out for Hypocrisy’) published on 2 December 1939 in the Falange daily Arriba (García 1939c). According to him, in times inspired by a desire for restoration and reform, there always appeared hypocrites and Pharisees, those who were ‘enemies of the light, who always sail on troubled waters and who have a penchant for complication, for shadows and for underhandedness’. One must remain watchful against this hidden enemy and not let one’s good faith lead one to be caught off-guard. In the quest to achieve their murky aims, the hypocrite and the Pharisee would never adopt a bellicose stance or openly exhibit opposition or controversy, for they tried to mask themselves, simulation being their chief skill. In this way, they became the best conduit for negativity, discontent, suspicion and misunderstanding. On New Year’s Eve, the Caudillo himself stressed the importance of denouncing enemies and rumour-spreading. General Franco gave a speech on Sunday 31 December 1939 that was broadcast by Radio Nacional de España (Franco Bahamonde 1940). In his words, those who had been defeated in the Civil War had to redeem themselves in order to be reintegrated into the national community and be participants in the sacredness of the motherland. In order for national unity to be properly defended, it was necessary to label anyone who defamed the state, and thus joined forces with the anti-Spain, as an enemy: Since the very day of our Victory I have been warning good Spaniards of the need to prepare for these peacetime battles. Let everyone reflect on their duties towards a State which it has taken so much pain to create and let them close ranks against the enemy. It is necessary to call out insidiousness and libel, and to shut the mouths of slanderers.   The tree is known by its fruit, and where there is a murmurer, a harvester of alarm or insidiousness, there is always a traitor.

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  Let all Spaniards be on their guard! Let the Falange be on the alert! What an honourable role is reserved for them in this struggle!   The smallness of our enemies must not lead us to underestimate them; everybody is aware that we are living through the most politically remarkable moment of our history, in which there will be a joint attack by both the eternal anti-Spain and the enemy within, including especially those small groups of cretins who flaunt their moral and physical misery in frivolous cafés and in places of libertinage in order to disseminate the messages they have received from abroad, and who do not hesitate to seek out even those sectors of the population affected by the penitentiary realm, attempting to tarnish the regime they claim to defend with a monstrous impunity for the crimes of our brothers. Can one conceive of more physical and moral misery?   Other times they exploit the occasional lack of bread or scarcity of items in a specific village for their blundering machinations. It is not enough to cut them off by correcting them; we must also, and in parallel, explain how our nation’s sacrifices are tiny in comparison with those of the countries which are suffering this war.

If the enemy’s hypocrisy helped him remain unnoticed, his lack of enthusiasm gave him away. This lack of enthusiasm was primarily characterised by inability to react, by moral laxity and by a sort of anaemia of the will, as father Félix García pointed out in yet another article in Arriba entitled ‘Alerta con los tibios’ (‘Beware the Lukewarm’), published on 13 February 1940 (García 1940). He argued that there was a lack of enthusiasm among citizens, a kind of civic drowsiness, which was creating an atmosphere of increasing apathy and discontent; this atmosphere was allowing a plague of gossip and rumours to circulate among the population. The features of the ‘internal enemy’ were presented as simulation, lack of enthusiasm and murmuring, against which one had to remain alert, as father García wrote in Arriba some days later (29 February 1940). Murmuring, he wrote, was the weapon of those who suffer from an inferiority complex; it was the secretion of resentment, the outlet of impotence. He likened rumours to reptiles, thus dehumanising those who spread them: The act of murmuring is akin to that of creeping; it lives off phrases like it is said, it appears that, I’ve had it confirmed, I have it on good authority, and all those foolish expressions on which hinge fables, whispers and falsehoods that offer topics for scandal and for unhealthy gloating to the malicious gullibility of those who have taken a leave from common sense.



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By negatively stereotyping false news, the spread of rumours was portrayed as capturing the gullibility of the ‘masa’ (masses), which was labelled ‘necia’ (foolish) and presented as ‘incapable of reasoning, quick to feign scandal, eager to hear out and to spread any pejorative and libellous version of events’, while also living off nothing ‘more than projecting blunders and dishonesty on individuals who enjoy a certain prestige’. The author further explained that: This incapable and barren mass possesses a morbid gullibility that allows it to incorporate and disseminate any corrosive rumour and piece of news. The lower the ethical and discursive standards of this flock that vegetates, and talks, and repeats what others have said, the easier it is for the bad weeds of rumour and insidiousness to flourish. Gossip and scandalous news are forged in the petty nature of those who are discontented, and the foolish mass accepts it at once, and spreads it like a trail of scandal and venom. It is enough to say it is said for the falsehood, which respects nothing, to be accepted. The most honest of lives are swept away on waves of insidiousness by the impulse of rumours and gossip.   And notice that the more vile and crass the rumour is, the more readily it is accepted by the swamp-like soul of those anodyne individuals who serve as a vehicle for all falsehoods and stupidities. How despicable is this wingless and petty group, capable only of achieving abjection!   And among these people are a good many who believe themselves to be honest, but who do not react robustly when they are approached by the maleficent and unctuous whisperer with his habitual did you hear that . . .? The things people do! . . . It’s so scandalous.

Renewed campaigns against the spread of rumours were launched all throughout the Second World War, especially at the points when expectation was greater about the direction of the war, such as when the Allied armies disembarked on the North of Africa. The Delegación Nacional de Propaganda (National Delegation for Propaganda) of the Vicesecretaría de Educación Popular (sent out a series of texts to its provincial delegations that were to be broadcast through local radio stations.7 The first of these texts, entitled ‘Táctica vituperable’ (‘Execrable Tactics’), was broadcast on 10 November 1942: it denounced the fact that communism was spreading in Spain even after the end of the Civil War and warned listeners specifically against the spread of rumours. In this way, communism was presented as the real source of rumours. The radio piece thus warned anyone who paid attention to hearsay:

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In light of this danger it has become necessary to warn all those who either unconsciously or in good faith may offer fertile ground for these dark intrigues. We must by all means avoid being manipulated like puppets by the perverse strategy of the Komintern. Let us all live together and in unity, in that steely bloc which allowed Spain, in that Glorious 18 July when all seemed lost, to slay the powerful enemy which is today being defeated in its very lair, the USSR.

Another radio piece, entitled ‘Traición política inconsciente de algunos buenos españoles’ (‘Unconscious Political Betrayal on the Part of Some Good Spaniards’), stressed that all well-meaning Spaniards must be warned against the strategy supposedly being deployed by international communism, for they were unaware of the danger and were thus betraying not only the motherland and the regime, but also their own ideals. It went on to argue that the breeding ground for the spread of rumours was everyday dissatisfaction over petty ‘small reasons’: The strategy laid out by the Komintern in its most recent instructions to its Spanish acolytes is sinuous and subtle, as opposed to the overt and unabashed tactics we knew during the years that preceded our Glorious Uprising. The leaders of the Third International order that any noise inspired in a rebellious opposition to the Regime must be carefully avoided. On the contrary, what is needed is to slowly and incessantly undermine the bases of the State, breaking up its homogeneity, creating isolated and heterogeneous groups which, by rubbing against one another, will eventually come destroy it. This is why Soviet strategy devotes the greater part of its effort to airing and deforming, to ‘fattening the dog’ – in the accurate words of Cervantes – those ‘small reasons’ for opposition that always exist, on the winds of their venomous wickedness. (AGA, Sección Cultura, Ministerio de Información y Turismo, c. 807)

The propaganda campaign stressed this point repeatedly and always in tune with the anti-communist element of the Francoist dictatorship’s official discourse, which was now even more pronounced, given developments in the European war’s Eastern Front, where the División Azul (Blue Division) was now fighting.8 According to an article published on 10 December by the Delegación Nacional de Propaganda as part of this campaign, the source of all canards was the Komintern’s instructions regarding Spain. These instructions would be recommending all the ‘secuaces rojos’ (red minions) to make use of the only weapons they had against the regime: ‘unfounded rumours, canards, lies fabricated with the worst possible intentions’. For, in the present circumstances, rumours needed to be viewed as an enemy weapon:



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Once upon a time, canards could be interpreted as a mere pastime or as an imaginative form of escapism. Those rumours of yesteryear were (correctly) seen as harmless, in a peacetime atmosphere in which they were unimportant. But nowadays things are markedly different. When the enemy has been defeated, when he has no other weapons or means available with which to attack us, he resorts to these dark and venomous proceedings. (AGA, Sección Cultura, Ministerio de Información y Turismo, c. 807)

Canards were presented as circulating and offering an easy bait for thousands of people who were unconsciously turned into accomplices of such enemy plots, to the point that ‘those who do not stop and ponder for a second what goal a false piece of news might seek to accomplish, and only think of sharing it with others, are perfectly furthering the enemy’s evil ends’. Against the rumour and canard ‘fiebre’ (fever) – the very intensity of which was taken as proof of the former’s falsehood and dark origin – the only recourse was educating the people politically so that national unity might be preserved. A clear instance of the use of propaganda had taken place a few days before. The weekly El Español, edited by Juan Aparicio, published a series of supposed Komintern instructions that had been recently intercepted.9 The paper’s front page stated that what was most relevant about them were the coincidences in content between the intercepted flyers and leaflets and what one could hear being rumoured among the ‘desocupados’ (idle) and ‘chismosos de oficio’ (professional gossips) who did not seem to be communists, so that one need not wonder which was the chicken and which was the egg. The main theme of the propaganda campaign against rumours and gossiping was thus to point to their supposed origin in communist conspiracy, associating rumours with the enemy’s strategies for division and defamation. Rumour was thus presented as the enemy’s everyday weapon.

What Does the Pueblo Talk about? In order to reinforce desired attitudes and opinions, thus increasing the effectiveness of the spiral of silence that was operating on dissenters, the propaganda organs of the ‘new State’ had to develop a greater understanding of evolving popular sentiment. Organisms and processes were developed with the aim of finding out what rumours were making the rounds among citizens, therefore helping the information services to better orient the messages that were to be spread

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by the state media. By focusing on certain issues and attenuating or ignoring others, the regime’s propaganda tried to avoid alienating popular support. The interest on the part of Falange and the administration in obtaining information on popular sentiment, on latent states of opinion, led to the carrying out of the first opinion polls in the early 1940s; it also led to investigations into the rumours that were found to be circulating among the population. The Servicio Español de Auscultación de la Opinión Pública (Spanish Service for the Auscultation of Public Opinion) was created in the autumn of 1942 within the Vicesecretaría de Educación Popular and thus was integrated within the Delegación Nacional de Prensa (National Press Delegation) (Sevillano 2000a). Under the direction of Cayetano Aparicio López, this first body devoted to the study of public opinion in Spain carried out successive opinion polls as part of a totalitarian conception of what information was, and with a clear governmental agenda: If the function of the Press in modern States is not only to inform public opinion honestly and seriously, but also to lead and to orient it, thus acting as an incalculably valuable educational medium, it is clear that whatever body is in charge of it must have at all times a clear sense of the state of said opinion. It needs to know how the latter is reacting to a specific event, as well as its preferences, its tastes, and indeed the particular mindset on which it is to operate. It is impossible to draw up a plan for collective social education without having at all times a precise sense of the effect it is having on those at whom it is aimed. (El Instituto Español de la Opinión Pública y la Prensa 1945–46: 873).

When the remit and the various services of the Vicesecretaría de Educación Popular were transferred in July 1945 from the Secretaría General del Movimiento (General Secretary of the Movimiento) to the Ministerio de Educación Nacional (Ministry of National Education), the Servicio de Auscultación continued with its activities as part of the now-renamed Subsecretaría de Educación Popular, which was in turn organically integrated into the Dirección General de Prensa (Directorate-General for the Press). Already from January 1945, the provincial delegations had been instructed to elaborate and send along, every ten days, reports on the state of public opinion that would address what comments and rumours were circulating about local, provincial and regional problems, as well as whether foreign pamphlets, magazines and propaganda were circulating locally and whether any news transmitted by foreign radio stations had generated comment.



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Other departments within the single party had also been gathering information related to the spread of rumours, as had been the case with the Delegación Nacional de Provincias (National Delegation for the Provinces) of the Secretaría General del Movimiento.10 The relevant information was included in the monthly reports elaborated by the Falange provincial offices on the political climate in their respective provinces. Instructions that were sent out by the Secretaría General del Movimiento on 13 and 14 June 1940 laid out the expected regularity and contents of these reports.11 In relation to comments that might be making the rounds among the people, section 19 of each report was expected to address the ‘Ambiente en el partido y general político’ (overall and party-specific political atmosphere), and section 20 would address the ‘Ambiente en el partido y general político sobre la guerra actual’ (overall and party-specific political atmosphere regarding the current war, i.e. the Second World War). The information that was sent along became more routine from 1942, with the reports eventually becoming mere accounts of activities that had been undertaken by the single party.

Conclusion: What Was Public Opinion during Francoism? As happened in other contemporary dictatorships, the spiral of silence dynamic shaped public opinion in Spain throughout the postCivil War period by establishing a system of communication that was pathologically coercive. Not only did the coercive capabilities of propaganda and censorship in the Francoist ‘new State’ constrain the public sphere as a space in which the public could express itself, but also, and more broadly, the very bases of interpersonal relationships became conditioned. Information control and the dissemination of stereotypes –which stigmatized the public and the practice of spreading rumours as linked to the enemy and fostered by ­communism – attempted to create an environment of selective perception that would, for fear of social isolation (and of punishment), silence the expression of individual opinions that were not in step with the ‘collective opinion’ that was being disseminated by the regime’s propaganda. The process of coercive communication is not as much a performative one as it is one that inhibits individual behaviour, triggering the interruption of a certain response or mode of conduct. In this sense, it signalled a break in the classic conception of the public sphere, something that despite the existence of government

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censorship had not happened in Spain during the earlier dictatorship of Primo de Rivera (1923–30). In this way, fear of isolation bridges the gaps between everyday experience in different political and historical contexts, and is common to different dictatorships, by generating a double dynamic in the processes of social communication. It creates a spiral of silence that conditions individual expressive and behavioural inclinations, a spiral that is reinforced by propaganda basically as a substitute form of violence, but that also and paradoxically comes to foster a Freudian ‘drive’ dynamic that pushes towards shared manifestations through mobilisation and collective participation in an ‘aesthetic of the masses’ – a totalitarian policy that the Francoist ‘new State’ initially pursued in Spain. Francisco Sevillano is Associate Professor at the University of Alicante, Spain. He has published books and articles on various aspects of contemporary Spanish history, particularly of the twentieth century. He is the author of Propaganda y medios de comunicación en el franquismo (Publicaciones de la Universidad de Alicante, 1998), Ecos de papel: La opinión de los españoles en la época de Franco (Biblioteca Nueva, 2000), Exterminio: El terror con Franco (Oberon, 2004), Rojos: La representación del enemigo en la guerra civil (Alianza Editorial, 2007), Franco: Caudillo por la gracia de Dios (Alianza Editorial, 2010) and La cultura de guerra del ‘nuevo Estado’ franquista (Biblioteca Nueva, 2017).

Notes  1. While many works have addressed the issue of popular opinion during the period of consolidation and expansion of the various fascist regimes, as well as in the Soviet Communist regime, see the pioneering studies and the working hypotheses of Broszat (1977–81); Kershaw (1983); Colarizi (1991); Corner (2012); Laborie (1991); Fitzpatrick (1994); and Figes (2007). As a general overview of the existing literature, see Corner (2009).  2. On propaganda during the Francoist dictatorship, see Sevillano (1998); for the specific case of the printed press, see Chuliá (2001). See also the local study of La Rioja by Fandiño Pérez (2009).  3. For the theoretical models that inform this study, see Noelle-Neumann (1974, 1984). In terms of the function played by the media, I have also made use of the ideas contained in McCombs and Shaw (1972).  4. Caudillo, meaning ‘leader’, was a title Franco bestowed upon himself and was commonly used to refer to him, especially after his proclamation as Head of State on 29 September 1936.



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 5. Although it was not deemed convenient to establish the Vicesecretaría de Educación Popular as an independent ministry, its very creation replicated the German National Socialist regime’s centralisation of propaganda policy in the person of Joseph Goebbels as Minister for Propaganda and Popular Education (Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda), as well as Italian fascism’s through the Ministero di Cultura Popolare (Minculpop). For the Spanish case, see Bermejo Sánchez (1991).  6. Movimiento nacional was the name given during Francoist regime to the system that resulted from the integration of the single party (Falange) into the state structure, assuring the latter’s adherence to the ideological principles that the Francoist side had fought to preserve during the Civil War.  7. Archivo General de la Administración (AGA), Sección Cultura, Ministerio de Información y Turismo, c. 807.  8. The División Azul was a contingent of Spanish volunteers, mostly affiliated to Falange, which were sent to aid the German army in the Russian campaign. On the importance of anti-communist discourse in Nazi propaganda, see Waddington (2007, 2008). On the broader efficacy of Nazi propaganda during the Second World War and nuancing some earlier proposals such as those by David Welch, see Kallis (2005).  9. El Español. Semanario del pensamiento y del espíritu I 3 (extraordinario), 14 September 1942. 10. For the German case, see Unger (1965–66). For the years of the Second World War, see Smith (1972) and, on the attention devoted to studies on public opinion as well as the carrying out of the first opinion polls in Italy during the Allied occupation of Sicily in 1943 and 1944, see Rinauro (2001). 11. AGA, Sección de Presidencia, Secretaría General del Movimiento, Delegación Nacional de Provincias, c. 48.

References Bermejo Sánchez, B. 1991. ‘La Vicesecretaría de Educación Popular (1941– 1945): un ‘ministerio’ de la propaganda en manos de Falange’. Espacio, Tiempo y Forma. Hª Contemporánea 4: 73–96. Broszat, M. (ed.). 1977–83. Bayern in NS Zeit, 6 vols. Munich: Oldenburg. Chuliá, E. 2001. El poder de la palabra. Prensa y poder político en las dictaduras: El régimen de Franco ante la prensa y el periodismo. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva. Colarizi, S. 1991. L’opinione degli italiani sotto il régimen: 1929–1943. Rome: Laterza. Corner, P. (ed.). 2009. Popular Opinion in Totalitarian Regimes: Fascism, Nazism, Communism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ——. 2012. The Fascist Party and Popular Opinion in Mussolini’s Italy. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Domínguez Arribas, J. 2009. El enemigo judeo-masónico en la propaganda franquista (1936–1945). Madrid: Marcial Pons Ediciones de Historia. Fandiño Pérez, R. 2009. El baluarte de la buena conciencia: Prensa, propaganda y sociedad en La Rioja del franquismo. Logroño: Instituto de Estudios Riojanos/Universidad de La Rioja. Figes, O. 2007. The Whisperers: Private Life in Stalin’s Russia. New York: Metropolitan Books. Fitzpatrick, S. 1994. Stalin’s Peasants: Resistance and Survival in the Russian Village after Collectivization. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Franco Bahamonde, F. 1940. Mensaje a todos los españoles pronunciado por el Caudillo en Madrid: 31 de diciembre de 1939. Madrid: Nueva Imprenta Radio. García, F. 1939a. ‘¡Alerta con la mediocridad!’, Arriba, 22 September. ——. 1939b. ‘Alerta contra la insidia’, Arriba, 29 September. ——. 1939c. ‘Alerta con la hipocresía’, Arriba, 2 December. ——. 1940. ‘Alerta con los tibios’, Arriba, 13 February. García Luengo, E. 1943. ‘Misión social del periodista’, Gaceta de la Prensa española II 13. González de Canales, P. 1943. ‘Propaganda a la española’, Sí. Suplemento semanal de Arriba II 61. El Instituto Español de la Opinión Pública y la Prensa. 1945–46. Anuario de la Prensa Española I. Madrid: Delegación Nacional de Prensa. Kallis, A.A. 2005. Nazi Propaganda and the Second World War. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Kershaw, I. 1983. Popular Opinion and Political Dissent in the Third Reich: Bavaria 1933–1945. Oxford: Claredon Press. Laborie, P. 1991. L’opinion publique sous Vichy. Paris: Seuil. McCombs, M.E., and D.L Shaw. 1972. ‘The Agenda-Setting Function of the Mass Media’, Public Opinion Quarterly 36: 176–87. Mostaza, B. 1940. ‘El cine como propaganda’, Primer Plano. Revista española de cinematografía I (10). Noelle-Neumann, E. 1974. ‘The Spiral of Silence: A Theory of Public Opinion’, Journal of Communication, 24(2): 43–51. ____. 1984. The Spiral of Silence. A Theory of Public Opinion: Our Social Skin. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Postoutenko, K. (ed.). 2010. Totalitarian Communication: Hierarchies, Codes and Messages. Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag. ‘La radio como formadora de una psicología colectiva’. 1939. Radio Nacional. Revista semanal de radiodifusión II (58). Rinauro, S. 2001. ‘Il sondaggio d’opinione arriva in Italia (1936–1946)’. Passato e presente XIX(52): 41–66. Ros, S. 1939. ‘El público no existe’, Arriba, 8 July. Sevillano, F. 1998. Propaganda y medios de comunicación en el franquismo (1936–1951). Alicante: Publicaciones de la Universidad de Alicante. ——. 2000a. ‘Notas para el estudio de la opinión en España durante el franquismo’, Reis. Revista Española de Investigaciones Sociológicas 90: 229–44.



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——. 2000b. Ecos de papel: La opinión de los españoles en la época de Franco. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva. ——. 2007. Rojos. La imagen del enemigo en la guerra civil. Madrid: Alianza Editorial. ——. 2010. Franco: ‘Caudillo’ por la gracia de Dios, 1936–1947. Madrid: Alianza Editorial. ——. 2017. La cultura de guerra del ‘nuevo Estado’ franquista: Enemigos, héroes y caídos de España. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva. Smith, A.L., Jr. 1972. ‘Life in Wartime Germany: Colonel Ohlendorf’s Opinión Service’, Public Opinion Quarterly 36: 1–7. Unger, A.L. 1965–66. ‘The Public Opinion Reports of the Nazi Party’, Public Opinion Quarterly 29: 565–82. Waddington, L. 2007. ‘The Anti-Komintern and Nazi Anti-Bolshevik Propaganda in the 1930s’, Journal of Contemporary History 42: 573–94. ——. 2008. Hitler’s Crusade: Bolshevism and the Myth of the International Jews Conspiracy. London: Tauris Academic Studies. Watzlawick, P., J. Beavin Banelas and D.D. Jackson. 1967. Pragmatics of Human Communication: A Study of Interactional Patterns, Pathologies and Paradoxes. New York: W.W. Norton & Co.

Part IV

The Twenty-First Century

å

Chapter 11

The Political Cartoonist as Intellectual Cultural Hegemony and Consensus in Crisis Daniel Mourenza

å Political cartoonists are frequently seen as independent figures whose humour and satirical commentaries spark controversy and trouble leaders across the globe (Danjoux 2007: 245). Humour, it is said, allows the author more freedom to address controversial issues from current events than, say, newspaper columnists. Hence, political humour has been read through different theories that have addressed it as a form of defiance, transgression, relief or even exorcism (Bobillo de la Peña 2013: 13). Without dismissing these unquestionable aspects of political cartooning, I would like to bring in this chapter this allegedly independence into question. In his book La ilustración gráfica del siglo XIX en España (Illustrated Magazines in Nineteenth-Century Spain), Valeriano Bozal analysed the caricatures and political cartoons from the nineteenth century in Spain to conclude that the rise of the graphic illustration in the country was tightly interwoven with the development of the Spanish bourgeoisie, who used it as a means to shape a bourgeois conception of the world (Bozal Fernández 1979: 11). Bozal thus understands the cartoonist as an intellectual who claims independence to make criticism of the political structures and institutions of absolutism and its social types, and thus legitimise with this activity the new status quo in a capitalist system that, in the nineteenth century, began to be hegemonic (1979: 16). It is worth noting here that, for the first time, this hegemony  – and the ideology that legitimised it  – was gained by consensus and not by hierarchy, as the Church and the State had hitherto done. The press was essential in this task. The nineteenth century saw, in fact, an unprecedented technological innovation in printing that permitted to improve the quality of the images and cut down reproduction costs, which helped the quick development of illustrated periodicals and humorous magazines, especially in the second half of the century.

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This chapter will look at a completely different period, but it will take a similar approach. Political cartoonists will be considered as intellectuals whose practice and humour are directed to shape, or to legitimise, a specific worldview, with its own set of values. Particular focus will be placed on the role of consensus in this battle for hegemony. I will look at two recent periods of the history of Spain: first, at the Transition period (1975–82?), which laid the foundations of democracy around the idea of ‘consensus’; and, second, at the 15-M or indignados movement (2011), which – I will argue – has brought into crisis such a ‘foundational myth’ and, with it, the hegemonic cultural paradigm that had prevailed until then in Spain. In order to explore and compare these two periods, I will use as a thread the figure of the cartoonist Andrés Rábago, who, under the pseudonym of El Roto, has been drawing political cartoons in a number of publications from late Francoism to the present day. I will argue that, similarly to other cartoonists of that period, he was very critical with the way in which the Transition to democracy was led. More recent cartoons show that he is now as bitterly critical with the idea of a ‘politics of consensus’ as he was then, especially when it comes to support the capitalist system.

The Political Cartoonist as an Intellectual As I introduced above, I will understand the political cartoonist as an intellectual. I will follow the definition given by the Italian communist thinker Antonio Gramsci, who argues that the intellectual is such not by the intrinsic nature of his or her activities, but by the ensemble of social relations in which these intellectual activities take place and particularly by the function that he or she performs in society (Gramsci 1976: 8–9). Regarding the position of the intellectual in relation to the hegemonic group, Gramsci introduces two types of intellectuals. On the one hand, there are the traditional intellectuals, who are those already in existence before a social group attains power and who usually consider themselves as autonomous and independent of the hegemonic social group – yet, he points out, they perform that function responding to a specific arrangement of social relations. On the other hand, there are the organic intellectuals, who are created along by every social group. Gramsci argues that a social group that expects to gain hegemony needs to assimilate and conquer ideologically the traditional intellectuals, while at the same time it produces its own ‘organic intellectuals’ (1976: 10). Gramsci defines hegemony as the provisional domination or leadership of a social group over



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another. In parliamentary democracies such as Spain, hegemony is exercised, he argues, by the combination of force – exerted by the state apparatuses – and consensus. Nonetheless, through the organs of public opinion, ‘the attempt is always made to ensure that force will appear to be based on the consent of the majority’ (1976: 80).1 Gramsci introduces men of letters, philosophers and artists as ‘traditional intellectuals’, that is, those who claim independence from the hegemonic group, but depend on the specific social relations that are created by that group. In this way, I will argue that political cartoonists do often pertain to this category. Intellectuals and, more specifically, political cartoonists can legitimise this consensus and therefore this hegemony through their role as opinion-makers, but they can also confront the hegemonic group, its values and its worldview, and, more directly, unveil this alleged consensus as ideology. Ricardo Tejeiro Salguero and Teodoro León Gross have suggested that the editorial cartoon can be compared to the opinion column because it is ‘an excellent tool to critically analyse reality’ and, as such, contributes to ‘shaping the image of social and political reality conveyed by newspapers’ (Tejeiro Salguero and León Gross 2009: 3). However, they do not agree that cartoons can be put on the same level as editorials, because they do not always fit the editorial line of the newspaper. In that regard, they argue that editorial cartoons are ‘a genre used by newspapers to strengthen their editorial line with prestigious, independent contributors’ (2009: 7). The negotiations and clashes between cartoonists and the media for which they draw are frequent, as I will show later, and represent this battle between intellectuals and socioeconomic groups that attempt to assimilate them.

Cultura de la Transición (CT) One year after the 15-M movement emerged, in 2012, the book CT o la Cultura de la Transición: Crítica a 35 años de cultura española (CT or The Culture of the Transition: A Critique of 35 Years of Spanish Culture), edited by the journalist Guillem Martínez, coined and developed the concept of Cultura de la Transición, which was branded CT after Martínez’s typically casual and anti-academic language. The concept can be defined, in a nutshell, as the hegemonic cultural paradigm that has prevailed in Spain since Franco’s death (Martínez 2012: 11). Culture is here understood in its broader sense, involving worldviews as well as ways of seeing, doing and thinking (Fernández-Savater 2012:

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37). According to the authors of this book and the scholars who have later adopted the concept, the problem with this cultural paradigm is that it establishes a very restrictive framework of meaning or ‘marco de sentido’ (Moreno-Caballud 2014: 16) that dictates ‘los límites de lo posible’ (the bounds of the possible) (Fernández-Savater 2012: 37). Guillem Martínez argues that the origins of this cultural paradigm are in the Transition, a period in which, for the sake of stability, culture was deactivated and depoliticised in the name of political consensus and social cohesion (2012: 15). According to Ignacio Echevarría, this period also attempted to cancel out history, through the political decision of forgetting, in the interests of a project of coexistence. He thus argues that CT can be understood as ‘the natural consequence of the alignment of the country’s intellectual classes with that project’ (Echevarría 2012: 28–29). Cultural objects were therefore meant to be unproblematic, blunt and festive in order to adhere to, and not to create obstacles for, this political project. The relationship between culture and the state became, according to Martínez, as follows: ‘culture does not meddle in politics – unless to support the state – and the State does not meddle in culture – unless to subsidise and give it honours’ (2012: 16). This ‘festivity’ or ‘celebratory character’ is indeed one of the characteristics that Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio associated with the use of culture made by the Socialist Party (PSOE) government in an article from 1984 eloquently entitled ‘La cultura, ese invento del gobierno’ (Culture: An Invention of the Government).2 According to him, culture was diluting and getting replaced by its own advertising campaigns, in this way becoming the mere celebration of the cultural event. The festive character of this culture was promoted by the state, which, through the Ministry of Culture, promoted refreshing, bland and unproblematic cultural objects (Sánchez Ferlosio 1984: 11–12).3 This cultural paradigm, which was beginning to become hegemonic in the 1980s, was based on the idea that culture should be consensual, that is, unproblematic. In this way, culture should not question Spain’s democracy and its party system, but nor should be critical of the economic system that Spain had embraced. Luis Moreno-Caballud thus notes that this consensus ‘prevented the political and economic foundations (the party system and capitalism) to be questioned, tacitly suggesting that these issues should be managed by experts’ (2014: 13). Isidro López refers to the economic side of this consensus as ‘consensonomics’. This variant of the previously cited consensus supports the idea that every social or political conflict must be concealed in order not to disturb the natural functioning of the market. The sphere of economics should therefore have no interference by politics; it only has



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to be administered as a science by experts, that is, a group of technocratic economists (López 2012: 77). López argues that this economic consensus was introduced by the Pactos de la Moncloa in 1977, which involved all the parties of the political spectrum and accepted that the state should not intervene in economy. Nonetheless, he suggests, the state always does ultimately help the market obtain more benefits (López 2012: 83). Gramsci had precisely suggested that although at first sight hegemony – and the battle to attain it – may seem purely political, its decisive nucleus is always economic, since the maintenance and development of hegemonic social groups always rest on economic factors (Gramsci 1976: 161). The 15-M brought into question the very idea of consensus that was established in the Transition, criticising the economic and political system that was created, and cast doubt on the role of experts to manage what had become not only a financial but also a political and social crisis.

Dissent versus Consensus In this section I will explore political cartoons from the Transition against the recent criticism that historians, scholars and activists have made of this period, which for many years was sold as a model for ‘exemplary transition’ by both the official and the academic narrative (Kornetis 2014: 83). I will argue that political cartoons contemporary to the Transition, especially in humorous magazines such as Hermano Lobo, Por Favor and El Papus, were very critical with the democratising process. It is not surprising that a revision of the political cartoons from this period has taken place at the same time as the historical and political revision of the Transition. I will particularly focus on El Roto, who fiercely criticised in his cartoons how the democratising process was led and the political and economic system that was then formed, but I will also cite the work of other cartoonists whose position towards the process can better be described as one of dissent. Andrés Rábago began his career as a political cartoonist in the mid 1960s in publications such as La Estafeta Literaria, La Codorniz and Triunfo, where he signed himself as OPS. In these cartoons, he alluded to the oppressive climate of those years with a surrealist and ­introspective style influenced by the French illustrator Roland Topor. El Roto made his first appearance in Hermano Lobo, a humorous magazine that was more biting and aggressive than La Codorniz, in October 1972. Pablo García Ureña (2014a) argues that the signature of El Roto appeared when the need for speaking plainly grew as the

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political climate became more tense and turbulent. El Roto thus presented a more direct and cutting approach to the political and social situation of the country, criticising the stagnation of Francoism, the continuity of oligarchic and undemocratic structures, capitalism and U.S. foreign policy (García Ureña 2014b). García Ureña also notes that his cartoons were very critical with the Transition and satirised the fact that the Francoist elite was leading the democratising process. In this way, he compares the cartoons with recent criticism to the Transition made by historians such as Ferran Gallego and Bernat Muniesa, who have criticised this historical process for being led from above and with the collaborationism of leftist parties, while the real process of democratisation, they argue, had been started by popular movements which were subsequently deactivated (García Ureña 2014b). García Ureña illustrates this position with two vertical cartoon strips published in March and May 1976. In the first one, a man in a hat, representing the working class, says through four identical panels: ‘¡Qué maravilla con la derecha, oiga!/ Primero nos organizan la guerra./ Luego nos organizan la posguerra./ Y ahora nos quieren organizar la convivencia’ (How wonderful the Right!/ They first organised the war./ Then, they organised the postwar./ And now they want to organise coexistence) (see Figure 11.1). In the second one, a man gets disfigured throughout four panels in which he exclaims: ‘Yo era republicano./ Pero serví al franquismo por razones de supervivencia./ Y he pactado con la monarquía por razones de pragmatismo./ Dicen que estoy muy cambiado, pero sigo siendo el mismo’ (I was a Republican./ However, to survive, I served Francoism./ I made a pact with the monarchy for practical reasons./ I’ve been told that I changed a lot, but I am always the same) (see Figure 11.2). In La Transición contada a nuestros padres (The Transition Told to Our Parents), Monedero suggests, similarly to Ferran Gallego, that the Transition was initiated by workers’ protests calling for improvements in working conditions, by strikes in the universities, by people who kept fighting for a better Spain with the memory of the Second Republic, the war and the anti-fascist movement in mind, and, finally, by international pressure. The Transition began, he maintains, because those in power had to respond to this climate, not because of their generous will (Monedero 2014: 50). Monedero’s main point is that the Transition was not a period of consensus, but one of conflict. Indeed, for him, it was conflict, which is the essence of politics, that brought democracy to Spain (Monedero 2014: 136). He argues that, in fact, a consensus was not reached until the failed 1981 coup, when the population was scared, and people resigned to what they had already achieved.



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Figure 11.1  El Roto, Hermano Lobo, 202, 20 March 1976, p. 14. Reproduced with the kind permission of Andrés Rábago.

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Figure 11.2  El Roto, Hermano Lobo, 201, 22 May 1976, p. 6. Reproduced with the kind permission of Andrés Rábago.

This, added to the 1977 Pactos de la Moncloa, which, according to him, meant the final deactivation of popular movements in favour of the executives of the political parties, and the memoricide that was imposed in order to conceal the liability of the political power in the Civil War and the repression that followed during the dictatorship contributed to the failure of a truly democratic system in Spain. It is symptomatic that Monedero uses political cartoons from the period to illustrate that the consensus during those years was far from being a reality; moreover, it was a period of deep conflict. He thus defends the idea that humorous publications such as Hermano Lobo, La Codorniz, Por Favor, El Papus and El Jueves can be very good tools in terms of understanding what happened in the Transition, especially because of the way in which irony made it possible to express what was happening (Monedero 2014: 49). Throughout the book, cartoons by Ramón, El Roto, El Perich, Chumy Chúmez and

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Quesada, among others, challenge and contradict the ‘foundational myth’ of the Transition as told by the official narrative, which claims that democracy was achieved in Spain thanks to the efforts and sacrifices of some individuals (King Juan Carlos I, Adolfo Suárez, Felipe González and Santiago Carrillo) who made it possible to heal old wounds and paved the way to a peaceful coexistence under democracy. Monedero quotes many cartoons that show and criticise how the Francoist elite continuously suggested that people were not yet capable of deciding about their future and therefore that the process should be led from above. In a cartoon by Ramón (Ramón Gutiérrez Díaz), an individual who represents the political elite claims: ‘No hay que precipitarse . . . Aún no están preparados para elegirnos’ (No rush . . . They are not ready yet to vote for us) (Monedero 2014: 38). In another by El Perich (Jaume Perich Escala), a voice from outside the panel, representing power, says: ‘No están ustedes preparados para la democracia’ (You are not ready for democracy). From inside the panel, a man representing the man in the street asks: ‘¿Cómo lo saben?’ (How do you know?) ‘Porque hemos dedicado a ello nuestros máximos esfuerzos’ (Because we did everything in our hands to thwart it), responds the voice (Monedero 2014: 45). Other cartoons refer to the continuity of Francoist politicians in power and how they became democrats overnight. Chumy Chúmez illustrates this through a rich woman who tells one of these Francoists-turned-democrats: ‘Por favor, procurad ganar las elecciones para que no tengáis que organizar otra guerra, ¿eh?’ (Please win the elections so you don’t need to win another war, will you?) (Monedero 2014: 70) Ramón, in other cartoon, depicts another Francoist-turned-democrat in an armchair who says: ‘¡Pero hombre! Habernos dicho que la democracia era esto y habríamos venido mucho antes’ (Come on! Why didn’t anyone tell us that democracy was this? We would’ve come earlier) (Monedero 2014: 97) (see Figure 11.3). Finally, a cartoon by Ramón criticises the very idea of consensus during the Transition. Two politicians – representing the men in power – tell three smaller men from the crowd: ‘Lo importante es que estemos de acuerdo. Ya les mandaremos en qué’ (The most important thing is that we all agree. / We’ll tell you later with what) (Monedero 2014: 133) (see Figure 11.4). This latter cartoon thus suggests not only the centrality of consensus in the foundation of the new political system, but also that this consensus was imposed from above. It is especially poignant to recall another cartoon here from Hermano Lobo, since it relates to the current criticism to the figure of the expert, which, in this case, is tightly connected to the democratising process



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Figure 11.3 Ramón, Hermano Lobo, 191, 3 January 1976, p. 4. Reproduced with the kind permission of Ediciones Pleyades, S.A.

being led from above. In this cartoon by Chumy Chúmez, a rich man or man in power reprimands a regular man who claims he is hungry because the latter does not know about political economy (see Figure 11.5).4 Political cartooning in the Transition has attracted much attention, since it is widely considered to be the golden age of the political cartoon in Spain. A number of humorous magazines were launched in the 1970s – Hermano Lobo, Barrabás, El Papus, Por favor, Muchas gracias, El Cocodrilo Leopoldo, El Cuervo and El Jueves – although only the latter survived beyond the 1980s. In 2013, the Biblioteca Nacional de España organised the exhibition ‘La Transición en tinta china’ (The Transition in India Ink), which collected cartoons from the most important magazines of this period. This exhibition, funded by the Ministerio de Educación, Cultura y Deporte (Ministry of Education, Culture and Sport), was in many respects a CT product. For example, the cover of the exhibition showed a ballot box with a smile, which obviously represented the triumph of democracy. The curator of the exhibition, Francisco Bobillo, recognised that cartoons from this period were more critical than the friendly image of them that we have

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Figure 11.4 Ramón, Hermano Lobo, 202, 20 March 1976, p. 14. Reproduced with the kind permission of Ediciones Pleyades, S.A.

Figure 11.5  Chumy Chúmez, Hermano Lobo, 194, 24 January 1976, p. 3. (‘I’m hungry!/ But do you even know what political economy is?’) Reproduced with the kind permission of Ediciones Pleyades, S.A.

today (Bobillo de la Peña 2013: 21), but he also argued – displacing the object of conflict – that consumerism was one of the main factors that helped to bring change, as well as the reception of political cartooning (2013: 16). However, the assistant curator of the exhibition, Jaime González Cela, realised that many elements of the political cartoons from these years have been overlooked precisely because they do not fit into the parameters of CT (he refers directly to the book CT o la Cultura de la Transición). In his text for the catalogue, he writes that when he started to do research for the exhibition, he was shocked by ‘the cartoons’ politicisation, their critical stance towards the Transition process and their dissatisfaction with a period that, they began to realise, it would be decisive for the country’s future’. González Cela adds that although there is a multiplicity of political nuances among the cartoonists: they all have in common a sharp, critical attitude not only towards censure and Francoist politicians – as publications on the topic often argue – but also towards referenda and ballot boxes, the very symbol of democracy, which in many cartoons are r­epresented as coffins. (González Cela 2013: 37)

González Cela thus challenges the words of the curator, who defended the notion that the icon of the exhibition was the ballot box, because ‘apart from symbolising the right to vote, it represented the ideal of freedom and democracy shared by most of the population’ (2013: 21).



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Indeed, Francisco Bobillo introduces the ballot box and the bunker as the two motifs that represent the opposite sides in the Transition: those who wanted democracy and those who did not, or, in other words, the inmovilistas on one side and, on the other, the aperturistas – together with the democratic opposition. The problem with this binary opposition is that, as Monedero suggests, ‘by defining a part of Francoism as inmovilista or bunker, the other part (the aperturistas) is rendered positive, when a few months earlier both were in the same boat and defended the same issues’ (Monedero 2014: 136). In this way, this discourse conceals the real actors of the democratisation process by reducing the conflict to a binary opposition that barely represents the actual clashes that took place during the period in question. A similar problem can be found in the otherwise good and thorough study Un país de chiste. El humor gráfico durante la Transición (This Country Is a Joke: Political Cartooning in the Spanish Transition) by Francisco Segado Boj. Under the guise of an allegedly scientific neutrality, Segado Boj adopts for himself a common-sense position in which, despite refraining from making personal statements, he clearly despises the bunker or inmovilistas and, more unconsciously, endorses those who defended the process, even if these came from Francoism. This position first overlooks the huge differences among those who wanted to democratise the country and, second, accepts that consensus was defended by the majority, thus ignoring the sharp criticism to the Transition made by the very same cartoonists he analyses. For example, some cartoons from Fandiño for the far-right El Alcázar – however despicable they may be – do express better the suddenly transformation that some Francoist politicians undertook to become democrats than, say, those of Mingote (Ángel Antonio Mingote Barrachina) for ABC or Dátile (Emilio Dáneo Palacios) for Ya. In short, the cartoons referred to above show that, as many scholars have recently defended, ‘the very transition was built upon dissent’, although this dissent was later invisibilised and deproblematised (Sampedro and Lobera 2014: 71).

The Crisis of the Traditional Media In his article about the current panorama of Spanish political satire, Manuel Barrero pays special attention to the consequences of the marketisation of the traditional media on political humour. He notes that those who now take decisions in the Spanish media are not their ideologues, but their owners. Because of the enormous debt that these media contracted, the owners of these media are in most cases

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financial institutions. El País, for example, belongs to Banco Santander, Caixabank and HSBC, and therefore has to respond first to these entities. This situation has obliged many media to, first, reduce production costs and, second, avoid controversial issues. Barrero focuses in his article on the crisis of the humorous magazine El Jueves under the ownership of RBA Editores. He notes that when RBA bought El Jueves in 2006, it reached an agreement with the cartoonists about the topics they could criticise and those they could not. Although cartoonists had significant room for manoeuvre, they were told not to criticise their bosses – what is usually referred to as self-censorship. The first crisis came when the magazine decided not to publish a cartoon by Edgar (Edgar Cantero) that made reference to the tax evasion of the CEO of RBA. A bigger crisis arrived in issue 1,932. After King Juan Carlos I announced his abdication on 2 June 2014, the editorial board of El Jueves decided to publish a cover on this topic and depict Juan Carlos I passing a stinky crown to the new king, Felipe VI. However, an RBA executive manager issued an order to stop the publication of the magazine, thus delaying the launch of the issue. The authors of the magazine denounced the fact that RBA banned them from publishing the king of Spain on the cover in subsequent issues and many of them left the magazine (Barrero 2014). Although Ilan Danjoux focuses on editorial cartoonists in U.S. newspapers, in an article written in 2007, he points towards a similar reason to explain the decrease of political cartoonists in the traditional media. He argues that the main reason for this has been the rise of corporate media conglomerates and the increasing power they have gained. According to him, the ‘need to keep a staff cartoonist on the payroll became less economically convincing’ and the formula of ‘cutting costs while avoiding controversy’ proved much more appealing to the corporate-minded editor (Danjoux 2007: 247). However, his conclusion is that this decline has not affected the quality of the political satire, only the medium in which it is delivered, since editorial cartoons no longer depend on the printed press. For that reason, he argues that the future of political cartoons, especially in digital form, is brighter than ever. Barrero is less optimistic than Danjoux. His conclusion is that the situation of political satire today is very worrying; first and foremost, because of media’s great dependence on financial institutions, which makes independence and hence a critical and independent political satire very difficult to maintain. Nonetheless, Barrero applauds the emergence of a magazine such as Mongolia (launched in March 2012), which is financially independent of big publisher groups and financial institutions. This humorous magazine exploits a very caustic, gaudy



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humour that resembles that of El Papus during the Transition and recovers a type of humour that, Barrero argues, El Jueves lost in favour of a shallow comedy of manners. There is a less optimistic example, which could be in turn connected to Danjoux’s argument about the publication of cartoons in different media. The eighteen cartoonists who abandoned El Jueves founded the digital humorous magazine Orgullo y satisfacción in June 2014. However, this monthly publication had to close in December 2017 because, being totally independent of media publishers, it relied only on subscribers’ fees, which never reached the number required to keep the publication afloat. In short, this example shows the difficulties facing independent political satire in this environment. Therefore, the crisis of traditional media has also brought about the emergence of alternative periodicals – although, as the above example shows, their survival has proved very difficult. I want to argue that, along with the politicisation of the Spanish society in the 15-M, there was also a repoliticisation of political cartooning. If the indignados looked back at the Transition to question the ‘foundational myths’ of Spanish democracy (Kornetis 2014: 87), political cartoonists have also looked back at that period. For example, the founders of Mongolia, to give one example, consider themselves to be the heirs of publications such as La Codorniz, Hermano Lobo and El Papus (Mariño 2012).

15-M and the Crisis of CT Many authors have argued that the 15-M looked back at the 1970s in order to contest the Transition as a failed and unfinished project, its emergence causing a disruption of a political culture that was based on hierarchies, depoliticisation and consensus (Fernández 2017: 137; Sampedro and Lobera 2014: 62; Dapena 2015: 85). The 15-M have thus offered a different cultural paradigm from CT, one that is not centralised and opens up new fields for experimenting different ways of thinking and organising life in common – which is how FernándezSavater defines politics (2012: 40). Therefore, this new cultural paradigm consists of ‘giving back culture its power as a weapon, as a combative, activist and problematising object’ (Martínez 2012: 22–23). In other words, 15-M has brought the CT paradigm into crisis. Almost every definition of crisis agrees that periods of crisis entail a time of change, unrest and instability – but, for the same reason, they also involve a reordering of ideas. In this way, what was taken

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for granted is no longer so. In the book Aftermath: The Cultures of the Economic Crisis, Manuel Castells, João Caraça and Gustavo Cardoso argue that every crisis and restructuring of the system brings with itself a new culture (Castells, Caraça and Cardoso 2012: 4). They argue that in recent years, the European Union has succumbed to the unregulated financial markets, which means a predominance of the financial over the political (2012: 12). In this way, these authors understand that people are entrenching themselves in the public squares in order to find – or create – places where the political might have supremacy (2012: 11). This argument has special relevance in Spain since – as we have seen – politics has been continuously negated in the name of consensus. Castells, Caraça and Cardoso understand crises and their conflicts as social processes. In this way, they argue that when a system does not reproduce itself automatically, apart from attempts by some actors to restore the system to its former state, there are also attempts to reorganise a new system with a new set of interests and values (2012: 7). 15-M is a response to such a crisis, as an attempt to create a different way of doing politics. From quite early on, El Roto welcomed the 15-M movement and its different way of doing politics. On 18 May 2011, he published a cartoon in which there is a mass of protesters with a large white flag and a balloon that reads ‘Los jóvenes salieron a la calle y súbitamente todos los partidos envejecieron’ (Young people took to the streets and suddenly all political parties grew old) (see Figure 11.6). With only three days of existence, El Roto declared that this wave of protests had already changed politics in Spain. In fact, this cartoon soon became famous among the indignados, who hung it in the Cercanías train station in Sol. Other cartoons were also used in demonstrations as placards. Protesters thus assimilated his discourse as their own, making his cartoons take part in the struggle. In their reorganisation of interests and values, the indignados questioned and reconsidered the model of democracy that came out from the Transition. Its political and economic foundations, which were unquestionable under the paradigm of the Cultura de la Transición, were therefore contested. Thus, along with a political critique – of corruption, an unfair electoral system, lack of real representation – there was also an economic critique, especially of the loss of sovereignty in favour of the market. The slogan of 15-M not only called for ‘Real Democracy Now’, but also stated: ‘We are not commodities in hands of politicians and bankers.’ The protests therefore started against the regulation of politics according to the principles of the market.



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Figure 11.6  El Roto, El País, 18 May 2011. Reproduced with the kind permission of Andrés Rábago.

Consensonomics and Its Discontents Consensonomics thus seems to have come to the fore in the ­discourse – and contestation – of consensus. If consensus during the Transition was sold as a reconciliation between different sides and political ideologies in order to gain democracy for ‘all of us’, the consensus during the current financial crisis supports the idea that we all have to make sacrifices in order to recover the country’s economy. As the then Prime Minister Mariano Rajoy said in front of the People’s Party (PP) National Executive Committee in April 2013: ‘We all should be in the same boat to stimulate economic recovery.’ In fact, this discourse is not very different from the one defended by his predecessor José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero in the last years of his mandate. The cartoonist Manel Fontdevila devoted two similar cartoons to Zapatero and Rajoy on this issue. Both cartoons have a group of rich men carrying bags full of money in the background. In the first one, Zapatero addresses the reader and says: ‘26 medidas contra la crisis: un esfuerzo colectivo enorme, recortando aquí y allá . . . Todos nos ajustamos en lo posible,

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Figure 11.7  Manel Fontdevila, Público, 11 April 2010. Reproduced with the kind permission of Manel Fontdevila.

aportando nuestro granito de arena . . . Y así, poquito a poco, vamos levantando el país . . . ¡Es posible! ¡Podemos conseguirlo!’ (26 measures to combat the crisis: a massively collective effort, cutting here and there . . . Tightening where possible, making our little contribution . . . And thus, little by little, we are moving the country forward . . . It’s possible! We can do it!) (see Figure 11.7). In the second cartoon, published years later, Rajoy talks to a worker and shows him a blackboard, where it is written: ‘Austeridad. Sacrificio. Responsabilidad’ (‘Austerity. Sacrifice. Responsibility’). The worker, nevertheless, is looking at the rich men behind the blackboard with money bags, so Rajoy exclaims: ‘Y guiendo las directrices que . . . ¡Eh! ¡Eh! ¡Eh! ¡A-ver-si-a-ten-de-mos!’ (And following the rules that . . . Eh! Eh! Eh! Please-pay-at-ten-tion!) (see Figure 11.8). One of the strategies used in order to reach economic – and also ­political – consensus in this time of crisis was Marca España, a longterm state policy launched in 2012 that aimed to improve the image of the country. This strategy was part of an international, broader trend in nation-branding and therefore it is not specifically Spanish. Nonetheless, its implementation in Spain has its own special features. Simon Anholt, one of the strongest promoters of the concept of ‘nation-branding’ or ‘Competitive Identities’ (CI), argues that it is very important that countries understand and are able to manage their own identity and image.



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Figure 11.8  Manel Fontdevila, eldiario.es, 14 January 2013. Reproduced with the kind permission of Manel Fontdevila.

For many years, countries have promoted this image through foreign affairs policy and tourism campaigns, but Anholt says that all these efforts must be coordinated. He maintains that, in a globalised world, a country must compete ‘for its share of the world’s consumers, tourists, investors, students, entrepreneurs, international sporting and cultural events, and for the attention and respect of the international media, of other governments, and the people of other countries’ (Anholt 2007: 1). Anholt defends the idea that a good management of the perception that the world has of one country, including its stereotypes, can bring about many economic benefits. Countries need thus to manage their brand image, which is the perception that consumers have of the brand, in this case reputation. Nevertheless, Anholt says that as important as the brand image is the brand purpose, which is the internal equivalent to the brand image. He argues that in the same way that a company will not succeed if its workers and stockholders do not ‘live out the brand’, the same will happen in a country if nationals do not believe in the brand and become its ambassadors. For that reason, Anholt says that ‘the first and most important component of any national CI strategy is creating a spirit of benign nationalism amongst the populace, notwithstanding its cultural, social, ethnic, linguistic, economic, political, territorial and historical divisions’ (2007: 16). In short, national identity must be market-driven and nationals should internalise and contribute to this marketisation.

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Marca España is therefore understood as a brand that has to compete with other countries. However, this branded image of Spain should not be only sold outside but also inside the national borders. In this way, the main goal of this policy seems to be the brand purpose rather than the brand image. Pedro Ramiro, in his book Marca España ¿A quién beneficia? (Marca España: Who Is the Beneficiary?), has similarly noticed that this nation branding does not target as much an international audience, as it does a local one (Ramiro 2014: 13). According to him, this strategy takes part of a broader narrative that attempts to raise trust and support in Spanish companies among Spanish citizens, because that is – it is said – for the common good. In this way, Ramiro argues that ‘the interests of the 99% are sold as equal to big stockholders’ and CEOs’ of Spanish multi-national corporations’ (2014: 8). It is no accident that the subheading of Marca España reads: ‘We are all Marca España.’ Apart from encouraging Spanish people to have more trust in Spanish companies, this strategy also compels them to control their own image – created by their behaviour, actions and expressions – as part of a bigger image or brand that is subjected to the principles of the market and therefore should disturb the correct and ‘natural’ functioning of the market as little as possible. For Ramiro, the aim is to ‘prevent that the foundations of the current social-economic model collapse and, in this way, strengthen the power of big corporations in our society’ (Ramiro 2014: 12). Marca España has also become the target of many political cartoonists. El Roto, for example, devotes a very perceptive cartoon to making the point that, under this paradigm, national identities are driven by the market. In the panel, the front of a Civil Guard barracks holding a Spain flag reads ‘Todo por la marca’ (All for the brand), instead of the usual ‘Todo por la patria’ (All for the fatherland) (see Figure 11.9). Nevertheless, the most repeated criticism has focused on the gap between the idealised image projected by Marca España and reality. Eneko, for instance, has devoted a number of variations of the same cartoon to this topic. To symbols that represent Spain or its institutions – such as a bull, the letter ‘ñ’ or a crown – he added envelopes or chorizos, suggesting corruption, the silhouette of Panama or Switzerland’s flag, epitomising tax evasion, or the hands of an immigrant on a prison’s iron bars, alluding to the inhuman nature of the immigration detention centres in Spain. Other cartoonists have understood Marca España as yet another way of imposing consensus. A cartoon by Bernardo Vergara is illustrative of this trend. In the panel, there is a falangista, a corrupt businessman, two corrupt ­politicians – one from PSOE, the other from the PP – a torturer and



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Figure 11.9  El Roto, El País, 16 January 2014. Reproduced with the kind permission of Andrés Rábago.

anti-riot police – with blood in his nightstick – who are all over a piece of land filled with corpses representing those dead in the Civil War. All these characters exclaim: ‘¡Señores jueces: dejen en paz la Marca España!’ (Judges, please leave Marca España alone!) (see Figure 11.10). Thus, according to Vergara, Marca España is another excuse not to question those in power and therefore the history of Spain. Under the argument that any change promoted by citizens or even by justice could damage the good image of the brand, the old consensus reached in the Transition must be respected at all times, now in the name of the market.

Conclusion Throughout this chapter, I have given some examples of how political cartoonists have been particularly critical of the idea of consensus both during the Transition and in recent years. As a cartoonist who has lived and worked in these two periods, El Roto is an exemplary case in point to debunk the ideological construct of ‘consensus’ from the Transition

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Figure 11.10  Bernardo Vergara, eldiario.es, 4 April 2013. Reproduced with the kind permission of Bernardo Vergara.

to date. It has been recently pointed out that the El País newspaper was one of the most important actors in spreading and consolidating the idea of consensus during the Transition period and after. For example, in his book El cura y los mandarines (The Priest and the Mandarins), Gregorio Morán claims that it was one of the most important actors to shape the idea that the Transition was a period of consensus. He notes that the first canonisation of this period can be found precisely in the pages of El País as early as July 1977 in an article by Julián Marías entitled ‘La gratitud por el infortunio evitado’ (Thanks for Preventing a Misfortune) (Morán 2014: 570). In it, Marías considers that Spain has already achieved full democracy, as if the process had been finished, and asks Spaniards to be grateful to the leaders (‘geniuses’) that made it possible (Marías 1977). Juan Carlos Monedero gives El País and his first director, Juan Luis Cebrián, an even more central role, claiming that he ‘gave the platform where the official discourse of the Transition was built’ (Monedero 2014: 59). Andrés Rábago did not join El País until the 1990s, after drawing for newspapers and magazines such as Diario 16, Cambio 16, El Jueves and El Independiente. His cartoons in many cases fitted the editorial line of the newspaper, but he also managed to create a room for his own, from which he could attack and disturb the powerful. As Tejeiro Salguero and León Gross argue, newspaper need prestigious independent authors to reinforce their editorial line, even if



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Figure 11.11  El Roto, El País, 14 September 2011 (‘Smile, please! Don’t alarm the market!’) Reproduced with the kind permission of Andrés Rábago.

there are disagreements (2009: 7). It cannot be denied that for many years El País represented a platform that gave rise to some of the most progressive and critic voices in Spain. That said, their defence of consensus ‘at any cost’ has been a constant feature, which has been more pronounced in recent years.5 For the reasons mentioned above by Manuel Barrero, El País has in recent years become much more market-oriented and its idea for stability has shifted to one prescribed by the markets. However, El Roto has continued to publish cartoons with a clearly anti-capitalist stance in which he has sharply criticised ‘the ideological narrative that claims that what is good for the market is good for everyone’ (Mourenza 2016: 85), as can be seen in Figure 11.11. It thus seems that the disagreement between El Roto’s cartoons and the theses defended by El País, especially regarding the economy, has become increasingly obvious, and yet they have not broken their partnerships, unlike other columnists, such as Maruja Torres, who left the newspaper in May 2013. As I suggested at the beginning of the chapter, the role of the political cartoonist as an intellectual is either to legitimise the hegemonic group in power or to create a new worldview, a new set of values and provide

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an alternative to counter contemporary hegemony. Andrés Rábago, El Roto, can be considered as a ‘traditional intellectual’, since he has created for himself a position of independence from political power. From this position, he has criticised the political system that emerged from the Transition and, especially, a society that is driven by the principles of the market. As I have shown above, the indignados soon embraced his ideas and took his cartoons as representative of their political claims. However, this raises some questions: first, whether the social and political movements that emerged from 15-M will be able to really assimilate El Roto, as a traditional intellectual, to their own side; and, second, whether it is possible that El Roto can produce a counterhegemonic discourse from a medium such as El País, which, as we have seen, zealously defends consensus and, more importantly, belongs to big financial institutions. No answer will come without contradictions. But contradictions and conflicts are the basis of politics and that is precisely the muddy arena in which cartoonists create their work. Daniel Mourenza is currently a Teaching Fellow in Hispanic Studies at Newcastle University, United Kingdom. He has also worked at the University of Leeds, Aston University and Queen’s University Belfast. His main research interest is the intersection between aesthetics and politics, especially in popular culture. He has published an article on the political cartoons of El Roto in Romance Quarterly: ‘El Roto: A Political Cartoonist in Late Capitalist Spain’. He has also written a book chapter on the influence of Hollywood melodrama on the earlier films of Spanish director Juan Antonio Bardem: ‘Nothing Ever Happens: Juan Antonio Bardem and the Resignification of Hollywood Melodrama (1955–1965)’, in Global Genres/Local Films: The Transnational Dimension of Spanish Cinema (Bloomsbury, 2015). He has recently coedited a special issue of the cultural studies journal parallax on the topic of ‘barbarism’. His monograph on Walter Benjamin and cinema is forthcoming with Amsterdam University Press.

Notes I am deeply grateful to Andrés Rábago, Manel Fontdevila, Bernardo Vergara and Hermano Lobo Digital for their kind permission to reproduce their cartoons in this chapter. 1. In Italian, consenso means both ‘consent’ and ‘consensus’. The same fragment in its original Italian reads as follows: ‘L’esercizio “normale” dell’egemonia nel terreno divenuto classico del regime parlamentare,



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è caratterizzato da una combinazione della forza e del consenso che si equilibrano, senza che la forza soverchi di troppo il consenso, anzi appaia appoggiata dal consenso della maggioranza espresso dai così detti organi dell’opinione pubblica’ (Gramsci 1977: 59). 2. It is interesting to see how this short article has become so widely cited recently, not only by many of the authors of CT o la Cultura de la Transición, but also by Gregorio Morán in El cura y los mandarines (Historia no oficial del Bosque de los Letrados). Cultura y política en España 1962–1996. 3. In the article, Sánchez Ferlosio makes a joke about the PSOE’s approach to culture employing a famous sentence attributed to Goebbels or Göring: ‘En cuanto oigo la palabra cultura extiendo un cheque en blanco al portador’ (When I hear the word ‘culture’, that’s when I reach for my cheque book) (Sánchez Ferlosio 1984: 11). 4. The 213 issues of Hermano Lobo that were published from May 1972 to June 1976 can be found online in Hermano Lobo Digital: retrieved 3 December 2018 from http://www.hermanolobodigital.com/bcombinada.php. 5. See, for example, El País’ editorial from 4 September 2016 (‘Ni Rajoy ni Sánchez’), in which Mariano Rajoy and Pedro Sánchez were asked to step back and forget their differences – that is, that the latter abstained in the parliamentary vote to elect a new prime minister, as eventually occurred – because they should avoid at any cost the holding of a third election in a one-year period; and the response by a former journalist of El País, Rosa María Artal, who, in an article in which she remembered some historical articles that had inspired her, claimed that El País – or what it meant for her – had died (Artal 2016).

References Anholt, S. 2007. Competitive Identity: The Brand Management for Nations, Cities and Regions. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Artal, R.M. 2016. ‘Por qué amábamos “El País”’, ctxt, 5 September. Retrieved 1 December 2018 from http://ctxt.es/es/20160831/Firmas/8201/El-Paisperiodismo-hemeroteca-Maruja-Torres-Montero.htm. Barrero, M. 2014. ‘Derivas de la sátira gráfica en el siglo XXI. RBA contra El Jueves’, Tebeosfera 2(12). Retrieved 3 February 2019 from https://www. tebeosfera.com/documentos/derivas_de_la_satira_grafica_en_el_siglo_ xxi._rba_contra_el_jueves.html. Bobillo de la Peña, F.J. 2013. ‘La sonrisa como forma de rebeldía’, in F.J. Bobillo de la Peña (ed.), La Transición en tinta china. Madrid: Biblioteca Nacional de España, pp. 13–22. Bozal Fernández, B. 1979. La ilustración gráfica del siglo XIX en España. Madrid: Comunicación. Castells, M., J. Caraça and G. Cardoso (eds). 2012. Aftermath: The Cultures of the Economic Crisis. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Danjoux, I. 2007. ‘Reconsidering the Decline of the Editorial Cartoon’, PS: Political Science and Politics 40(2): 245–48.

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Dapena, X. 2015. ‘“Nobody Expects the Spanish Revolution”: memoria indignada e imaginarios de la historia en la narrativa gráfica española contemporánea’, Revista Canadiense de Estudios Hispánicos 40(1): 79–107. Echevarría, I. 2012. ‘La CT: un cambio de paradigma’, in G. Martínez (ed.), CT o la Cultura de la Transición: Crítica a 35 años de cultura española. Barcelona: Random House Mondadori, pp. 25–36. Fernández, F. 2017. ‘“Voy a empeñar la Edad de Oro”: Historia, música y política en la crisis española (2011–2016)’, Romance Quarterly 64(3): 135–46. Fernández-Savater, A. 2012. ‘Emborronar la CT (del “No a la guerra” al 15-M)’, in G. Martínez, (ed.), CT o la Cultura de la Transición: Crítica a 35 años de cultura española. Barcelona: Random House Mondadori, pp. 37–51. García Ureña, P. 2014a. ‘OPS y El Roto en Hermano Lobo: El eclecticismo de Andrés Rábago’, Tebeosfera 2(12). Retrieved 3 December 2018 from http://www.tebeosfera.com/obras/documentos/ops_y_el_roto_en_hermano_lobo.html. ——. 2014b. ‘OPS y El Roto en Hermano Lobo. Radiografías de una sociedad’, Tebeosfera 2(12). Retrieved 3 December 2018 from https://www.tebeosfera. com/documentos/ops_y_el_roto_en_hermano_lobo._radiografias_de_una_ sociedad.html. González Cela, J. 2013. ‘No, por favor, usted basta con que aplauda’, in F.J. Bobillo de la Peña (ed.), La Transición en tinta china. Madrid: Biblioteca Nacional de España, pp. 35–40. Gramsci, A. 1976. Selections from the Prison Notebooks, Q. Hoare and G. Nowell Smith (eds and trans.). London: Lawrence & Wishart. ——. 1977. Quaderni del carcere. Volume primo. Turin: Giulio Einaudi. Kornetis, K. 2014. ‘“Is There a Future in This Past?” Analyzing 15M’s Intricate Relation to the Transición’, Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies 15(1–2): 13–36. López, I. 2012. ‘Consensonomics: la ideología económica en la CT’, in G. Martínez (ed.), CT o la Cultura de la Transición: Crítica a 35 años de cultura española. Barcelona: Random House Mondadori, pp. 77–88. Mariño, H. 2012. ‘Revista Mongolia: “Mucha gente ha sepultado el papel antes de tiempo”’, Público, 27 March. Retrieved 1 December 2018 from http:// www.publico.es/culturas/revista-mongolia-gente-sepultado-papel.html. Martínez, G. 2012. ‘El concepto CT’, in G. Martínez (ed.), CT o la Cultura de la Transición. Crítica a 35 años de cultura española. Barcelona: Random House Mondadori, pp. 13–13. Marías, J. 1977. ‘La gratitud por el infortunio evitado’, El País, 17 July. Monedero, J. C. 2014. La Transición contada a nuestros padres: Nocturno de la democracia española. Madrid: Catarata. Morán, G. 2014. El cura y los mandarines (Historia no oficial del Bosque de los Letrados): Cultura y política en España 1962–1996. Madrid: Akal. Moreno-Caballud, L. 2014. ‘Cuando cualquiera escribe: Procesos democratizadores de la cultura escrita en la crisis de la Cultura de la Transición española’, Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies 15(1–2): 13–36.



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Mourenza, D. 2016. ‘El Roto: A Political Cartoonist in Late Capitalist Spain’, Romance Quarterly 63(2): 83–96. Ramiro, P. 2014. Marca España. ¿A quién beneficia? Barcelona: Icaria. Sampedro, V., and J. Lobera. 2014. ‘The Spanish 15-M Movement: A Consensual Dissent?’, Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies 15(1–2): 61–80. Sánchez Ferlosio, R. 1984. ‘La cultura, ese invento del gobierno’, El País, 22 November. Segado Boj, F. 2012. Un país de chiste. El humor gráfico durante la Transición. Madrid: Rialp. Tejeiro Salguero, R., and T. León Gross. 2009. ‘Las viñetas de prensa como expresión del periodismo de opinión’, Diálogos de la Comunicación 78: 1–11.

Chapter 12

The Old, the New and the Possible Challenging Discourses and the Narrative of Transition’s Breach in Post-Neoliberal Crisis Spain Federico López-Terra

å Introduction In the past ten years, Spain has experienced the most severe economic, institutional and social upheaval since the aftermath of Franco’s death in 1975 when the country began transitioning towards democracy. Triggered to a large extent by the 2008 financial crisis, its impact and its longlasting effects cannot be considered phenomena exclusive to Spain. In such a hyperconnected world, the 2008 financial crisis has shown a contagious power that goes far beyond the economic sphere (López and Rodríguez 2010; Castells, Caraça and Cardoso 2012). In the United States, where it originated, and throughout Europe, the financial breakdown has had a deep influence upon political, social and cultural life, becoming what must be considered an ‘explosive’ moment (Lotman 2009), turning the world as people knew it upside down. Despite the crisis having been increasingly in the spotlight of critical attention in the years since its irruption (López and Rodríguez 2010; Castells, Caraça and Cardoso 2012; Bustinduy and Lago 2013; Bauman and Bordoni 2014), there remains a startlingly neglected dimension, which will provide the focus for this chapter: its discursive construction and hermeneutic power to shape cultural practices. This approach considers the crisis not only as a discourse (or as an impressive number of multiple discourses), but also as a discourse-generating device. As such, the crisis has produced strong narratives of dissent to economic or political systems, giving rise to a new wave of political engagement. If, on the one hand, the crisis has had a powerful effect of disaggregation, generating discourses of hate of different kinds and a renewed momentum for nationalisms, on the other hand, it has also



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fostered integration and innovative forms of solidarity. While some of the devastating effects of the crisis have destroyed lives and expectations, it is also important to recall the way in which it has undermined paradigmatic and hegemonic narratives, paving the way for new forms of communication and social interaction. These new discourses and practices are an indication of the rise of new social meanings and the need for new semiotic systems as frameworks for collective action (Moreno-Caballud 2015). This chapter will focus on the Spanish case, analysing how the crisis has fostered original forms of social interaction and consolidated some others that were previously conceived as marginal expressions. It will be argued that from a semiotic perspective, Spain faced a crisis that permeated its whole system of social values, which entails much more than just its political life and institutions, and goes deep into cultural and social practices affecting the public, semi-public and private spheres alike. This chapter will concentrate on one particular collateral effect of the financial breakdown of 2008: the crisis of the régimen del 78 (regime of 1978 or R78) and its semiotic framework. The regime of ’78 (Errejón 2013; Rodríguez 2015) is the result of the process of transition to democracy, formally instituted after the referendum on the Spanish Constitution in 1978. Alongside a Magna Carta bringing up a new democratic system, the R78 also developed what we will consider as the main ‘narrative’ of democracy: a privileged matrix of social meaning that has shaped public sociopolitical life and interaction in Spain up until the present day, pretty much in line with what Martínez (2012) coined as ‘Cultura de la Transición’ (Culture of Transition or ‘CT’) although not exactly the same, as it will be shown below. The notion of ‘consensus’, the sociopolitical agreement that allowed Spain to move from Franco’s authoritarian regime towards democracy, underpins the main thrust of this narrative. While this consensus has been presented as key for a successful transition, more than a few commentators have pointed to its power of constraint to block dissent (Delgado 2014), leading to the image of ‘the padlock of 78’ (el candado del 78) attaining common currency, most notably after the rise of the new political party Podemos (Iglesias 2015). This chapter will propose a conceptualisation of this narrative of consensus as a privileged control mechanism developed by the R78, which created a self-contained semiotic space (in the Lotmanian sense of ‘semiosphere’) (Lotman 2005) that has delimited the borders of the Spanish political imagination since the Transition and until the present day.

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In this sense, the hermeneutic capacity of the crisis works as a powerful tool to understand and analyse the present, but also to reassess the past and imagine the future, triggering creativity. Discursively, what the financial crisis brought about was a breach in this hegemonic narrative. The 15-M movement, also known as the Spanish indignados (the indignant), transformed this breach into a space of counterhegemonic utterance, a platform for dissent (Sampedro and Lobera 2014) and the possibility of thinking outside the limits of the R78 and of developing a new discursive public sphere. The demonstrations that started on 15 March 2011 in Puerta del Sol, the main square of Madrid, were quickly replicated across the country. All these squares materialised the space of dissent, becoming the symbol of this new public sphere as an alternative arena for debate and the social space for a new understanding of the ‘possible’. We will suggest that Spain experienced a semiotic convulsion as the result of the material and symbolic destruction of living conditions and personal narratives. This gap that the crisis left behind enabled a new matrix of meaning to arise. The ‘great explosion’ was not recession itself, but rather a consequence of the lack of an up-to-date discourse strong enough to replace the narrative developed since 1975. For the very first time in Spain’s democratic life, the notion of ‘change’ would operate outside the logic of the R78, opening a new semiosphere: the reconfiguration of the Spanish discursive public sphere and the very core of Spanish democratic identity.

Beyond the Subprime Mortgage Crisis: A  Semiotic Approach In 2007, the United States was hit by one of the most important crises in its recent history: the so-called subprime mortgage crisis, a lethal cocktail of high-risk housing speculation allied to uncontrolled lending. The ratios of household debt to disposable income skyrocketed – reaching an alarming 127 per cent by 2007 (The Economist 2008) – and the bursting of the housing bubble finally led to the disruption in the flow of credit and the onset of recession. In a technologically globalised world economy, the financial effects rapidly resonated in all major First World countries (Castells, Caraça and Cardoso 2012). In less than one year from the American breakdown, all Western economies were experiencing what was soon recognised as the most important global crisis since the Great Depression



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of the 1930s (IHS Markit 2009; Temin 2010; Bauman and Bordoni 2014; Eigner and Umlauft 2015). Increased private and public debt alongside the disruption of capital flows led to some of the harshest austerity measures Europe had endured since the Second World War and into the progressive dismantling of the welfare state, one of the highest accomplishments of the postwar world. This cyclical crisis of capitalism resulted in the destruction of the material conditions of existence for many: people faced unsustainable levels of debt, were evicted from their own homes and found themselves unemployed – especially the younger and qualified labour force – while many migrated in search of better life conditions. ‘Precariousness’ is what best defines this postcrisis scenario, a word that no longer defines work conditions only but also a whole ontology: the ‘subprime lives’ as referred to by Labrador (2012) in the postcrisis context. New conditions defining a new ontology meant that for a large segment of the population, the material effects of the crisis translated into an existential crisis. The impossibility of dreaming of a future, or of simply being able to imagine one, interrupted narratives of personal development and realisation. For many, the financial crisis evolved into a whole crisis of identity. These crises of individuals’ life narratives are anything but isolated cases. On the contrary, they point at the questioning of one of the grand récits of modernity as insightfully noted by Caraça (2012): the enlightened discourse of unlimited resources and progress. In societies in which development is understood as a linear progression, the scarcity of resources interrupts the accumulation of goods, making the future suddenly disappear. With the narrative of the future fading, the very idea of a life – as the realisation of growing prosperity – also vanishes, forcing the rearrangement of plans and expectations, and provoking the need to recreate some sense of meaning. The crisis of meaning does not relate exclusively to forthcoming events, but forces the reassessment of the whole system of values upholding human behaviour. Since these values are forged in the past and discursively organised as the result of social interaction and as patterns for future social action, the impossibility of visualising a future entailed the crisis of two of the main social mainstays of identity: history and memory. This explains why the 2008 crisis triggered a radical process of reassessment of the recent past in Spain and quickly evolved into a crisis of identity. The crisis challenged the way in which people act and think; how they behave and interact with the world and others.

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On account of its very etymology – as a turning point or critical moment – ‘crisis’ involves change. From a historical and diachronic perspective, crises are an interruption of the normal – i.e. expected – flow of events. In societies whose understanding of progress can summarily be reduced to the accumulation of either material or symbolic goods, predictability becomes a positive synonym of stability. Therefore, crises are interpreted as anomalies, landmarks in the course of cultural development, which can be witnessed in some of the most commonly used metaphors to refer to the current crisis either as a disease1 or as a natural disaster.2 However, culturally, this very interruption entails the opportunity to alter collective narratives as clusters of social meaning. Lotman (2009) points out that the dynamics of cultural development work at two different rates: explosive moments combined with more gradual processes. These dynamics are actually two different complementary and synchronic processes regulating the semiosis of a specific society (Lotman 2009: 12). When understood as a feature of social semiotic development rather than alternating stages of history, it becomes clear that crises are more than just hiatuses in social development. A crisis is the moment in which, for a multiplicity of wide-ranging reasons, semiotic production accelerates, thus multiplying discourses and meanings, many of which will challenge existing codes. The void and uncertainty that the crisis leaves behind lead to a stage of openness and unleash multiple possibilities in which change takes the lead over conservatism as a communicative feature. In this sense, explosive moments are an opportunity for a society to challenge their self-description and reassess and reshape their self-portrayal (Torop 2009). When considering the Spanish case from this semiotic perspective, it can be observed how the crisis has propelled the generation of meaning. After 2008, the crisis started to monopolise public speech and discourse. Discourses about the crisis co-opted the media, the streets, politics, and the public and private spheres alike. The very succession of narratives trying to make sense of the overwhelming facts and data were the first discursive translation of the events and compelling evidence of this multiplicity. All the discourses trying to describe and justify such social havoc evidenced the existence of a blurred area of meaning requiring redefinition and explained how the crisis had emerged as a hermeneutic device acting over reality. It is particularly interesting to understand this process more broadly as a reassessment of meaning and a reshaping of the narratives orienting the perception of reality. The crisis worked as an etiological explanatory tool, but it also turned out to be a



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challenging discourse. In the understanding that the crisis rather than a mere fact (or accumulative succession of facts, statistics and projections) became a privileged filter by means of which Western civilisation interpreted current affairs over the past ten years, its intrinsic capacity to diversify meaning (whether in the form of narratives or not) seems overwhelming. Semiotically, the Great Recession of 2008 in Spain acted as a mirror forcing self-reflection and the assessment of its causes. For a nation that has particularly struggled to face its traumatic past since transition to democracy in what it is known as the ‘pact of forgetting’ (el pacto de olvido, the intentional nonengagement with the Francoist past), this breach will prove to have drastic consequences for the symbolic battle to control the official narrative developed by the regime of 1978. Two opposite discursive trends can be seen here: discourses tautologically converging over reality aiming to preserve the hegemonic semiotic framework (‘the crisis is a crisis’) and another trend annihilating the ‘natural’ or ‘obvious’ link between discourse and reality. The old narrative of ‘consensus’ had failed to provide its readers with an operative framework for interpreting the future, leading to the possibility of reinterpreting the self-description of the nation and reconfiguring the Spanish self-portrait.

Ceci n’est pas une crise: Representation of the Crisis in Public Discourse The Crisis Crashes into Public Discourse (2007–9) The rapid evolution of the term ‘crisis’ in Spanish public discourse is a good example of this semiotic convulsion. It also shows the breach in the convergent narrative, opening up opportunities for the reconceptualisation of social communication. Going back to its initial discursive formulations in Spain, the term’s first appearance in the media dates from mid 2007, amidst the coverage of foreign events and in the international sections of Spanish newspapers, as ‘the US subprime mortgage crisis’ (El País 2007; EFE 2007a). Towards the end of that year, the term made it into the domestic economic sections, sharing headlines with the tag ‘Spain’ such as: ‘The Subprime Mortgage Crisis Accelerates the Change in Spain’s Growth Model’ (Reuters 2007). This could be seen alongside other headlines, either more or less optimistic, such as: ‘Spain is Safe from a Low Economic Growth Rate Forecast’ (El Mundo 2007); or ‘The Bank of Spain Acknowledges that the Uncertainty about the Economic

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Situation Has Risen’ (EFE 2007b). The initially foreign narrative started to converge with Spanish national reality and the term ‘crisis’ initiated a hermeneutic turn, becoming a tool capable of acting over the future rather than representing plain description of events. The following year, 2008, witnessed, from the very beginning, headlines indicating a new understanding of the global recession and its possible impact on the Spanish market: ‘The Spanish Economy is Showing the First Signs of Recession’ (Martín 2008) or ‘The Housing Bubble Makes Spain More Vulnerable to the Crisis’ (Greenspan 2008). Economists and politicians, the so-called ‘experts’, quickly appropriated the narrative. The technical terms and economic jargon indicated high levels of specialisation, making the arguments inaccessible to common people. This in turn created an extra layer of mediation as the general public was not able to access the narrative of the crisis directly, having to make do with what would always be, at best, a secondhand translation of it. This inability to control discourse and discursive practices in Spain consolidated a process of delegitimation of the population that accounted to a large extent for the gap that soon started growing between them and their representatives. In politics, the situation was conditioning electioneering strategies (with a general election approaching in March 2008) and the appropriation of the crisis as an interpretative tool turned out to be vital. Ministers of the Economy became the real crisis gurus, the quintessence of the technocrat: the expert with political responsibility. The government at the time of the socialist Prime Minister José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero started relying on them as official spokespersons of the crisis. Pedro Solbes, the Minister of the Economy, first denied that the credit crisis would affect Spanish banks (Europa Press 2007) and he would even go on deny the existence of the crisis itself (Abellán 2008). A year later, his successor as Minister of the Economy, Elena Salgado, would reassure the Spanish public that the economy was already ‘blossoming’ (El País 2009). The extent to which these predictions were actually honest or made only for political gain is hard to assess. Either way, they testify to the poor general awareness of the real depth of the financial crisis back then and its future implications. The strength of another narrative also became apparent: that of the ‘Spanish economic miracle’ developed at the beginning of the 2000s by the conservative Popular Party (PP) as a form of promotion of the economic policies led by the then Prime Minister José María Aznar and Rodrigo Rato, his Minister of the Economy. The power of this other narrative explains the initial optimistic reaction to the crisis in the face of all other national or



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international indicators. Rodríguez Zapatero would even reassure the population in 2007 that the Spanish economy was ‘playing in the Champions League’ of world economies (EFE 2007c), while the rest of Europe was preparing for the repercussions of the financial crisis in the United States. This continual denial also foretells disillusionment and the impact that the crumbling of the narrative of the R78 would have in Spanish collective memory and identity.

The Gap and the End of Transparency Since the outbreak of the crisis and its representations in public discourse in late 2007, the perception of the general public seems to have predominantly relied on the data provided by the experts and the media, i.e. on what can be considered as the ‘direct’ translation of the material effects of the crisis. One of the first sources for the intelligibility of these material effects were the unemployment figures provided by the Spanish Statistical Office. During the first two years of the crisis, in particular, these data worked as the main indicator of the crisis, as the shocking numbers mirrored quite well the devastating effects of the crack on the Spanish dream of a thriving economy and full employment. In just the first year of the crisis, the rates of unemployment rose by 65 per cent, rising from 8.6 per cent to 13 per cent of the total labour force from January to December 2008. By 2013, this had already reached an astonishing 27 per cent.3 In this respect, it is particularly interesting to compare the graphs of the employment rates provided by the Spanish Statistical Office in its Survey of the Labour Force (INE 2017b) with that of the common perception of the economic situation according to the data provided by the Spanish Centre for Sociological Research (CIS 2017a). When put side by side, the curves drawn by both graphs evolve closely in parallel from as early as 2007 (cf. Figures 12.1 and 12.2), revealing how quickly the macroeconomic discourse of the crisis crystallised in the perception of the general public. This evolution also shows the extent to which these figures of unemployment published in the media conditioned the public perception of the crisis. The result is the illusion of a ‘transparent’ discourse: the figures are the crisis, which left the exegetic task in the hands of the experts, explaining in numbers and obscure data the tautological nature of the economic breakdown. This is why it is particularly interesting to observe how in 2009 this parallel evolution of economic figures and people’s perception reversed for the very first time in almost two years. While rates of employment

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Figure 12.1  Evolution of Spanish employment rates (INE 2017).

Figure 12.2  Evolution of Spaniards’ perception of the economic situation (CIS 2017).

continued to drop, the general perception of the economic situation started to improve after the initial slump (cf. Figures 12.1 and 12.2). Despite the improvement only lasting for a couple of months, after which the perception continued to worsen, the disconnect between the common perception of the crisis and the macroeconomic indicators is still relevant. It signals a significant first step towards a change in the hitherto hegemonic interpretation of the crisis in tautological terms, fostering the production of discourses of dissent. This mismatch between the material effects of the crisis (signifier) and its conceptualisation (signified) suggests a crisis of representation and an important discursive turning point. The diversion from the transparent account opened up a breach from which new conceptualisation could emerge to act as a hermeneutic tool to interpret reality. This turn in the discourses of the crisis becomes clearer when we see that in November 2009, ‘politicians, political parties and politics in general’ came third in the list of the main three perceived problems of Spain according to its population (CIS 2017b), after two historical heavyweights: ‘unemployment’ and ‘economic problems’, for the first time in the historical series. When examined together, the two elements shed light upon this reconceptualisation. A new actor made its appearance in the narrative of the crisis, counteracting the immunologic or catastrophist accounts in which the metaphors worked to



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reinforce the proposition that the crisis was uncontrollable and lacked agency.4 This withdrawal of confidence in the political system – which was central to the narrative of consensus forged by the regime of 1978 – was crucial to triggering the beginning of the deconstruction and reassessment of the biggest narrative of democratic Spain. The year 2011 would soon come to represent a watershed in this development, with 15 May as its epicentre and the 15-M movement, the so-called ‘Spanish Revolution’, as its epitome. From this point onwards, the cultural crisis would be the history of the collapse of the narrative forged during the transition to democracy and its immediate aftermath, and the foundation of alternative spaces for imagining new identities.

The Cultural Crisis: Old and New Dynamics The Exhaustion of the Old Narrative If 2009 witnessed the first shift in the common perception and conceptualisation of the crisis, 2011 and the 15-M movement would take the reinterpretation of the crisis to an entirely new level. The date of 15 May marks, effectively, the culmination of that shift in the representation of the crisis, although it should be considered as the beginning of a process rather than its end, a new cycle (Rodríguez 2016). The 15-M movement enabled the transformation of a generalised perception into political acts of dissent, something new in the culture of consensus. The movement transformed the breach in public perception into a space of opportunity: a platform for enunciating the discontent legitimised by massive public support (cf. Sampedro and Lobera 2014). In communicative terms, the Spanish public sphere was opened up through consensual dissent. Although it would be inaccurate to assert that a new coherent and structured narrative arose in the aftermath of the indignados movement, it certainly gave way to imagining new forms of social interaction, new channels to think and act differently (Fernández-Savater 2012a). At the core of this challenging discursive practice lay the possibility of rethinking the very notion of ‘democracy’, available for public debate for the very first time since the constitutional referendum of 1978 (Díaz Arias 2011; Colectivo Novecento 2013a). The movement began to shape the notion of ‘change’ as renewal, leading to the reassessment of the narrative of the regime of 1978 in public discourse (Errejón 2011). Up to 15 May 2011, everything could be discussed except democracy. However, that was about to change.

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In the Spanish case, it has to be noted that the notion of ‘democracy’ has implications that go far beyond the sphere of politics (Delgado 2014). Democracy constituted the core of the narrative of consensus; a new social narrative established and consolidated swiftly during the Transition and its immediate aftermath in order to erase the memory of dictatorship (Martínez 2012; Rodríguez 2015). In other words, after dictatorship Spain was reborn as a weak democracy in need of a strong supporting narrative. We will suggest that this narrative can be understood in terms of what Hobsbawm and Ranger (1983) define as an ‘invented tradition’ and that Pérez Díaz (1993) summarised for the Spanish case in three main symbols: (1) a sacred book – the Constitution; 2) an institution – the monarchy; and 3) new rules to play the democratic game, i.e. free elections. These three elements worked together – as they still do – as a consubstantiation of democracy itself in an essentialist-theological manner: the sacred book as a summary of the democratic principles whose words cannot be altered and that is hence untouchable by definition; a monarch as a guarantor of the values contained in this book, a person who imposes continuity over the political ­spectrum – a continuity that cannot be delivered by successive elections and representatives – and democratic elections and civil rights as the principles guiding democratic conviviality. These three symbols were used since the Transition as the main backers of democracy, a biunivocal correspondence that would determine the limits of what was conceivable as possible. The Constitution of 1978, the written deal of the democratic system, became, quite ironically, a castrator of democracy, as its immutability worked as the main constraint to a dynamic democratic system. This can be seen in the multiple ways in which the Constitution is invoked less to defend democracy than to limit civil freedoms, mainly of expression. It is commonly utilised to block the discussion of what can be considered as ‘hot topics’ and that under this interpretative framework would immediately become destabilisers of the democratic health of the country. In the present context, the debate about self-determination of the Catalan people is a good example of how the Constitution was effectively used discoursively to block the nonbinding consultation process even before resorting to it legally to stop independence itself. The limit imposed by this narrative translates into an inside-outside logic that semantically transforms any kind of dissent into anti-systemic proposals. From a semiotic perspective, the generation of meaning outside the preconceived borders would equate with anti-meaning or, simply, no meaning.



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The continual marginalisation of alternative discourses and narratives accounted to a large extent for the growing gap between people and their representatives. This sense of lack of representation was at the very core of the 15-M movement in which ‘¡que no nos representan!’ (‘they don’t represent us’) was one of its main slogans. (Democracia Real YA 2011; Colectivo Novecento 2013b). The movement systematically denounced the deficiencies of the democratic system while it brought back the very core of the narrative of consensus into the arena of public debate. By doing so, the protesters went far beyond denunciation: they opened up the narrative that had worked as the main script of social life until then. Political representation soon became a problem of semiotic representativeness, a flaw in the narrative that would allow the process of delegitimation of its main principles and the reconfiguration of a new understanding of democracy and social life. In less than a year following the milestone of the 15-M, a succession of scandals stunned Spanish society and helped confirm the perception of exhaustion of the three main principles of the narrative of Transition. First, and in line with the austerity measures imposed by the European troika (the triumvirate representing the EU powers, formed by the European Commission, the European Central Bank and the International Monetary Fund), the two major parties, the Socialist Worker’s Party (PSOE) and the conservative Popular Party (PP), agreed on a rushed constitutional reform in September 2011. Aimed at capping the public deficit whilst avoiding any consultation with other parties or a referendum, it would soon come to be known as the reforma exprés (‘express reform’) (Gutiérrez Calvo and Muñoz 2011). The event was followed, in November 2011, by the socialist government’s dubious overturning of the three-month prison sentence to banker Alfredo Sáenz Abad (Santander’s number two) (Belmonte 2013). Finally, in April 2012, news of King Juan Carlos I hunting elephants in Botswana further undermined the already damaged reputation of the Spanish monarchy.5 In themselves, all these affairs may not have been particularly important. However, the timing elevated three otherwise anecdotal incidents to emblematic status, evidencing that a new interpretative framework was emerging after the 15-M. The 2011 reforma exprés proved that the principle of the untouchable and the sacrosanct imposed by and represented in the Constitution to block dissent was already broken. Sáenz’s pardon made evident the undemocratic principles governing democracy, while showing the connivance of politicians and bankers. Finally, the weakness of a king falling and breaking his hip during an expensive hunting trip

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Figure 12.3  Bernardo Vergara, eldiario.es, 5 June 2014. Reproduced with the kind permission of Bernardo Vergara.

in Botswana seemed a fitting metaphor for a deteriorating monarchy out of sync with its own people, who were having to cope with harsh austerity measures. With these three symbols crumbling, the nucleus of the narrative encapsulated in the Spanish set phrase la democracia que nos hemos dado entre todos (the democracy we have all given to ourselves) was called into question.6 Henceforth, the key issue would be: who is being represented in this todos (‘us all’)? On 5 June 2014, and amidst the political turmoil over the abdication of King Juan Carlos, the Spanish caricaturist Bernardo Vergara published a cartoon (2014) that amounted to a sharp critique of the problem of representativeness (Figure 12.3).7 Holding a Republican flag, a group of youngsters face a crowd of seniors who exclaim ‘a monarchy endorsed by the Constitution we have all given to ourselves’. Only three days before, eldiario.es published an article revealing that more than 60 per cent of current voters were not of legal age to have taken part in the referendum of 1978 (A.R.A./I.C. 2014). For a democracy supported by the narrative nucleus of a communal agreement, this lack of say in the system that governs people’s lives would require a very compelling narrative to appeal to new generations. According to Linde (2000), a nonpersonal narrative (NPN) is an identity narrative that someone assumes as their own, despite a lack of personal involvement. Accepting it entails a significant degree of renouncing one’s own identity as an individual in exchange for joining a broader community. An NPN provides the individual with an idea



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of the past, a particular memory backing the collective identity and orientating this identity towards the future. The crisis seems to have imperilled this common project and revealed the failure of a narrative that, in turn, forced the reassessment of the very notion of a ‘Spanish us’ and, by extension, the kind of democracy that was representing and supporting it. The future that was promised to several generations of Spaniards never materialised; on the contrary, the crisis had acutely weakened democracy and welfare, the political and social pillars of Transition. As a narrative of national identity, the narrative of consensus was struck by the crisis, revealing its lack of responsiveness and its inability to regenerate in order to retain its bonding power. A narrative that was created to maintain a status quo could not, by definition, have a response capacity outside its own limits. The aim of the very regulatory principle of ‘consensus’ as a control mechanism was to prevent discourses from exceeding such limits. When the ‘us all’ – pivotal to the narrative of ‘consensus’ – fails to find a subject, the lack of an operative narrative becomes a problem of national identity.

Crisis: The Trend of Thinking outside the Box Cultural crises entail the impossibility of sustaining certain values as principles guiding human existence (Akerloff and Shiller 2010; Zelizer 2011). As such, the 15-M legitimated the possibility of overflowing the limits of the outdated narrative of 1978 and consolidated the development of a new social platform as a renewed public sphere. This semiotic potential can be seen in the explosion of new discourses. The crisis has brought forth a whole new arsenal of voices and practices, from cinema to literature and music, but also via newer forms of cultural expression: blogs, bloggers and Tweetstars, newspapers, satirical magazines and TV shows. These are not merely new discourses that emerged during the crisis; indeed, most of them are a direct consequence of and response to it: CTXT, La Marea, Eldiario.es, El Español, Orgullo y Satisfacción, @gerardotc and @Barbijaputa, to name just a few. The crisis has also witnessed the rise of new social grassroots movements such as the PAH – Plataforma de afectados por la hipoteca (Platform for People Affected by Mortgages), a social movement aiming to stop evictions and help those directly affected by them, or ¡Democracia Real YA! (Real Democracy Now!) In addition, citizen platforms or confluencias (political coalitions) emerged as new political organisations, such as Ahora Madrid, Barcelona en Comú, Marea Atlántica in Corunna or Compromís in Valencia. The crisis also brought new political parties to the national level, with Podemos

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and Ciudadanos as the two most representative examples. Spain even witnessed the coronation of a new king, following the abdication of Juan Carlos I in favour of his son, Felipe, in 2014. However, an important part of all this newness consists of discourses of the past (the Transition, dictatorship, the civil war, etc.). Unsurprisingly, there is a hermeneutic trend interpreting this twenty-first-century upheaval in Spain as a ‘Second Transition’ (GarcíaAbadillo 2014; Cambio16 2015; Iglesias Turrión 2015; Jorba 2016). This overlap of historical periods, in which uprooted discourses completely transcend their original meaning, is clear evidence of a new trend moving towards the reassessment of the Spanish historical memory and the narrative supporting it. Tellingly, the past transplanted into the present may even come to signify the future.8 Lotman (1992: 4) points out that each generation has a language for describing yesterday, but lacks a language for tomorrow. The language used by a society for self-representation is collective memory, a self-descriptive device enabling the possibility of stating both who we are and who we want to be. In this sense, memory must be understood as a multidirectional mechanism subject to cross-referencing and as a continual negotiation, as proposed by Rothberg (2009). Hence, this whole course of reassessment of the past is none other than a token of Spain’s transactional development of a language for the future. A salient example is the case of the ‘CT’ (Cultura de la Transición – Culture of Transition), a concept that has almost monopolised the intellectual debate over the past years. Developed by means of online platforms and collective collaboration – a collective monograph edited by Guillem Martínez appeared in 2012 – this concept is excellent proof of how the 15-M channelled dissent and fostered the growth of a new language. An idea that has been there since the Transition became, after 2011, an incredibly powerful hermeneutic tool to reassess the past and reinterpret history and culture to such an extent that it has become an adjective to describe cultural production: ‘CT cinema’, ‘CT literature’, even the recursive ‘CT culture’.9 Similarly, the intellectual collective effort to conceptualise the past in such a manner, emanating from new solidarity networks, is probably one of the best examples of a communal attempt to think outside the box and to reframe the understanding of the past in order to envisage the future differently. From a semiotic perspective, it is particularly interesting to see the similarities between the notion of CT and Vernadski’s concept of ‘biosphere’, the system in which living beings develop and interact, and outside which life is not possible (Verdanski 1998). Zapata’s approach to the notion of CT in his chapter of the aforementioned collective



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monograph is a good example of this conceptual overlap: ‘the panic of those who think there is nothing outside there, there is no life beyond the CT’ (Zapata 2012: 146). Zapata’s use of a biological metaphor is a powerful indicator of the symbolic consequences of the crisis, affecting life and the self likewise. However, and beyond the metaphorical usage, the notion of CT establishes a framework of possibilities, the limits of meaningful life, of significance, in the Lotmanian sense of ‘semiosphere’, i.e. the space where meaning is produced and where it finds completion (Lotman 2005). In Fernández-Savater’s (2012b) words, the CT is a culture that ‘imposes from the very beginning the limits of what is possible’, i.e. a semiotic regulatory space determining the Spanish common sense and distributing what is ‘sensible’, in Rancière’s (2004) approach. If something like the CT can become an object of study, it is precisely because the frame of possibilities has already gone beyond its own limits, as shown by the metadiscursive procedure, which transforms the observer into an outsider. In other words, a new semiosphere has started developing outside the limits of the old one. Therefore, the very notion of ‘change’ will now have a new meaning. Before the semiotic explosion, the alternation in power of the left and right parties (PSOE-PP) guaranteed a renewal of discourses within the limits imposed by the R78. Until the crisis brought to the fore the exhaustion of the narrative, these left-right dynamics were sufficient to ensure change, and this alternation was seen as proof of the mechanisms of a healthy democracy working properly. This ‘left-right’ logic appears to have been replaced – at least in the aftermath of the 15-M movement and until the first round of the general elections on 20 December 2015 (the 20D) – with a new one based on the binary ‘new-old’. This new axis is evident in the nickname ‘PPSOE’ – a compound of PP and PSOE – which became a powerful tag after the 15-M to denounce the ideological agreement between the two traditional parties, in opposition to the new alternatives. The debates between Pablo Iglesias and Albert Rivera, the leaders of the main two new national parties Podemos and Ciudadanos respectively, also worked as an example of this new logic in which left-right is redistributed over the new-old axis. This change – or at least this renewed notion of change – comes as the result of the exhaustion of the old narrative. The fight now appears to be for the reconfiguration and mastering of the new emerging discourses. Whether this is to become a whole new alternative narrative or a mere 2.0 version of the consensus of 1978 (or even a third way in between the other two) remains to be seen. Until this point, a symbolic

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battle rages for the control of the discursive public sphere and its regulatory rules.

Where Is Spain Heading Now? One Possible Conclusion While the evolution of this new alternative semiotic space and the symbolic struggle over the idea of the nation is far from finished, it is clear that Spain is undergoing a process of reassessment of its political institutions, its cultural legacy and its self-portrait as a nation. The country is at a crossroads in the evolution of its own history and identity. Crisis brought about change and, after 15-M, discourses of renewal seem to have won an initial symbolic battle at least; the introduction – and acceptance – of the very notion of ‘change’ outside the limits of the old narrative and the development of a new semiosphere. While in the general election of 20 December 2015 the traditional ‘old-new’ axis was easily recognisable in the slogans used, in the campaign for the second round of general elections on 26 June 2016 (the 26J), none of the four major political parties resorted to the notion of continuity as such. On the contrary, almost all of them included the notion of change in their slogans,10 a switch that evidences the establishment of the logic of renewal in the new Spanish public sphere. A general feeling that the narrative forged in the Transition has come to an end and that it is time for renewal seems to be seizing Spain’s political imagination. While the notion of ‘change’ seems to be gathering momentum, its semantic umbrella does not necessarily include the notion of reassessment of the old narrative. It can simply be reaffirmation or ‘regeneration’ with the sense of Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa’s Leopard’s dictum ‘everything needs to change so everything can stay the same’. Nonetheless, ‘change’ seems to pay off. The strategy followed by the Spanish monarchy is probably one of the greatest examples of this regeneration as ‘change’ for the purposes of continuity. While the ‘new’ started to co-opt the discursive public sphere, the ‘old’ was trying to rebrand itself.11 The aftermath of the 26J opened a new and unknown scenario for Spain with almost every possibility available and the impossibility to appoint a prime minister as proof of the need for a new transversal dialogue. Even the idea of an unprecedented left coalition à la Portuguese seemed possible. Finally, the reappointment of the conservative leader Mariano Rajoy almost three months later diluted the initial enthusiasm, although one of the 150 conditions Ciudadanos imposed was,



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precisely, ‘revising and updating the Constitution’ (Ciudadanos and Partido Popular 2016: 35). While it would be extremely naïve and historically inaccurate to assert that the Catalan crisis, especially in the aftermath of the 1 October referendum,12 is a result of the financial crisis of 2008, it is still fair to say that the way in which dissent was channelled is indeed a result of a new understanding of the public sphere, despite politicians on both sides having taken advantage of it for their own political gain (see Faber and Seguín 2017). The Catalan independence ­movement – also referred to as the desafío separatista (separatist challenge) by its detractors – has polarised Spanish society and has in some ways reversed the trend of renewal. Discourses of centralisation of the state backed once again on behalf of the Constitution and an unusually harsh discourse pronounced by the king against the movement seemed to have successfully revitalised the trend of immobility and legitimated a strong sense of conservatism. The situation has allowed the application of the state of exception (by triggering Article 155 of the Constitution), with the central government taking control of the autonomous community and calling new elections. The imprisonment of Catalan political leaders accused of sedition by the Spanish National Court has polarised society even further. While some praised a strong ‘higher law’ in place, others deemed the decision to be reminiscent of Spanish preconstitutional times, as they considered it a political imprisonment violating basic human rights.13 The conflict has also given rise to a debate over a constitutional reform, which, at the time of writing, is more alive than ever (in the media and in public discourse) and, ironically, is probably never less likely to happen, as it has revived the legitimacy of the old narrative of consensus. The recent appointment of the socialist Pedro Sánchez as Prime Minister after a successful no-confidence motion, which ousted Conservative leader Mariano Rajoy, has done nothing but increase the sense of uncertainty. The entropy of the Spanish semiosphere seems to be hitting its historical maximum. While the explosive moment is not yet over, its potential has a value in and of itself. The very notion of crisis has become a complex and dense epistemological tool steering current Spanish reality. What began as a financial crisis has ended in the creation of a whole new symbolic order in which a different narrative can grow. The crisis opened the door to creativity and the possibility of imagining Spanish identity beyond its old limits while painting a new self-portrait of the nation.

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Federico López-Terra is Senior Lecturer in Hispanic Studies at the University of Swansea, United Kingdom. He obtained his Ph.D. at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, and during his doctoral studies he was awarded a number of scholarships to study in other European institutions (La Sapienza University of Rome, Italy; La Sorbonne Paris IV, France; the University of Sheffield, United Kingdom and the University of Tartu, Estonia). He has also worked as a professional translator and interpreter since 2003. His research interests broadly concern the study of twentieth and twenty-first-century literature, cultural processes in the Iberian Peninsula, and Atlantic links with Ibero-America with an emphasis on the methodological analysis of the interface between culture, literature and society. He has published widely on Spanish and Latin American theatre as well as the Spanish crisis in academic journals and edited volumes, and is the author of the monographs El sujeto difuso: Análisis de la socialidad en el discurso literario (CSIC, 2015) and En los márgenes del canon: Aproximaciones a la literatura popular y de masas escrita en español (siglos XX y XXI) (Arbor, 2011). His most current research focuses on digital ecology and participatory culture and interaction.

Notes   1. Cf. Lafont (2008) and EFE (2015) with Morley (2015).   2. Cf. Celdrán Vidal (2010) with Business Insider (2010).  3. According to the Spanish Statistical Office (INE 2017a), the number of people unemployed rose from 1,942,000 in the last trimester of 2007 to 3,207,000 in the last trimester of 2008, reaching the highest figure in the first trimester of 2013, with 6,278,000 people unemployed (out of an estimated labour force of 23,308,400 people).   4. It is also interesting to observe that ‘the political elites’ making it into third position meant that ‘immigration’ was left off the list of the main problems as perceived by the Spanish population. What in other countries worked as one of the main scapegoats of the crisis in Spain, in turn, started to vanish with it.   5. From October 2011 to April 2013, the monarchy went from being one of the most praised institutions in Spain to crashing into the ranks of the three main perceived problems according to the CIS (cf. CIS 2011 and 2013).  6. Interestingly enough, this phrase is commonly used, interchanging the word ‘democracy’ for any of the following: ‘norms’ or ‘laws’, ‘monarchy’ and ‘constitution’, proving they come to represent the ‘holy trinity’ of Spanish democracy and are semantically equivalent when it comes to the blocking of dissent.



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  7. Special thanks to Bernardo Vergara for authorising the publication of his piece.   8. In fact, López Carrasco’s film, El futuro (The Future) (2013), in which a group of youngsters party in a flat after the recent victory of the PSOE in 1982, is a great example of this narrative dynamic. The success and repercussion of a show such as Jordi Évole’s pseudodocumentary ‘Operación Palace’ (23 February 2014), which supposedly unveiled the untold plot behind the 23-F coup (cf. Gómez 2014), also shows this need for discourses capable of overwriting older ones and a desire for renewed accounts of the past.   9. When referring specifically to the intellectual debate, it would be a mistake to understand this revisionist and counterhegemonic trend as being new. These alternative discourses existed since the Transition, and dissident voices to the officialised narrative have always been channelled through different means (cf. Sánchez Ferlosio 1984; Imbert 1990; Morán 1991; Vázquez Montalbán 1992; Subirats 1993; Vilarós 1998; Ros 2014). What is different now is the existence of a platform enabling dissent outside the limits of what was considered possible before. 10. Interestingly, the only party that did not refer to ‘change’ as such was the PP with its tremendously ambiguous ‘A favor’ (in favour). For the slogans used in the 26J, see Ruiz Marull (2016). 11. The renewal of the political leaders of the two major traditional parties, PSOE’s Pedro Sánchez and PP’s Pablo Casado, may be a good example of this. 12. The referendum was suspended by the Spanish Constitutional Court and deemed illegal; as such, it had no practical effects. 13. Three of the imprisoned Catalan leaders appealed to the UN working group on arbitrary detention over what they saw as ‘unlawful imprisonment’ (Bowcott and Jones 2018).

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Chapter 13

The 15-M Movement Reinvigorating the Public Sphere in Spain Georgina Blakeley

å This chapter assesses the contribution of the 15-M movement to the reinvigoration of the public sphere in Spain. In so doing, it works with Habermas’ concept of the public sphere that accords the public sphere its prominent role in democratic politics as the space where public opinion and will on matters of common concern are formed (McAfee 2000: 96). The chapter argues that while the impact of the 15-M movement on the public sphere is undeniable, its impact on economic and political institutions is harder to ascertain. The victory of the rightwing Popular Party (PP) in the November 2011 general election only six months after the eruption of the 15-M movement into Spain’s public squares seemed to suggest a negligible impact on Spain’s economic and political institutions. The continuing electoral strength of the PP in two subsequent general elections in December 2015 and June 2016, albeit with a decreasing mandate, provided further evidence of the inability of the 15-M movement to translate its social power into political power. This also highlights a key weakness in Habermas’ twotrack democracy, which is unclear on how the public opinion formed discursively in the public sphere is able to influence decisions taken within political institutions. And yet, six years on from its first manifestation in May 2011, this chapter will argue that the 15-M movement has led, and continues to lead, to long-term political change in Spain, even if the impact of that change has taken a while to come to the surface and is still taking shape. At the same time, the chapter claims that a question that seeks to measure the impact of the 15-M movement on economic and political institutions is too narrow. The 15-M movement initially did not set itself the goal of extracting particular responses or changes to legislation on the part of the existing political parties. Its slogan, ‘No nos representan’ (They do not represent us), should be taken seriously. The chapter thus concludes that the importance of the 15-M movement lies

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less in its ability to extract particular policies or legislative changes from the existing political regime, even though it has achieved this to some extent, and more in its ability to change people’s perception of what is possible politically and economically. The impact of this on politics in Spain is something that needs to be assessed in the longer term, although some effects of this impact are already discernible and will be discussed here. The chapter will proceed as follows: in the first section, a description of the 15-M movement from its origins to its current and diverse manifestations will be given. This will be followed by a critical examination of Habermas’ two-track democracy and an assessment of the contribution of the 15-M movement to the reinvigoration of the public sphere in Spain. Finally, an initial assessment of the importance of the 15-M movement for the reconfiguration of democracy in Spain will be made, with a particular focus on its contribution to the strengthening of Spain’s historically weak civil society.

The 15-M Movement: Origins and Evolution The 15-M movement erupted dramatically onto the Spanish political scene on 15 May 2011, when demonstrations occurred in around fifty Spanish cities organised over the internet by Democracia Real Ya (Real Democracy Now), a collective that is critical of the quality of democracy in Spain. A few days before local and regional elections on 22 May, these were protests against the economic crisis, the austerity measures imposed by the then Socialist government, the staggeringly high rate of youth unemployment and an unresponsive political system. The arrest of twenty-four demonstrators at the end of the march in Madrid led to a sit-down on the evening of 15 May in Madrid’s main square, the Puerta del Sol. On Monday, Facebook, Twitter and other social media were used to call for a mass sit-down that same evening, which then converted into a more permanent camp and one of the movement’s wittier twitter hashtags, ‘Yes, we camp’. Yet although this mass mobilisation immediately gained the attention of the media worldwide as thousands of people filled Madrid’s Puerta de Sol demanding ‘Real Democracy Now’ and declaring ‘We are not merchandise in the hands of banker and politicians!’, researchers of social movements like Cristina Flesher Fominaya (2015a) are careful to note that there was little that was spontaneous about this movement and its tactics. Instead, Flesher Fominaya (2015a) argues that the 15-M movement drew on over three decades of social movement



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organising and tactics in cities like Madrid where the Okupa (squatters’) movement, the Plataforma 0.7 per cent, the conscientious objector movement and the wider anti-capitalist global justice movement, amongst others, had all had significant presence. Other authors have traced its roots as far back as the 1970s to earlier protest movements like the neighbourhood movement in cities like Madrid and Barcelona (Sampredo and Lobrera 2014: 71). More recent antecedents include Democracia Real Ya, the Movement for the Right to Housing that began in 2003 and includes collectives such as VdeVivienda (H for Housing) and the Plataforma por los afectados por la hipoteca (PAH) (Platform for Those Affected by Mortgages), Precarios en movimiento (Network against Precarity), a loose network of groups struggling against the lack of certainty (precariedad) in employment, housing, pensions, health and education, and the platform Juventud Sin Futuro (Youth with no Future), which emerged in Madrid’s universities in April 2011 around the slogan ‘Homeless, jobless, pensionless, fearless’. Since abandoning the Acampada Sol, which was never intended as a permanent feature of the movement, the 15-M movement evolved through a mixture of demonstrations, other protest activities such as Rodear el Congreso (Surround the Congress) in September 2012 and various organisational forms. Sampredo and Lobrera (2014: 74–75) argue that it evolved into a decentralised and diversified movement, but are at pains to emphasise that this is a strength rather than a weakness. The movement still holds assemblies in Madrid’s Puerta del Sol in addition to holding assemblies at the neighbourhood level across Spain. There are also numerous social self-aid initiatives such as time banks, credit unions and food banks. These aim to fill in the gaps left by the decline of state provision in the wake of the austerity measures implemented to address Spain’s economic crisis (Elola 2012). At the time of writing, the 15-Mpedia (2016) – the movement’s online Wikipedia– has information on 142 camps in Spain, 309 active assemblies, 435 commissions, 76 active working groups, 9 time banks, 70 cooperatives and 309 social centres. These figures are hard to verify in terms of both their accuracy and currency, but, at the very least, they suggest sustained activity six years on from the movement’s inception. Some assemblies remain very active, as a quick look at the weekly agenda on the website of the Asamblea Popular de Carabanchel 15M (Popular Assembly of Carabanchel 15M) (2017) demonstrates. The 15-M also works with other collectives such as the PAH, which addresses housing issues and, in particular, tries to stop people being evicted from their homes. Indeed, it can be argued that one of the strengths of the 15-M movement lies in the visibility that it gave to other

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longstanding organisations such as the PAH, whose spokesperson at the time, Ada Colau, argued that ‘the support of the 15-M changed everything overnight. We saw how a river of people signed up to our cause’ (Elola 2012). The PAH was established in Barcelona in 2009 and therefore preceded the 15-M movement. As such, it is inaccurate to view it as the heir of the 15-M movement, yet it is regarded by many activists as the closest in terms of its ethos and ways of working and as the social movement that most embodies the ‘15-M spirit’ (Escudier 2016: 15). The PAH adopted the use of the escrache to name and shame those responsible for the economic crisis and the resulting consequences of economic hardship and widespread evictions that many Spaniards have experienced. The escrache involves publicly denouncing corrupt officials, usually outside their homes or other places which they may frequent on a daily basis, and it became more widely used within the 15-M movement. Flesher Fominaya (2015b: 473) argues that ‘the idea is that in the face of impunity for political and economic elites, there should be public rejection’. In general, as the 15-M movement has evolved, there has been a move from the general to the specific and from abstract ideas to concrete practice. A key example of this is the 15-MpaRato campaign, which was started in 2012, a year after the 15-M protests. Founded primarily by 15-M activists and Xnet – an organisation established in 2008 and dedicated to online democracy and internet freedom – 15-MpaRato filed the first citizen lawsuit against Rodrigo Rato, Spain’s former Deputy Prime Minister and former managing director of the International Monetary Fund (IMF), as one of the principal Spanish bankers accountable for the economic crisis in Spain due to corrupt and criminal practices. This approach paid dividends: in February 2017, Rato was sentenced to four-and-a-half years in prison for misusing corporate credit cards while in charge of two leading Spanish banks at the height of the country’s financial crisis (Jones 2017). The 15-M movement was at pains to interpret and frame the economic crisis as a fraud perpetuated against the Spanish population by individuals with names and surnames, of whom Rodrigo Rato was a prime example. This challenged the hegemonic narrative promoted by the Spanish government and the European Union that the crisis was a result of abstract global economic forces. Rato was chosen as the symbol of this fraud in order to challenge corruption and the underlying climate of impunity in Spain. 15-MpaRato used a variety of innovative tools, including crowdfunding, to finance its campaigns and crowdsourcing in order to allow citizens to share information on



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corruption anonymously. 15-MpaRato is a play on words, meaning that Rato is the key target of the group, but, perhaps more importantly, that organised civil society resulting from the 15-M movement will be around for a long time – un largo rato in Spanish.

Habermas’ Twin-Track Democracy In The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, Habermas (1989) charts the development of a historically specific public sphere and attempts to draw from it a normative ideal. In so doing, he combines a focus on a space that can be researched empirically and a space within which normative discourses emerge and circulate. The normative ideal that Habermas draws from this historically specific public sphere is built upon in his later work Between Facts and Norms (1996), where he sets out a two-track democracy that distinguishes between spaces of informal, open and unstructured deliberation, and spaces of formal and structured deliberation. The informal spaces of what Hendricks (2006: 491) terms ‘messy deliberation’ corresponds to the public sphere where public opinion is formed discursively through public dialogue and debate about matters of collective concern that mirror people’s own personal life experiences. In turn, this opinion puts pressure on the more formal and structured spaces of deliberation, namely legislatures, where the discursively formed public opinion is formed into public will in the shape of laws. However, what Habermas fails to show convincingly is just how, when and under what circumstances the public sphere is capable of detecting social problems, sharpening them into a ‘consciousness of crisis’ and introducing them into the parliamentary context ‘in a way that disrupts the latter’s routines’ (Habermas 1996: 357–58, italics in original). It is not enough to rely on Habermas’ claim that ‘in a perceived crisis situation, the actors in civil society . . . can assume a surprisingly active and momentous role’ (1996: 380, italics in original). Calhoun highlights Habermas’ neglect of social movements and argues that ‘the absence of social movements from Habermas’ account . . . reflects an inattention to agency, to the struggles by which both the public sphere and its participants are actively made and remade’ (Calhoun 1996: 37). Yet, it is not just an inattention to agency per se that is critical; more specifically, the absence of social movements from Habermas’ account is indicative of a loss of faith in collective agency, whereby any earlier notion of a ‘macrosocial subject’ is supplemented by the idea of ‘subjectless communications’ (Leet 1998: 91).

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However, without an attention to collective agency, we do not know how, in what conditions and in what ways civil society can develop ‘impulses with enough vitality to bring conflict from the periphery into the centre of the political system’ (Habermas 1996: 330). An analysis of a social movement, such as the 15-M movement, is therefore helpful in drawing attention to precisely those struggles that actively constitute both the public sphere and its participants. It also helps us to understand both a historically specific public sphere and the normative ideals that constitute it and can be drawn from it.

Revitalising the Public Sphere A number of characteristics of the 15-M movement stand out in terms of the ways in which it was able to revitalise the public sphere in Spain as a space where citizens could come together to formulate and articulate their ideas and projects to influence those who make decisions within society. First, its use of the internet as a method and space of communication contributed to the development of a digital and critical public sphere in Spain – what some authors such as Castells (1996) call a networked public sphere. It is no coincidence, for example, that one of the roots of the 15-M movement lay in opposition to the approval of the Ley Sinde in late 2009, an anti-piracy bill that was opposed by the internet collective known as Anonymous and a whole host of bloggers, journalists and IT professionals for its stifling of internet freedom. The 15-M movement established a virtual community uniting all of the different websites set up under the 15-M movement under the main portal of www.madrid.tomalaplaza.net (Muñoz Lara 2011). Numerous blogs, Twitter accounts, Facebook communities, internet radio stations such as Agora Sol Radio and YouTube channels such as Spanishrevolutionsol all provided information about the movement and helped to circulate its ideas and projects. The 15-Mpedia, referred to above, is a free virtual encyclopaedia that operates as a Wikipedia providing information on all aspects of the 15-M movement. In short, the 15-M movement played a key role in building counterpublic spheres online, what Nancy Fraser (1996: 123) terms ‘subaltern counterpublics’, which created new spaces for dissent and contestation that appealed to a broad range of activists and citizens. The ideas and discourses that developed and circulated in these online spaces were a means of challenging hegemonic discourses within official public spheres.



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However, the 15-M movement did not rely solely on virtual communication, thereby avoiding the problem identified by Gladwell that ‘the platforms of social media are built around weak ties’ (Gladwell 2010: 45). A second characteristic of the 15-M was its success in combining activity and presence within the physical, public spaces of the public sphere such as city squares and streets with online networks. Reclaiming the streets for protest activities and occupying public spaces is important, as is face-to-face deliberation in public assemblies. Traditional media such as the Madrid 15M newspaper, posters, street art and musical performances such as ‘flashmobs’ were also key physical forms of communicating ideas. Another way in which the 15-M brought the experiences of ordinary people physically into the public sphere was through the Marches of Dignity, which marched on foot through Spain, stopping in village and town squares to discuss ideas with residents. The first took place following the 2011 protests, but they have continued. On 22 March 2014, many tens of thousands of people from all over Spain again converged on Madrid’s Puerta del Sol in the six columns that formed part of the Marches of Dignity, bringing with them the experiences of those they had talked to along the way. Although numbers have been dwindling, the Marches continue on an annual basis with the latest on 27 May 2017 under the slogan ‘Bread, Work, Housing and Dignity’ (Marchas de la Dignidad 2017). Sampedro and Lobrera (2014: 72) define the 15-M movement as ‘an expression of a socio-political discontent shared by millions of Spaniards for which it acts as a sounding board’. Arguably, this explains the lasting popularity and reach of the movement. It garnered broad support amongst diverse sectors of the Spanish population precisely because it reflected the concerns of ordinary people. Moreover, the explicit and active framing of the 15-M movement as a movement of persons, not a movement of activists and militants explains part of its appeal. Explicitly rejecting traditional ideological labels helped to cement its broad appeal amongst the population and encouraged inclusivity. Contrary to some media representations, the 15-M movement was far from being just a dialogue amongst young people or a dialogue amongst left-wing activists although both these groups were prominent in the movement. In a Habermasian sense, the movement both shaped and reflected public opinion and consciousness. Opinion polls suggested broad social support for the movement because it reflected the concerns of ordinary people. In the June 2011 Metroscopia Barometer for the El País newspaper, 64 per cent expressed sympathy with the movement. Although this differed between right-wing PP and left-wing

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PSOE voters, with 46 per cent of the former expressing sympathy with the movement compared to 78 per cent of the latter, the fact that 46 per cent of PP voters expressed sympathy with the movement suggested this was not a purely left-wing phenomenon (El País 2011). Similarly, 73 per cent felt that the arguments of the 15-M movement were correct, with this figure rising to 79 per cent for PSOE voters. Yet 55 per cent of PP voters also believed in the validity of the 15-M arguments (El País 2011). Moreover, this high level of support was sustained for a considerable period of time. In the May 2013 Metroscopia Barometer, 63 per cent still expressed sympathy with the movement, while 78 per cent felt that their arguments were correct (El País 2013). Three years after its emergence, sympathy for the movement and, perhaps more importantly, its ideas was still strong. The May 2014 Metroscopia Barometer revealed that 56 per cent of citizens sympathised with the movement, while 72 per cent felt that the arguments of the 15-M movement and the reasons for its protest were valid (Metroscopia 2014). This broad support helped the movement to put pressure on the legislature in the way that Habermas suggests. The 15-M movement was able to crystallise and to articulate views that resonated with the many. Direct links between actions taken by the legislature and the influence of the movement are hard to verify, yet there was some indication, prior to the 20 November 2011 general elections, that politicians (and particularly those on the left wing) were being forced to heed the public opinion that the movement was helping to form and to shape. For example, in response to pressure for the legislature to be more transparent and open, details of the income and assets of 614 MPs and senators were made public on 8 September 2011. Information about MPs’ salaries, investments, properties, pension schemes, cars and parking spaces was disclosed. Similarly, in the state of the nation debate on 28 June 2011, the Spanish Prime Minister announced measures to help those people affected by negative equity who end up losing their homes while still in debt to the banks (Congreso de los Diputados 2011). Continued pressure from the PAH contributed to making the reform of the current mortgage law a key theme in the general election campaign and obliged all the parties to position themselves in relation to this issue (Blanchar 2011).

From Social Concerns to Political Change? Yet, it is hard to disagree with Sampedro and Lobrera’s (2014: 76) conclusion that the economic and political institutions remained closed



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to the demands of the 15-M movement, particularly given the victory of the right-wing PP in the November 2011 general election only six months after the widespread protests. They conclude that ‘the balance of three years of contention is clearly negative for the 15-M’ and that the failure of the 15-M movement to translate social concerns into political change shows ‘the Spanish institutional sphere as outdated and in a clear tension with a large social body.’ (Sampedo and Lobrera 2014: 76) First, the popular legislative initiative (ILP) promoted by the PAH that called for mortgage legislation reform so that bank repossession signifies the cancelling of the mortgage debt failed to gain governmental support. It was submitted twice to parliament by the PAH and was twice rejected, once by the PSOE government and once by the PP (Flesher Fominaya 2015b). Second, despite the eventual approval of a law of transparency in December 2013, the law did not apply to the crown and the Church, and was widely criticised by the European Union amongst others for its shortcomings in a number of areas. Third, the controversial new Citizens’ Security Law – also known as the Anti-15-M Law – approved on 26 March 2015 aimed to limit protests by laying out strict guidelines on when and where they can take place and penalising offenders with steep fines. Finally, the 15-M movement failed to alter the PP’s status as Spain’s dominant party in the three general elections since May 2011. The PP continued to maintain its core vote and remained the political party that received the most votes, as the results of the December 2015 general election and its rerun six months later in June 2016 demonstrated. Yet, concluding that the 15-M has had a limited impact on political and economic institutions in Spain is an answer to a question that is too narrow. Although one should not underestimate the concrete achievements of the 15-M movement, especially those gains at the local level – for example, preventing the privatisation of six hospitals and twenty-seven health centres (Madrid 15-M 2015) or the success of the PAH in halting evictions – the movement is at its most powerful in its challenge to the prevailing hegemonic discourse. As Fraser argues: ‘The public sphere produces consent via circulation of discourses that construct the common sense of the day and present the existing order as natural and/or just, but not simply as a ruse that is imposed’ (1996: 139). One of the successes of the 15-M has been its struggles to challenge the prevailing ‘common sense’ and to demonstrate that the public sphere is not only the space where hegemony can be secured, but also the space where it can be effectively contested. The hegemonic political culture in Spain for the last thirty years, labelled by Guillem Martínez (2012) as the ‘culture of the transition’,

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has both economic and political aspects, such as the institutionalisation of a two-party system, the acceptance of neoliberal economics and, most significantly, the reification of consensus. The 15-M movement challenged this hegemonic discourse, which prescribes what can be talked about, the terms in which things can be talked about and even what can be imagined. It has been at its most powerful in challenging this accepted view of what is possible and desirable. In so doing, it had to constantly reject attempts to label it as ‘right’ or ‘left’, ‘anti-systemic’ or ‘populist’, as established politicians and political parties struggled to respond effectively to its counterhegemony. In arguing that politicians respond to markets rather than citizens, the 15-M movement highlighted the weakness of the political system of democracy vis-à-vis the strength of the economic system of liberalism; quite simply, it acknowledged the elephant in the room. Politics in Spain, as elsewhere, has been in retreat as national governments respond to the imperatives of the global financial markets rather than voters (Streeck 2011). The power of the 15-M slogan ‘They don’t represent us’ lies in its challenge to this hegemonic culture in which politicians respond more effectively to the imperatives of the global financial markets than they do to the demands of voters. Nowhere was this illustrated more powerfully than the constitutional reform of August 2011, when Article 135 was amended to include a balanced budget provision and a strict limit on the indebtedness that both the national government and the regional governments can incur. Widely seen as the iconic and thus immovable cornerstone of the hegemonic discourse of the Spanish Transition, many Spanish politicians viewed the 1978 Constitution as ‘untouchable’ until its reform was required to constitutionalise the orthodox economic policies seen as essential to combat austerity.

Future Directions So whither the 15-M movement? Sampredo and Lobrera (2014: 64) have argued correctly that its main impact has been as ‘an amplifier of opinions that are widespread among the population and remain institutionally neglected’. It thus contributed to the revitalisation of the public sphere in Spain, enabling it to assume the very role that Habermas accords the public sphere in democracy. At the same time, Sampedro and Lobrera (2014) argue that economic and political institutions have so far remained immune to the influence of the 15-M movement, thereby confirming the weak link in Habermas’ argument of how public opinion formed discursively in the public sphere is able



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to form public will within political institutions. Sebastian Royo (2014) is similarly negative about the impact of the 15-M movement, arguing that the expectations to which it gave rise have not proved lasting. He argues that Spain is characterised by a ‘passive civil society’ and that ‘Spanish citizens are “reactive”; they mobilize ad hoc demonstrations when specific interests that affect them are touched but later disconnect very rapidly at the same speed with which they were compelled to demonstrate on the streets’ (Royo 2014: 1575). In short, Royo’s (2014) main argument is that the ‘institutional degeneration’ and ‘economic crisis’ that Spain has been experiencing is not just the fault of a corrupt and unrepresentative political elite, but is also the fault of a passive and weak civil society that failed to hold politicians, even corrupt ones, to account. Yet, in profoundly altering the public sphere in Spain, the 15-M movement shed some light on the weak link in Habermas’ argument of how public opinion formed discursively in the public sphere is able to form public will within political institutions. It highlighted the importance of collective agency in achieving political change through, for example, lending impetus to other campaigns and groups. Moreover, by crystallising and amplifying the views of the many, it is the very challenge the 15-M movement posed to the prevailing common sense that may in the long run lead to deeper and more long-lasting change through a strengthened civil society in Spain. There are three indications of this potential. The first, as Royo (2014: 1585) highlights, is that Spaniards have stopped being tolerant of corruption. Far from being a problem to which many turned a blind eye, corruption has become one of the most important problems identified by Spaniards in the regular Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas (CIS) barometers (CIS 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017). This change in Spaniards’ perception of corruption is remarkable and as yet shows little sign of dissipating: for four years (2013–17), corruption and fraud have been identified as the second most important problem facing Spain after unemployment. Yet, in 2011, it did not figure even in the top seven (CIS 2011).1 It is as well to remember at this juncture that the function of the public sphere is not just about transmitting the ideas and projects of actors and movements within civil society to the state, in the hope that the state will take on board some of these public opinions, but about publics ‘holding the state accountable to society via publicity’ (Fraser 1996: 112). The Transparency Law, despite its limitations, was one step towards ensuring that information about the state is more accessible ‘so that state activities would be subject to critical scrutiny and the force of public opinion’ (Fraser 1996: 112). Campaigns like

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the 15-MpaRato are also indicative of a civil society that is recognising the need to fight impunity and to hold political officials to account. Feenstra and Keane (2014) likewise highlight an increase in a wide variety of monitory mechanisms and processes initiated by civil society organisations and networks in Spain to subject the actions of politicians and other public officials to scrutiny. A second indication of political change is the appearance of a new discourse in Spain, as seen in the use of new terminology to frame and articulate political discourse in Spain. Martínez-Arboleda (2016) argues that the 15-M movement ‘concentrated a great deal of their political action on the construction of a shared conceptual and emotional understanding of the political reality around them’ and as such ‘became a community of language as much as a political movement’. This is important, as the ability to challenge a hegemonic discourse is a crucial precursor to long-lasting social change. As Castells (2008: 90) argues: ‘Ultimately, the transformation of consciousness does have consequences on political behaviour, on voting patterns and on the decisions of governments.’ A few examples of the 15-M movement’s successful challenge to existing hegemonic discourses and vocabulary will suffice. The widespread use of the acronym ‘PPSOE’, for example, did much to portray the two main parties as being part of the same corrupt political elite, or, ‘la casta’, another new term to refer to the web of political and economic elites who have shifted power back and forth between themselves. In order to highlight the plight of the many citizens evicted from their homes as a result of the economic crisis, the PAH emphasises the increasing number of suicides as a result of evictions by labelling such deaths as financial genocide, while the deaths resulting from the wider economic crisis and its related austerity measures are labelled ‘austericidio’. Finally, the 15-MpaRato campaign has been crucial in highlighting that the economic crisis is not a crisis as such, but a ‘scam’ or ‘swindle’ (estafa) perpetuated by concrete individuals such as Rodrigo Rato rather than impersonal market forces. A final indication of the potential legacy of the 15-M movement is the appearance of political alternatives to the two main established parties, including, but not limited to, Podemos, which was quickly joined by other options, particularly the municipalist platforms such as Ahora Madrid or Barcelona en Comú. The influence of the 15-M movement, for example, could be seen very strongly in the election of Ada Colau, one of the founding members of the PAH, as Mayor of Barcelona under the Barcelona en Comú label in the May 2015 local elections.



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On the surface, the 26 June 2016 general election results (a rerun of the 20 December 2015 election given the inability of any party to form a government) demonstrated that the change desired by at least 34 per cent of voters (those who voted for the new parties in December such as Podemos and Ciudadanos) (Galindo 2016) would again come to naught. These elections were seen as a strengthening of the bi-party system in Spain rather than the final nail in its coffin as some had earlier predicted (Camas García 2016). Yet even taking into account the continuing dominance of the PP as the political party receiving most votes both in December 2015 and June 2016, one thing is clear: the dominance of Spain’s de facto two-party system was weakened, if not, as some predicted, completely broken. In December 2015, the right-wing PP, led by Mariano Rajoy, and the social-democratic PSOE, led by Pedro Sánchez, received only 28.7 per cent and 22 per cent of the vote respectively. In June 2016, both these formations increased their share of the vote to 33.0 per cent and 22.7 per cent, but this share of the vote (50.7 per cent in 2015 and 52.7 per cent in 2016) is a far cry from their highest share of 83.81 per cent in 2008 and far still from the previous lowest share of 63.7% in the first democratic elections in June 1977 following the death of General Franco two years earlier. Moreover, this rejection of the two traditionally dominant parties, the PP and the PSOE, is particularly pronounced amongst young voters. Both Podemos, led by Pablo Iglesias, and the centre-right Ciudadanos, led by Albert Rivera, attract the young, while the traditional PP and PSOE attract older voters (Junquera 2015). Therefore, the lasting legacy of the 15-M movement has both a political and social face. The political face is the weakening of the de facto two-party system and the rise of new political alternatives that have particular resonance amongst young voters. The social face is a more robust civil society that no longer simply demonstrates its strength through its ability to reactively organise demonstrations that disappear as quickly as they appear, but rather demonstrates its strength through its ability to hold the political class accountable. Underpinning both the political and social legacy is the challenge that the 15-M movement posed to the dominant hegemonic discourse that has dominated Spanish politics since the transition to democracy in the 1970s. Through its successful contestation of this prevailing hegemonic discourse, the 15-M movement has shown that there is an alternative. This might yet prove to be its most durable legacy. Georgina Blakeley is Senior Lecturer in Politics and Director of Teaching at the Open University, United Kingdom, which she joined

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in 2006 after having worked at the University of Huddersfield, where she was Head of Politics from 2000 to 2006. She carries out research on various aspects of Spanish politics relating to democratisation and is currently working on historical memory. Her recent publications on Spain include: ‘Misplaced Faith? Implementing Spain’s 2007 Reparation Law’, in Injustice, Memory and Faith in Human Rights (K. Chainoglou, B. Collins, J. Strawson and M. Phillips (eds), Routledge, 2017); ‘“Keeping up Appearances”: Torcuato FernándezMiranda, “Heresthetics” and the Law for Political Reform’, Revista Española de Investigaciones Sociológicas (2016) 154 (April–June): 3-20; and ‘Evaluating Spain’s Reparation Law’, Democratization (2013) 20(2): 240–59. In addition, she also works on citizen participation and urban governance, drawing on case studies in Spain and in the United Kingdom. She has published a coauthored book with Professor Brendan Evans of the University of Huddersfield entitled The Regeneration of East Manchester: A Political Analysis (Manchester University Press, 2013) and is currently preparing another book for Manchester University Press with Professor Evans, comparing the metro-mayoral combined authorities in Greater Manchester and the Liverpool City Region. Her editorial work includes three coedited books on political concepts with Professor Valerie Bryson, including  Marx and Other Four-Letter Words (Pluto Press, 2005) and The Impact of Feminism on Political Concepts and Debates (Manchester University Press, 2007).

Note 1. Evidence that the Spanish electorate’s patience with corruption was finally at an end came with the forced resignation of Mariano Rajoy, the Spanish Prime Minister, following a no-confidence vote in the national parliament on 1 June 2018. The national parliament voted by 180 to 169 in favour of the motion of no confidence in the wake of the long-awaited verdict in the Gurtel corruption case, which involved high-ranking members of the PP. The verdict was damning: Spain’s National Court ruled that the PP had profited from funds obtained illegally through institutional corruption.

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Blanchar, C. 2011. ‘Aliviar las Hipotecas ya es Prioridad’, El País, 15 November. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://politica.elpais.com/ politica/2011/11/15/actualidad/1321388219_720902.html. Calhoun, C. 1996. ‘Introduction’, in C. Calhoun (ed.), Habermas and the Public Sphere. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 1–48. Camas García, F. 2016. ‘Una Victoria que Refuerza el Bipartidismo’, El País, 27 June. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://politica.elpais.com/polit​ ica/2016/06/27/actualidad/1467015055_162800.html. Castells, M. 1996. The Rise of the Network Society. Oxford: Blackwell. ——. 2008. ‘The New Public Sphere: Global Civil Society, Communication Networks and Global Governance’, Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 616(78): 78–93. CIS (Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas). 2011. Barómetro de Octubre, Study No. 2014. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://www.cis.​ es/cis/export/sites/default/-Archivos/Marginales/2900_2919/2914/Es2914.​ pdf. ——. 2013. Barómetro de Octubre, Study No. 3001. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://www.cis.es/cis/export/sites/default/-Archivos/Margina​ les/3000_3019/3001/Es3001.pdf. ——. 2014. Barómetro de Octubre, Study No. 3041. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://www.cis.es/cis/export/sites/default/-Archivos/Margina​ les/3040_3059/3041/es3041mar.pdf. ——. 2015. Barómetro de Octubre, Study No. 3114. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://www.cis.es/cis/export/sites/default/-Archivos/Margina​ les/3100_3119/3114/es3114mar.pdf. ——. 2016. Barómetro de Abril, Study No. 3134. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://www.cis.es/cis/opencm/ES/1_encuestas/estudios/ver.jsp?estu​ dio=14277. ——. 2017. Barómetro de Septiembre, Study No. 3187. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://www.cis.es/cis/opencm/EN/1_encuestas/estudios/ver.jsp​ ?estudio=14359. Congreso de los Diputados. 2011. Diario de sesiones del Congreso de los Diputados. Pleno y Diputación Permanente, No. 256, 28 June. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://www.congreso.es/public_oficiales/L9/CONG/ DS/PL/PL_256.PDF#page=3. Elola, J. 2012. ‘La silenciosa expansión del 15-M’, El País, 5 May. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://politica.elpais.com/politica/2012/05/05/actual​ idad/1336234920_810740.html. El País. 2011. ‘El 73% cree que los indignados tienen razón’, 23 October. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://politica.elpais.com/polit​ ica/2011/10/23/actualidad/1319392784_983542.html. ——. 2013. ‘El 15-M mantiene la simpatía ciudadana dos años después’, 18 May. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://politica.elpais.com/polit​ ica/2013/05/18/actualidad/1368894896_892384.html. Escudier, J.C. 2016. ‘Que la placa no sea lápida’, Madrid 15-M, No. 46, April.

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Feenstra, R.A., and J. Keane. 2014. ‘Politics in Spain: A Case of Monitory Democracy’, Voluntas: International Journal of Voluntary and Non-profit Organisations 25(5): 1262–80. Flesher Fominaya, C. 2015a. ‘Debunking Spontaneity: Spain’s 15-M/Indignados as Autonomous Movement’, Social Movement Studies: Journal of Social, Cultural and Political Protest 14(2): 142–63. ——. 2015b. ‘Redefining the Crisis/Redefining Democracy: Mobilising for the Right to Housing in Spain’s PAH Movement’, South European Society and Politics 20(4): 465–85. Fraser, N. 1996. ‘Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy’, in C. Calhoun (ed.), Habermas and the Public Sphere. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 109–42. Galindo, J. 2016. ‘Nueva política: la promesa que no llega’, El País, 27 June. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://politica.elpais.com/polit​ ica/2016/06/27/actualidad/1467014288_794033.html. Gladwell, M. 2010. ‘Small Change’, New Yorker 86(30): 42–49. Habermas, J. 1989. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, T. Burger and F. Lawrence (trans.). Cambridge: Polity Press. ——. 1996. Between Facts and Norms. Cambridge: Polity Press. Hendriks, C.M. 2006. ‘Integrated Deliberation: Reconciling Civil Society’s Dual Role in Deliberative Democracy’, Political Studies 54(3): 486–508. Jones, S. 2017. ‘Former IMF Chief Gets Four Years in Jail for Embezzlement in Spain’, The Guardian, 23 February. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/feb/23/former-imf-chief-getsfour-years-jail-after-corruption-trial-in-spain. Junquera, N. 2015. ‘Ciudadanos atrapa el voto joven y el de Podemos cae en picado, El País, 5 December. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://polit​ ica.elpais.com/politica/2015/11/11/actualidad/1447244724_393531.html. Leet, M. 1998. ‘Jurgen Habermas and Deliberative Democracy’, in A. Carter and G. Stokes (eds), Liberal Democracy and its Critics. Cambridge: Polity Press, pp. 77–97. Madrid 15-M. 2015. Edición Especial 4 Aniversario, No. 35, April. Marchas de la Dignidad. 2017. ‘Comunicado de las Marchas de la Dignidad tras el 27M’. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://marchasdeladignidad. org/comunicado-de-las-marchas-de-la-dignidad-tras-el-27m. Martínez, G. 2012. ‘El Concepto CT’, in CT o la Cultura de la Transición. Barcelona: De Bolsillo, pp. 37–52. Martínez-Arboleda, A. 2016. ‘Podemos and the 15-M Language Community’, New Politics, 60:4. Retrieved 27 June 2016 from http://newpol.org/content/ podemos-and-15m-language-community. McAfee, N. 2000. Habermas, Kristeva and Citizenship. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Metroscopia. 2014. ‘El apoyo ciudadano al 15-M tres años después, 15 May. Retrieved 27 June 2016 from http://metroscopia.org/el-apoyo-ciudadanoal-15m-tres-anos-despues/.



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Muñoz Lara, A. 2011. ‘La acampada quiere convertirse en un Parlamento digital’, El País, 1 June. Retrieved 7 December 2018 from http://politica. elpais.com/politica/2011/06/01/actualidad/1306937364_783254.html. Royo, S. 2014. ‘Institutional Degeneration and the Economic Crisis in Spain’, American Behavioral Scientist 58(12): 1568–91. Sampredo, V., and J. Lobrera. 2014. ‘The Spanish 15-M Movement: A Consensual Dissent?’, Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies 15(1–2): 61–80. Streeck, W. 2011, ‘The Crises of Democratic Capitalism’, New Left Review 71: 5–29.

Conclusion Leticia Villamediana González and David Jiménez Torres

å The concept of the public sphere remains both problematic and suggestive. Because of this, the aim of the preceding chapters has not been to provide any type of encyclopaedic overview or comprehensive account of how the public sphere has operated in the Spanish context over the past three centuries, or to drive the reader towards a normative definition of what the public sphere is or is not, has or has not been. Rather, it has been to offer a collection of Spain-centred case studies that shed light on important issues and periods that are relevant to the way in which the public sphere has been studied, understood and theorised over the past half-century; studies that also help deepen our understanding of key areas of Spanish history, culture and society, and that impinge on the recurrent issue of how this country fits with existing accounts of larger European processes. In this way, the preceding chapters have taken ‘the public sphere’ as a loose umbrella term that helps structure our inquiry into a range of topics related to social communication, but that naturally branch out into very diverse historical phenomena. As we have seen, this perspective allows for a bottom-up approach through which we may examine the various links that exist between disparate phenomena, such as: the configuration of social codes and norms of behaviour; the role and function of specific printed or visual media at concrete historical junctures; the intervention of professional groups in public discourse; the careers and perspectives of culturally salient individuals; the relationship between public discourse and the state in a number of historical contexts; and the discursive frameworks through which large-scale events such as economic and institutional crises are interpreted. Despite the evident diversity of these issues and processes, the preceding chapters have touched on the importance of predetermined restrictions on the emission of messages, on the various modes through which ideas and discourse can be mediated in modern societies, as well as the various ways through which these restrictions and mediations can be challenged and even replaced by different social

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groups. The overall result is to enrich both our knowledge of Spanish history, culture and society, and our understanding of these wider, transnational dynamics. In all this diversity and plurality, at least two further issues become clear. First, and as was mentioned in the Introduction, the concept of a ‘public sphere’ remains a useful analytical concept through which we may test a range of communications-related theories against concrete historical experiences. In this way, it is similar to some of the concepts that are often studied in relation to it, such as citizenship and rights. Moreover, it is clear that the ideas and the historical experiences expressed in the term ‘public sphere’ touch on some of the most hotly disputed features of contemporary societies. The possibilities and anxieties that are conjured up by the as-yet open-ended transition into the digital world, and that include the decline and potential demise of some of the media and modes of sociability that have played a central role in the history of the public sphere, as well as the effects of social media on public debate, on political polarisation and on the distinction of ‘private’ versus ‘public’ matters all encourage our developing a deeper and more wide-ranging understanding of the parameters that have governed these areas over the past few centuries. The recurrent claims that new technologies and socioeconomic dynamics are producing deep and irrevocable changes in the public sphere can only be ratified or challenged from a multidisciplinary, thickly textured, historically detailed and wide-ranging comprehension of what this concept might refer to. Second, the Spanish experience from the eighteenth century until today needs to be taken into account in any serious examination of the concept and history of the public sphere in Western societies. Despite their thematic and even theoretical diversity, the preceding chapters offer clear insights into how the ideal of the public sphere, as formulated by Habermas and later taken on, refined or questioned by many critics, can be seen to take shape (or not) in one particular Western European nation. Moreover, it is clear that, despite the great transformations that have taken place in Spain over the past few centuries, some of the elements analysed in the preceding chapters will continue to drive public debate in the country, as in much of Western Europe. The same is true of the areas that lie outside of the research expertise of the individual authors of this volume and that are alluded to either in the Introduction or in the Further Reading section. What becomes clear, then, is that the Spanish experience of the public sphere is diverse, complex and – most crucially – pertinent.

302

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Leticia Villamediana González is Senior Teaching Fellow in Hispanic Studies at the University of Warwick. Previously she taught at Queen’s University, Belfast, where she completed her Doctoral studies in 2013. Her research interests lie in the fields of eighteenth-century Spanish literature, culture and intellectual history, Anglo-Spanish cultural transfers and Spanish periodical press. Her monograph Anglomanía: la imagen de Inglaterra en la prensa española del siglo XVIII is forthcoming with Tamesis Books in 2019 and focuses on the study of anglomania and anglophobia in the Spanish press and their contribution to Spain’s programme of Enlightenment reform. Her research has also appeared in academic journals such as Cuadernos de Ilustración y Romanticismo and Dieciocho: Hispanic Enlightenment, and she contributes to the Year’s Work in Modern Language Studies, reviewing the section on ‘Spanish Studies: Literature, 1700–1823’. David Jiménez Torres obtained his Ph.D. from the University of Cambridge and was Lecturer in Contemporary Spanish Cultural Studies at the University of Manchester. He is currently Profesor Asociado at the Universidad Camilo José Cela, Spain. His research interests include Spanish-English cultural transfers during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Spanish imaginaries of – and writings on – the First World War, and the idea of the intellectual in contemporary Spanish culture. He is the author of the monograph Ramiro de Maeztu and England: Imaginaries, Realities and Repercussions of a Cultural Encounter (Tamesis Books, 2016), as well as numerous articles in scholarly journals such as Revista de Occidente, Bulletin of Spanish Studies, Hispanic Research Journal and Historia y Política. He is also a columnist, essayist and novelist, his most recent work of fiction being Cambridge en mitad de la noche (Entre Ambos, 2018).

Further Reading

å General Barker, H. 2002. Press, Politics and the Public Sphere in Europe and North America, 1760–1820. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Berger, S. (ed.). 2007. Writing the Nation: A Global Perspective. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Gripsrud, J. et al. 2010. The Idea of the Public Sphere. Plymouth: Lexington. Habermas, J. 1989. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society. Cambridge: Polity Press. Perreau-Saussine, E. 2012. Catholicism and Democracy. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Catholicism and the Public Sphere Alonso, G. 2014. La nación en capilla. Ciudadanía católica y cuestión religiosa en España (1793–1874). Granada: Comares. Barrera, C. 2012. ‘El Opus Dei y la prensa en el tardofranquismo’, Historia y Política 28: 139–65. Cantavella, J. 2006. Ángel Herrera Oria y el diario ‘El Debate’: Iglesia, política y prensa en España, de 1911 a 1936. Madrid: EDIBESA. Cazorla Sánchez, A. 2013. ‘Did You Hear the Sermon? Progressive Priests, Conservative Catholics, and the Return of Political and Cultural Diversity in Late Francoist Spain’, Journal of Modern History 85(3): 528–57. Cueva Merino, J. 2007. ‘Anticlericalismo e identidad anticlerical en España: del movimiento a la política (1910–1931)’, in Carolyn P. Boyd (ed.), Religión y política en la España contemporánea. Madrid: Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales, pp. 165–85. Louzao Villar, J. 2012. ‘La creación de un marco de sociabilidad anticlerical: El caso vizcaíno durante la restauración (c.1890–1923)’, Historia social 73: 59–79. ——. 2013. ‘Nación y catolicismo en la España contemporánea: Revisitando una interrelación histórica’, Ayer 90: 65–89. Muñoz Soro, J. 2012. ‘Después de la tormenta: Acción política y cultural de los intelectuales católicos entre 1956 y 1962’, Historia y Política 28: 83–108.

304

Further Reading

Ramón Solans, F. J. 2015. ‘El catolicismo tiene masas: Nación, política y movilización en España, 1868–1931’, Historia Contemporánea 51: 427–54. Romeo, M.C. 2006. ‘Destinos de mujer: esfera pública y políticos liberales’, in I. Morant (ed.), Historia de las mujeres en España y América Latina III: Del siglo XIX a los umbrales del XX. Madrid: Cátedra, pp. 61–83. Ruiz Sánchez, J.L. 2002. Prensa y Propaganda Católica (1832–1965). Seville: Universidad de Sevilla.

Counterpublics and Nonhegemonic Public Spheres Nonheteronormative Aliaga, J.V., and J.M. Cortés (eds). 1997. Identidad y diferencia: sobre la cultura gay en España. Barcelona: Egales. Cleminson, R. 2007. ‘Los invisibles’: A History of Male Homosexuality in Spain, 1850–1939. Cardiff: University of Wales Press. Mira, A. 2000. ‘Laws of Silence: Homosexual Identity and Visibility in Contemporary Spanish Culture’, in B. Jordan and R. Morgan-Tamosunas (eds), Contemporary Spanish Cultural Studies. London: Arnold, pp. 241–50.

The Working Class Castells, L. 1993. Los trabajadores en el País Vasco 1876–1923. Madrid: Siglo XXI. Hofmann, B., P. Joan i Tous and M. Tietz (eds). 1995. El anarquismo español y sus tradiciones culturales. Madrid: Vervuert-Iberoamericana. Navarro, J. 2003. ‘Mundo obrero, cultura y asociacionismo: algunas reflexiones sobre modelos y pervivencias formales’, Hispania LXIII(214): 467–84. Uría González, J. (ed.). 2003. La cultura popular en la España contemporánea. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva.

Women Aguado, A., and T.M. Ortega (eds). 2011. Feminismos y antifeminismos: Culturas políticas e identidades de género en la España del siglo XX. Valencia: Publicacions de la Universitat de València y de la Universidad de Granada. Bolufer, M. 1998. Mujeres e Ilustración en España: la construcción de la feminidad en la Ilustración española. Valencia: Institucio Alfons el Magnànim. Cenarro, Á. 2017. ‘La Falange es un modo de ser (mujer): discursos e identidades de género en las publicaciones de la Sección Femenina (1938–1945)’, Historia y Política 37: 91–120. Davies, C. et al. 2008. Mujer, literatura y esfera pública: España 1900–1940. Philadelphia: Society of Spanish and Spanish-American Studies.



Further Reading

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Gabilondo Alberdi, J. 2004. ‘The Subaltern Cannot Speak but Performs: Women’s Public and Literary Cultures in Nineteenth-Century Spain’, Hispanic Research Journal: Iberian and Latin American Studies 5(1): 73–95. Nash, M. 1983. Mujer, familia y trabajo en España, 1875–1936. Barcelona: Anthropos.

Exiles Alonso, G. and D. Muñoz Sempere (eds). 2011. Londres y el liberalismo hispánico. Madrid: Iberoamericana-Veruert. Balibrea, M.P. 2017. Líneas de fuga: hacia otra historiografía cultural del exilio republicano español. Madrid: Marcial Pons. Blanco Rodríguez, J.A., and A.F. Dacosta Martínez (eds). 2014. El asociacionismo de la emigración española en el exterior: significación y vinculaciones. Madrid: Silex. Kamen, H. 2007. The Disinherited: The Exiles Who Created Spanish Culture. London: Penguin. Llorens, V. 1979. Liberales y románticos. Madrid: Castalia. Núñez Seixas, X.M. 2014. Las patrias ausentes: estudios sobre historia y memoria de las migraciones ibéricas (1830–1960). Oviedo: Genueve Ediciones.

Spanish America Anderson, B. 2006. ‘Creole Pioneers’, in Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 2nd edn. London: Verso, pp. 47–66. Borreguero Beltrán, C. 2010. ‘Philip of Spain: The Spider’s Web of News and Information’, in Brendan Dooley (ed.), The Dissemination of News and the Emergence of Contemporaneity in Early Modern Europe. Farnham: Ashgate, pp. 23–49. Castro Montero, A. (ed.). 2012. Españoles en el diario La Prensa. Buenos Aires: Fundación Ortega y Gasset Argentina. González Bernaldo de Quirós, P. 2003. ‘Sociabilidad, espacio urbano y politización’, in H. Sabato and A. Lettieri (eds), La vida política: Armas, votos y voces en la Argentina del siglo XIX. Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica, pp. 191–204. Guedea, V. 2005. ‘Las publicaciones periódicas durante el proceso de independencia (1808–1821)’, in B. Clark de Lara and E. Speckman Guerra (eds), La república de las letras: asomos a la cultura escrita del México decimonónico vol. II. Mexico City: UNAM, pp. 29–42. Guerra, F.-X. 1993. Modernidad e independencias: Ensayos sobre las revoluciones hispánicas. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Guerra, F.-X. et al. 1998. Los espacios públicos en Iberoamérica: Ambigüedades y problemas. Siglos XVIII–XIX. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica/ Centro Francés de Estudios Mexicanos y Centroamericanos. Pani, E., and A. Salmerón (eds). 2004. Conceptualizar lo que se ve: FrancoisXavier Guerra. Historiador. Homenaje. Mexico City: Instituto Mora.

306

Further Reading

Rodriguez, J.E. 1998. The Independence of Spanish America. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Nationalism, Nation-Building and the Public Sphere Álvarez Junco, J. 2011. Spanish Identity in the Age of Nations. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Archilés, F., and M. García Carrión. 2012. ‘En la sombra del Estado: esfera pública nacional y homogeneización cultural en la España de la Restauración’, Historia contemporánea 45: 483–518. Núñez Seixas, X.M., and F. Sevillano Calero (eds). 2010. Los enemigos de España: Imagen del otro, conflictos bélicos y disputas nacionales (siglos XVI–XX). Madrid: Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales. Quiroga, A. 2013. ‘La nacionalización en España. Una propuesta teórica’, Ayer 90: 17–38. Ruiz Torres, P. 2011. ‘La historia del primer nacionalismo español: Martínez Marina y la Real Academia de la Historia’, in I. Saz and F. Archilés (eds), Estudios sobre nacionalismo y nación en la España contemporánea. Zaragoza: Prensas Universitarias de Zaragoza, pp. 19–53. Saz, I., and F. Archilés (eds). 2012. La nación de los españoles: Discursos y prácticas del nacionalismo español en la época contemporánea. Valencia: University of Valencia.

Public Opinion, Printed Culture and Legislation Botrel, F. 1993. Libros, prensa y lectura en la España del siglo XIX. Madrid: Fundación Germán Sánchez Ruipérez. Capellán de Miguel, G. 2008. Opinión pública: historia y presente. Madrid: Trotta. Capellán de Miguel, G., and A. Garrido Martín. 2010. ‘Los intérpretes de la opinión: Uso, abuso y transformación del concepto opinión pública en el discurso polí­tico durante la Restauración (1875–1902)’, Ayer 80: 83–114. Fernández Sarasola, I. 2010. ‘La opinión pública. De la Ilustración a las Cortes de Cádiz’, Ayer 80: 53–81. La Parra López, E. et al. 2012. El nacimiento de la política en España (1808– 1869). Madrid: Editorial Pablo Iglesias. Larriba, E., and F. Durán López (eds). 2012. El nacimiento de la libertad de imprenta: Antecedentes, promulgación y consecuencias del Decreto de 10 de noviembre de 1810. Madrid: Silex. Martínez Martín, J.A. 2009. Vivir de la pluma: la profesionalización del escritor, 1836–1936. Madrid: Marcial Pons. Muñoz Soro, J. 2014. ‘Política de información y contrainformación en el franquismo (1951–1973): “El Ministerio de Información es tan



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importante como el de la Guerra”’, Revista de estudios políticos 163: 233–63. Ortiz, D. 2000. Paper Liberals: Press and Politics in Restoration Spain. Westport, CT: Praeger. Ruiz Bautista, E. (ed.). 2008. Tiempo de censura: la represión editorial durante el franquismo. Gijón: Trea. Sánchez Aranda, J.J., and C. Barrera. 1992. Historia del periodismo español: desde sus orígenes hasta 1975. Pamplona: Ediciones Universidad de Navarra.

Sites of Sociability Arias González, L., and F. de Luis. 2009. Casas del pueblo y centros obreros socialistas en España: estudio histórico, social y arquitectónico. Madrid: Editorial Pablo Iglesias. Cruz, J. 2011. The Rise of Middle-class Culture in Nineteenth-Century Spain. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press. ——. 2015. ‘Espacios públicos y modernidad urbana: la historia de los jardines de recreo en la España del siglo XIX’, Historia social 83: 37–54. Luengo Teixidor, F.J. 1999. ‘De la taberna a la sociedad popular: ocio y sociabilidad donostiarra en la primera mitad del siglo XIX (1813–1863)’, in L. Castells Arteche (ed.), El rumor de lo cotidiano: estudios sobre el País Vasco contemporáneo. Bilbao: Servicio Editorial de la Universidad del País Vasco, pp. 55–76. ——. 2001. ‘Los marcos de sociabilidad’, in A. Morales Moya (ed.), Las claves de la España del siglo XX. 6: La modernización social, Madrid: Sociedad Estatal España Nuevo Milenio, pp. 367–80. Ribagorda, A. 2009. Caminos de la modernidad: espacios e instituciones culturales de la Edad de Plata (1898–1936). Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva. ——. 2011. El coro de Babel: las actividades culturales de la Residencia de Estudiantes. Madrid: Publicaciones de la Residencia de Estudiantes. Shubert, A. 1999. Death and Money in the Afternoon: A History of the Spanish Bullfight. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Velasco Montoro, E. 2000. La Real Academia de la Historia en el siglo XVIII: Una institución de sociabilidad. Madrid: Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales.

Catalan, Basque and Galician Crameri, K. 2008. Catalonia: National Identity and Cultural Policy, 1980–2003. Cardiff: University of Wales Press. Casassas, J. (ed.). 2005. Premsa cultural i intervenció política dels intel·lectuals a la Catalunya contemporània (1814–1975). Barcelona: Edicions Universitat Barcelona.

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Further Reading

Gabilondo, J. 2016. Before Babel: A History of Basque Literatures. Lansing: Barbaroak. Martí Monterde, A. 2013. ‘Interliterariness and the Literary Field: Catalan Literature and Literatures in Catalonia’, in J.R. Resina (ed.), Iberian Modalities: A Relational Approach to the Study of Culture in the Iberian Peninsula. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, pp. 62–80. Lasagabaster, J.M. 1995. ‘The Promotion of Cultural Production in Basque’, in H. Graham and J. Labanyi (eds), Spanish Cultural Studies: An Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 351–55. Martínez de Albéniz, I. 2012. ‘La política cultural en el País Vasco: del gobierno de la cultura a la gobernanza cultural’, Revista de Investigaciones Políticas y Sociológicas 11(3): 149–72. McGlade, R. 2016. Catalan Cartoons: A Cultural and Political History. Cardiff: University of Wales Press. Mallart, L. 2015. ‘Illustrated Media, the Built Environment and Identity Politics in Fin-de-Siècle Catalonia: Printing Images, Making the Nation’, Cultural History 4(2): 113–35. Puig, V. 2012. ‘La cultura como parque temático’, El País, 16 December. ——. 2014. ‘Nota en los manuales de literatura’, El País, 6 April. ——. 2015. ‘La cultura es lo de menos’, El País, 7 December. Urquijo, M. 2005. ‘De la prensa evangelizadora al factory system de la comunicación (Bilbao, 1868–1937)’, Bidebarrieta. Anuario de Humanidades y Ciencias Sociales de Bilbao 16: 111–40. Zallo, Ramón. 2012. Análisis comparativo y tendencias de las políticas culturales en España, Cataluña y País Vasco. Madrid: Fundación Alternativas.

Education and the Public Sphere Boyd, C. 1997. Historia patria: Politics, History and National Identity in Spain, 1875–1975. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Martínez del Campo, L. G. 2012. La formación del gentleman español. Zaragoza: Institución Fernando el Católico. Pozo Andrés, M. del. 2000. Curriculum e identidad nacional: Regeneracionismos, nacionalismos y escuela pública (1890–1939). Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva. Rodríguez-López, C. 2016. ‘Estando muertos todavía hablan: La Universidad de Madrid en el primer franquismo’, Ayer 101: 105–30. Vilanova, M., and X. Moreno. 1992. Atlas de la evolución del analfabetismo en España de 1887 a 1981. Madrid: Ministerio de Educación y Ciencia.

Intellectuals Aubert, P. 2001. ‘Les intellectuels et le journalisme en Espagne (1898–1936)’, in P. Aubert and J.-M. Desvois (eds), Les élites et la presse en espagne et en



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Amérique Latine des Lumières à la seconde guerre mondiale. Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, pp. 189–209. Botrel, J.-F., and J.-M. Desvois. 1991. ‘Las condiciones de la producción cultural’, in S. Salaün and C. Serrano (eds), 1900 en España. Madrid: Espasa Calpe, pp. 33–58. Jiménez Torres, D. 2014. ‘What is an Intellectual? The Spanish Debate during the First World War’, Hispanic Research Journal 15(6): 515–29. Juliá, S. 2004. Historias de las dos Españas. Madrid: Taurus. Moreno Luzón, J. et al. (eds). 2013. La Institución Libre de Enseñanza y Francisco Giner de los Ríos: nuevas perspectivas. Madrid, Fundación Francisco Giner de los Ríos/Acción Cultural Española. Muñoz Soro, J. 2015. ‘Los intelectuales en España, de la dictadura a la democracia (1939–1986)’, Bulletin d’histoire contemporaine de l’Espagne 50: 15–32. Roberts, S.G.H. 2007. Miguel de Unamuno o la creación del intelectual español moderno. Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca. Varela, J. 1999. La novela de España: los intelectuales y el problema español. Madrid: Taurus. Villacorta Baños, F. 1980. Burguesía y cultura: Los intelectuales españoles en la sociedad liberal. 1808–1931. Madrid: Siglo XXI.

Democracy, Civil Society and Digital Culture Encarnación, O. 2003. The Myth of Civil Society: Social Capital and Democratic Consolidation in Spain and Brazil. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. MacDonough, P., S. Barnes and A. López Piña. 1998. The Cultural Dynamics of Democratization in Spain. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Pérez Díaz, V. 1993. The Return of Civil Society: The Emergence of Democratic Spain. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Radcliff, P. 2011. Making Democratic Citizens in Spain: Civil Society and the Popular Origins of the Democratic Transition, 1960–1978. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Romanos, E. 2016. ‘De Tahrir a Wall Street por la Puerta del Sol: la difusión transnacional de los movimientos sociales en perspectiva comparada’, Revista Española de Investigaciones Sociológicas 154: 103–18. Sampedro Blanco, V. and J. Resina de la Fuente. 2010. ‘Opinión pública y democracia deliberativa en la sociedad red’, Ayer 80: 139–62.

Index

å 15-M, 2, 234–35, 237, 245–46, 254, 260, 267, 269, 271–74, 283–95 absolutism, 4, 8, 26–29, 31, 36–37, 45, 72, 109–14, 118, 121, 131, 233 Alexander, Jeffrey C., 148 Alfonso XIII, 186 anarchism, 162, 171n7, 188, 203 Arriba, 214–15, 218–20 army. See military Ateneo, 14–15, 146, 177. See also sociability Aznar, José María, 264 Azorín, 194 Basque, 6–8, 178, 180, 182–83 Blasco Ibáñez, Vicente, 208n4 Bourbon monarchy, 44–49, 51, 53, 58, 61, 64, 66n8, 72 bourgeoisie, 1–5, 11–14, 26–40, 46, 49–52, 64–65, 72, 160, 164, 233. See also Habermas, Jürgen: theory of the public sphere and applicability to Spain Britain. See United Kingdom Buñuel, Luis, 198, 200, 204–5 cafés, 1, 14, 19, 25, 29, 32, 45, 72, 77, 92, 102–4, 104n4, 111,

125n3, 193, 205, 220. See also sociability Cancelada, Juan López. See López Cancelada, Juan Carlism, 10–11, 131. See also Catholicism Catalan, 2, 6–8, 171n7, 182, 195, 201–2, 208nn3–4, 208n8 268, 275, 277n13 Catholicism, 9, 10, 109, 131, 189, 195, 198, 204, 217 censorship, 13–14, 27, 31, 48, 112, 131, 186, 196, 198–99, 202, 212–13, 225–26, 244. See also press: legislation governing the; Gazeta de México, censorship of Cifesa, 203, 204, 206 citizenship, 5, 37, 118, 155, 187, 220, 292–93, 301 Ciudadanos (political party), 2, 272–75, 295 civility, 17, 72–73, 77, 83, 84n3 civil rights. See rights civil society, 14–15, 17, 287–88, 293–95 coffeehouses. See cafés communism, 203–4, 221–23, 225, 226n1, 227n8 Consolidación de vales reales, 96

312

Index

Constitution of 1812, 32, 91, 109, 111, 113, 115–16 118–20, 131, 136–37, 142. See also Liberal Triennium of 1931, 155, 162. See also Republic of 1978, 259, 267–70, 275, 292. See also Transition to democracy; Culture of Transition (CT); Regime of 78 constitutionalism, 3, 15, 110, 112, 114, 121, 129–32, 144, 188, 276n6 corpus, 131, 133–34, 136–47 Cortes. See Parliament courtesy, 78–79, 81–83, 84n4 crisis, 12, 20, 260–67, 284–85, 286, 294 Culture of Transition (CT), 235–36 272–73, 291 democracy, 3, 5, 15, 156, 185, 202, 214. See also Transition to democracy; Cultura de la Transición (CT); 15–M demonstrations, 2, 97, 246, 260, 284–85, 293, 295. See also 15-M Diario de México, 93, 99 d’Ors, Eugenio, 7, 195 Economic Societies, 14, 25, 34, 35, 78 El Roto, 20, 234, 237–39, 246–47, 250–54 England. See United Kingdom English, 162, 181. See also United Kingdom Enlightenment relation to public sphere, 9, 26–27, 31–32, 46

in New Spain, 91 in Spain, 1, 3, 9–10, 27, 32, 34, 36–38, 48–50, 71, 73, 75, 81–83 Español, El directed by Juan Aparicio, 223 directed by Pedro J. Ramírez, 271 Espectador, El, 116, 117–21, 123–24 epistolary exchange, 49, 51, 54, 56, 60, 65 Feijoo, Benito Jerónimo, 16, 47–65 relationship with readers, 44, 50–52, 58, 62 See also Bourbon monarchy feminism. See women Ferdinand VI, 48, 51, 53–58, 60–63. See also Bourbon monarchy Ferdinand VII, 89–90, 95–98, 100–1, 109, 113, 115–16, 105n6. See also France: invasion of Spain and effects Fernández de Moratín, Leandro, 80–83 film industry, 19, 193, 195, 197–99, 201–3, 206 folklore, 204–6 France, 5, 53, 56, 60–62, 75, 131, 137, 142 as model of civility and politeness, 70–72, 76 as model of public sphere, 1, 3–4, 10, 26–28, 31–33, 45 invasion of Spain and effects, 89–90, 94, 96–98, 101–2, 105n6, 109, 111, 116, 130, 140 See also French

Index 313

Francoism, 3, 8–10, 12–15, 20 aftermath and consequences, 239, 259, 268, 272 control of public sphere, 212–14, 219–22, 225–26 See also Spanish Civil War; Transition to democracy Fraser, Nancy, 4, 7, 33–35, 39, 156, 288, 291, 293. See also Habermas, Jürgen: other critiques of freedom as feature of a public sphere, 31 internet, 286, 288 political, 186–87, 242 from social constraints, 78, 159, 169, 186 of speech and of the press, 91, 112, 187, 215, 268 French, 75, 137, 162. See also France Galician, 6–8, 182, 202 Gaceta Patriótica del Ejército Nacional, 112–15, 117, 124 Garibay, Pedro (viceroy). See Gazeta de México, censorship under Viceroy Pedro Garibay Gazeta de México anti-British attitude, 94–95 censorship of under Viceroy José de Iturrigaray, 97–99, 100, 102–3 censorship of under Viceroy Pedro Garibay, 100, 102–3 coverage of expressions of support after coup against Iturrigaray, 100–101, 103 coverage of foreign political news, 93–94, 95, 98, 101, 103

coverage of patriotic celebrations, 95, 98–99 coverage of Spanish dynastic crisis and War of Independence, 95–98, 100–101, 103 depiction of Viceroy José de Iturrigaray, 98–99 origins, 93–94 promotion of Hispanic patriotism, 95, 99, 101–2 publication of ‘fake news’, 97–98, 100–101 readership, 102 transformation into Gazeta del Gobierno de México, 101–2 generality, 135, 138–39, 143, 147–48 Germany, 131, 212, 227nn5–10 as model of public sphere, 1, 3, 28, 31–32, 39, 40, 157 See also Habermas, Jürgen; Krause, Karl Christian Friedrich; Herder, Johann Gottfried; Humboldt, Alexander von Gil Novales, Alberto, 111, 117, 118 González, Felipe, 240 Gutiérrez de los Ríos, Carlos, VI Count of Fernán Núñez, 17, 70, 73–74, 79–80 Habermas, Jürgen theory of the public sphere and applicability to Spain, 1, 3–5, 9–10, 14–16, 25–41, 45–46, 49, 51–54, 58, 71–72, 91–92, 148, 156–57, 200, 283–84, 289–90, 292–93 other critiques of, 4–5, 33–35, 193–94, 287–88

314

Index

hegemony, 233–37, 253–54, 259–60, 263, 266, 277n9, 288, 291–92, 294–95 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 180 Hermano Lobo, 237, 239, 241–42, 245, 255n4 Hispanic Revolution, 90–92, 102–3 hombres de letras. See men of letters Humboldt, Alexander von, 180 Iglesias, Pablo (Podemos leader), 273, 275. See also Podemos; 15–M ilustrados. See Enlightenment indignados. See 15–M intellectuals, 4, 8–13, 15, 19, 53, 174, 177, 180, 182, 184–89, 194–98, 233–36, 253–54, 277n9. See also Unamuno, Miguel de; Ortega y Gasset, José internet, 2, 284–88. See also social media; freedom, internet Italy, 10, 70, 186, 212, 227n5, 227n10 Iturrigaray, José de (viceroy) measures adopted to protect New Spain, 98–99 suspect loyalty, 98, 99, 103 See also Gazeta de Mexico; censorship under Viceroy José de Iturrigaray Juan Carlos I, 240, 244, 269–70, 272. See also Transition to democracy; Culture of transition (CT) Juaristi, Jon, 7, 177 Jueves, El, 239, 241, 244–45, 252

Krause, Karl Christian Friedrich, 135–36 Kuhn, Thomas, 28, 35, 38–40 Labanyi, Jo, 135, 140, 146 Latin America. See Spanish America law, 77, 111, 114, 119, 132, 136–37, 139–48, 290–91, 293 liberalism Liberal Triennium, 17, 109–18, 122 neoliberalism, 258, 292 relationship with public sphere, 27, 214 in Spain, 3, 5, 8, 10–11, 13, 15, 32, 72, 91, 120–22, 129–32, 136, 140, 142–43, 147, 184, 187, 202, 214 See also Habermas, Jürgen: theory of the public sphere and applicability to Spain liberty. See freedom López Cancelada, Juan (merchant and editor), 93, 97–98, 100, 102 Machado, Antonio, 195, 205 Machado, Manuel, 195, 205 Maeztu, Ramiro de, 10, 195 Menéndez Pelayo, Marcelino, 10 men of letters, 12, 33, 51, 53, 235 military, 3, 6, 17, 92, 98, 100–1, 109–22 modernity, 3, 25, 27–28, 38, 40, 45–47, 64, 90, 91. See also political modernity Molina y Zaldívar, Gaspar de, Marquis of Ureña, 72, 77–79, 80–81 monarchy, 4, 89–90, 95, 109–111, 129, 131, 186, 199, 238, 268–70, 274, 276n5. See

Index 315

also Philip V; Ferdinand VI; Ferdinand VII; Alfonso XIII; Juan Carlos I; Bourbon monarchy Monlau, Pedro Felipe, 135–36 Moretti, Franco, 133 Napoleonic War. See France: invasion of Spain and effects nation, 2, 32, 119, 131, 217, 219–20, 263–65, 271, 274–75 pre-1812 notions of, 37–38, 44, 47–49, 61, 64, 73, 76–77, 79, 80–83, 95. See also Bourbon monarchy relationship with army, 113–14, 117, 121–22 nationalism and nationalisation, 5–9, 29, 132, 136–39, 141–43, 147, 248–50 relationship with film industry, 198–205 See also patria neoliberalism. See under liberalism newspapers. See press nobility, 26, 33, 36, 76, 103 novatores, 12, 32, 50, 66n5 Ordeñana, Agustín de, 53, 67 Ortega y Gasset, José, 6, 9, 13, 196. See also intellectuals PAH (Platform of those affected by mortgages), 285–86, 290–91, 294 País, El, 244, 252–54, 255n5 Pardo Bazán, Emilia, 7, 195 Parliament and public sphere, 27 of New Spain, 89–90, 101, 103 nineteenth and twenieth centuries to the Spanish Civil

War 109–10, 114, 116, 119, 129, 131, 186–88, 196 post-1978, 235, 287, 291, 296n1 patria, 113, 125n4, 142, 175–85, 219 Patriotic Societies, 26, 111, 118–19 Peninsular War. See France: invasion of Spain and effects Pérez Galdós, Benito, 10, 111, 125n3 Philip V, 48, 51, 55, 60, 68n26 Podemos (political party), 2, 259, 271, 273, 294–95 political modernity, 90–92 politeness, 17, 71–73, 79, 82–83, 84n3, 84n4 Portillo Valdés, José María, 137, 142 Ponz, Antonio, 72, 74–77, 79, 81, 84 PP (political party), 247, 264, 269, 273, 277n11, 283, 295 press, 1, 2, 13–16, 19–21, 157, 161, 176, 185, 188, 198, 203, 213–15, 224, 226n2, 233, 235, 244, 252, 271, 289 legislation governing the, 13, 187, 213, 215. See also censorship Primo de Rivera dictatorship, 14, 162, 186, 190n4, 198–99, 226 private sphere, 4, 14, 29–30, 45, 49, 51–52, 64, 71–72, 80, 130, 132, 135, 141–43, 146, 148, 214, 259, 262, 301 and gender, 11, 35, 156–57, 163, 167. See also women and religion, 10–11. See also Catholicism propaganda, 206, 212–17, 221–26

316

Index

PSOE (political party), 157, 162, 236, 250, 255n3, 264, 269, 273, 277n11, 290–91, 294–95 public opinion, 1, 4, 10, 14, 19, 20, 91, 130–32, 212–15, 224–25, 287, 289–90, 292–93. See also press; censorship Rábago, Andrés. See El Roto radio, 7, 180, 200, 215–16, 219, 221–22, 224, 288 Rajoy, Mariano, 247, 248, 255n5, 274–75, 295 Ramoneda, Josep, 7 Rational community, 51–52, 66 Rational-critical debate, 25, 35, 38 Rato, Rodrigo, 264, 286, 294 Regime of 1978, 259, 263, 267 reason, 3, 9–11, 14, 28, 30, 47–52, 60, 64, 139–40, 144, 148, 174, 221 religion. See Catholicism Republic of letters, 48, 185 Spanish First Republic, 131 Spanish Second Republic, 8, 14, 155, 162–64, 167, 187, 190n5, 201–7, 238 Spanish republicanism, 11, 110, 114, 118–19, 129, 157, 174, 183, 185–89, 196, 208n4, 238, 270 Riego, Rafael de, 110–12, 116, 118–21 rights, 5, 13–15, 118, 136–43, 146–48, 155, 268, 275, 301 Rivera, Albert, 273, 295 rumours, 15, 20, 218–25 salons, 25, 29, 32, 34, 45, 72, 92, 193. See also sociability

Sánchez, Pedro, 255n5, 275, 277n11, 295 Sánchez Ferlosio, Rafael, 236, 255n3 Savater, Fernando, 7 sociability, 1, 2, 7, 9, 10–14, 16, 19, 25, 26, 32, 72, 76, 90–92, 101, 103. See also tertulias; cafés; social media socialism; 159–60, 165, 175–76, 196. See also PSOE (political party) Socialista, El, 162 social media, 2, 271, 284, 288–89, 301. See also 15–M Spanish America, 9, 25–27, 32, 56, 79, 89–104, 114, 131, 180, 185, 198, 203. See also Gazeta de México Spanish Civil War, 167, 171n8, 189, 206–7, 213, 219, 221, 225, 227n6, 240, 251, 272. See also Republic: Spanish Second Republic; Francoism spiral of silence, 213, 223–25 television, 7, 19 Tercerola, La, 114, 115–17, 120–21, 124 terrorism, 8 tertulias, 32, 34, 45, 50, 72, 91, 93, 102–4, 104n4. See also sociability Traditionalism, 10, 36, 40, 47, 111, 163–64, 166–67, 176–83, 206, 217 Transition to democracy, 15, 234–47, 251–52, 254, 259, 263, 267–74, 292, 295. See also Culture of Transition (CT); Regime of 1978

Index 317

Unamuno, Miguel de, 7, 13, 19, 174–191, 195 United Kingdom, 55, 61, 70, 94–96, 131, 155, 186 as model of civility and politeness, 71–83, 84n3 as model of public sphere, 1, 3, 26, 28, 31–33, 45, 66n4 See also English United States of America, 1, 3, 25, 27, 32, 94, 101, 166, 198–99, 238, 244, 258, 260, 265. See also film industry Valdés, Manuel (editor and printer), 93 Valle-Inclán, Ramón del, 194 violence, 8, 29, 74, 79, 115, 129–30, 144, 170, 188, 226

War of Spanish Succession, 8, 37–38, 46, 55 women, 11–12, 73, 177, 183–84 comparisons with other countries, 77–78, 80 in the Spanish public sphere (18th century), 34–36, 40, 50, 64, 66n7 in the Spanish public sphere (19th and 20th centuries), 18, 155–61, 164, 167–170, 194, 195, 207n2 See also Habermas, Jürgen: other critiques of working class, 11, 79, 194, 204, 238 Zurriago, El, 114–17, 120–21, 124