Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain 9789048552252

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Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain

Connected Histories in the Early Modern World Connected Histories in the Early Modern World contributes to our growing understanding of the connectedness of the world during a period in history when an unprecedented number of people—Africans, Asians, Americans, and Europeans—made transoceanic or other long distance journeys. Inspired by Sanjay Subrahmanyam’s innovative approach to early modern historical scholarship, it explores topics that highlight the cultural impact of the movement of people, animals, and objects at a global scale. The series editors welcome proposals for monographs and collections of essays in English from literary critics, art historians, and cultural historians that address the changes and cross-fertilizations of cultural practices of specific societies. General topics may concern, among other possibilities: cultural confluences, objects in motion, appropriations of material cultures, cross-cultural exoticization, transcultural identities, religious practices, translations and mistranslations, cultural impacts of trade, discourses of dislocation, globalism in literary/visual arts, and cultural histories of lesser studied regions (such as the Philippines, Macau, African societies). Series editors Christina Lee, Princeton University Julia Schleck, University of Nebraska, Lincoln Advisory Board Serge Gruzinski, CNRS, Paris Michael Laffan, Princeton University Ricardo Padron, University of Virginia Elizabeth Rodini, American Academy in Rome Kaya Sahin, Indiana University, Bloomington

Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain

John Beusterien

Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustrations: A lion looks back at a rhinoceros. Detail from section of gilded silver ewer (1583) by Juan de Arfe (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City). Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout isbn 978 94 6372 044 1 e-isbn 978 90 4855 225 2 doi 10.5117/9789463720441 nur 685 © J. Beusterien / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2020 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book. Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher.

For my mother, Jane

Gilded silver ewer (1583) by Juan de Arfe (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City).



Table of Contents

List of Illustrations

9

Prologue

13

Introduction: Armored Beasts and the Elephant in the Room

15

1. Hawa’i the Elephant and Abada the Rhinoceros

35

2. Fuleco the Armadillo

115

3. Jarama the Bull and Maghreb the Lion

173

Conclusion: Biogeography as a Teaching Tool

223

Appendix 1

237

Appendix 2

239

Index

241



List of Illustrations

Tables 1. The Lives of Five Animals in Spectacles in Early Modern Spain 19 226 2. The Lives of Three Animals for a Biogeography Class Project Maps 1. Sixteenth-Century Journeys 2. Seventeenth-Century Journeys

20 20

Figures 1. Rhinoceros (1515) by Albrecht Dürer (National Gallery of Art, 23 Washington, D.C). 2. Philip II’s 1562 elephant (1563) by Jan Mollins I (British 41 Museum, London). 44 3. Abada (1586) by Philip Galle (private collection). 4. Zahir al-Din Muhammad Babur hunting rhinos in Swati 46 (1589) (Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, Maryland). 5. Prince Salim at a hunt (1600–4) (Los Angeles County Museum 48 of Art, Los Angeles). 6. Hobbled Ganda. Rhinoceros (1515) by Hans Burgkmair the 51 Elder (Albertina Museum, Vienna). Circle added by author. 7. Hobbled Ganda. Frontispiece for “Forma e natura e costume de lo Rinocerote” (1515) by Giovanni Giacomo Penni (Biblioteca Capitular Colombina, Seville, sign.: 6-3-29[29]) (© Cabildo Catedral de Sevilla). Circle added by author. 52 8. Abada and Her Mahout on the High Seas (2018) by Yinting Fin and Caleb Lightfoot. 54 9. Elephant with armor. “Tractado del elephante y sus calidades” (1578) by Cristóbal Acosta (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla).90 10. Juan de Arfe’s self-portrait. Frontispiece from De varia commensuración para la esculptura y architectura (1585) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla). 93 11. Gilded silver ewer (1583) by Juan de Arfe (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City). 93 12. A lion looks back at a rhinoceros. Detail from section of gilded silver ewer (1583) by Juan de Arfe (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City). 98

13. Abada as Madrid (2018) by Yinting Fin and Caleb Lightfoot. 102 14. Abada and Her Mother with India as Teat (2018) by Yinting Fin 103 and Caleb Lightfoot. 15. Six-banded armadillo (1637–44) by Frans Post (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam).121 16. Portrait of Gonzalo Argote. Libro de descripción de verdaderos retratos ilustres, y memorables varones by Francisco Pacheco (Sevilla: Litografía de Enrique de Utrera, 1870) (Biblioteca de 125 la Universidad de Sevilla). 17. Portrait of Nicolás Monardes at 57 years old (1569). Frontispiece of Historia medicinal, de las cosas que se traen de nuestras Indias Occidentales, as reprinted in Estudio histórico de la vida y escritos del sabio médico, botanico, y escritor del siglo XVI by Joaquín Olmedilla y Puig (Hijos de M.G. Hernández: Madrid 1897) (Biblioteca de la Universidad 133 de Sevilla). 18. Printed image of Fuleco as specimen. Historia medicinal, de las cosas que se traen de nuestras Indias Occidentales (1574) by Nicolás Monardes, as reprinted in Estudio histórico de la vida y escritos del sabio médico, botanico, y escritor del siglo XVI by Joaquín Olmedilla y Puig (Hijos de M.G. Hernández: Madrid 137 1897) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla). 19. Two armadillos (ca. 1560). Artist unknown (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam).139 20. America (ca. 1589). Designed by the Flemish artist Maarten de Vos and engraved by Adriaen Collaert (Metropolitan Museum 141 of Art, New York City). 21. Amerique (1644). King of clubs playing card from “Game of Geography” by Stefano della Bella (Metropolitan Museum of 143 Art, New York City). 22. Armadillo as America (Río de la Plata). Detail of Fountain with Four Rivers (1651) by Gian Lorenzo Bernini (Photo by Jonathan Rome).145 23. Philip II in Parade Armor (ca. 1570) by Alonso Sánchez Coello (Glasgow Museum of Art). 149 24. Tournament Armor of Charles V. Armeria real, ou Collection des principales pièces de la galerie d’armes anciennes de Madrid, 2 vols. and supplement (1839), by Achille Jubinal and Gaspard Sensi (Paris: Bureau des Anciennes Tapisseries Historiées) (Armería Real, Madrid, © Patrimonio Nacional). 151

25. The Monkey Painter (1660) by David Teniers the Younger (© Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado).163 26. “About Lion Hunting” (1582) by Juan de Arfe. Argote de Molina’s Libro de la Montería (Chapter 30, page 10r) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla). 187 27. “Hunting Bulls in the Arena” (1582) by Juan de Arfe. Argote de Molina’s Libro de la Montería (Chapter 38, page 16v) (Bibli201 oteca de la Universidad de Sevilla). 28. “About Hunting Cimarrones in the West Indies” (1582) by Juan de Arfe. Argote de Molina’s Libro de la Montería (Chapter 37, 203 page 14r) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla). 227 29. Chīmalli (early sixteenth century) (Weltmuseum, Vienna). 30. Philip II’s feather shield (ca. 1581) (Armería Real, Madrid, © Patrimonio Nacional). 229

Prologue The quotes from most of the non-English sources are found in the footnotes. All translations are mine unless otherwise noted. When the title of a nonEnglish book first appears in a chapter, I provide the title in its original language and then the English translation of the title in parenthesis. When the same title appears again, I use the English translation. For instance, the first time the title Anfiteatro del Felipe el Grande appears, it is Anfiteatro del Felipe el Grande (Amphitheater of Philip the Great). Thereafter, the work appears as Amphitheater of Philip the Great. Thanks to the Texas Tech students and colleagues who helped at many stages of this project. Thanks to Texas Tech University for supporting a Faculty Development Leave, as well as to the Humanities Center Animal Studies Group, and the Study Abroad Program at the TTU Center in Seville. Thanks to the editors for allowing me to reproduce previously published material in revised form from “The Armadillo: Spain Creates a Curious Horse to Belittle America,” Bulletin of Spanish Visual Studies I (2017) (Animals in Visual Hispanism, edited by Jo Evans and Sarah Wright): 27–52. Thanks to Cristina Viola Pliego for compiling the index and Jaime Llamas Nerváez for designing the maps. Special thanks to Erika Gaffney, Susan Larson, Helen Cowie, Francisco Escobar, Noelia Cirnigliaro, Juan Pimentel, Abel Alves, Carlos Sambricio, Shannon Pyle, Joe Snow, Pippin, Kevin Chua, Carmen Hsu, Elizabeth Wright, Adrienne Martin, Belinda Kleinhans, Frederick de Armas, Lucas Wood, Kees Rookmaaker, Joe Arredondo, Pamela Zinn, Martha Otis, Fernando Ruiz, Christina Lee, Mark Minnes, Wolfram Koeppe, Annemarie Jordan Gschwend, Juan Pablo Oslé, David Amelang, Cory Reed, Carla Rahn Phillips, Javier Rubiera, Eduardo Olid, Ted Bergman, Ed George, Caroline Bishop, Alice Kuzniar, Ross Forman, Jorge Zamora, Antonio Ladeira, Juan Montero, and Zachary Brandner. Thanks, lastly, to Kristen.



Introduction: Armored Beasts and the Elephant in the Room Abstract Animal spectacles are important for a holistic understanding of early modern Spanish culture. Influenced by Albrecht Dürer’s Rhinoceros, early modern Spain celebrated itself as a planetary world power through the spectacles of an exotic elephant, rhinoceros, armadillo, and lion. Also, partially due its role as a foil to the positing of animals as exotic, Spain created a spectacle of a homegrown bull. This chapter asserts the importance of deploying the methodology of a biogeography for one of each of these species, all of whom played a role as an animal protagonist in a spectacle. The writing of biogeographies takes the extinction of species in the Anthropocene into account and, in contrast to the negative impact of each animal’s role as an object in a spectacle, places an emphasis on an earth ethics that fosters healthy animal-human communities. Keywords: animal spectacles, early modern Spain, biogeography, Anthropocene, exotic animal, earth ethics, Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528)

On May 18, 1969, Apollo 10 shot a picture that captured the entire Earth from outer space. The astronaut reduced the Earth to the frame of a lens with a finger click of the camera. The image—a blue orb mottled with white clouds and some brown swatches delineating part of Mexico and the Gulf of California—turned the Earth into humanity’s absolute other. The absolute othering of the Earth in a photograph, however, also made the Earth absolutely human. The wholly other, as psychoanalysis teaches, now inhabited as the most familiar.1 The Earth took on a decidedly human form.

1 For a description of psychoanalysts such as Freud, who connected the uncanny with the familiar, see Hillis Miller 2001.

Beusterien, J., Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2020 doi 10.5117/9789463720441_intro

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Tr ansoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain

Earth anthropomorphosis, the transformation of the Earth into a human being, is not a backwards premodern or animist vision, but places the Earth at the forefront of new paradigms in different academic fields. Shaping broad-ranged thinking in the field of science, the simultaneous distancing of the Earth as object and its subsequent closeness as subject stimulated the Gaia hypothesis. Following chemist James Lovelock (1919–) and then microbiologist Lynn Margulis (1938–2011), philosophers of science coined the Gaia hypothesis to propose an earth ethics in which all organisms and their inorganic surroundings on Earth are closely integrated and form a single and self-regulating complex system. Gaia, as science’s object, is also the scientist’s subject; that is, Gaia is a human body—a complicated life system—capable of suffering from disease and even capable of emotion.2 Aside from the field of science, the work of sustainability scholar Arturo Escobar (2011) shows how the anthropomorphosis of the Earth impacts the field of economics. Escobar does not use the name Gaia, the Greek earth goddess, but Pachamama, the world mother from Incan thought, to characterize a form of earth ethics that has impacted his academic field. Closely linked to the Gaia notion in which the Earth is a single and self-regulated system, Pachamama, in the field of economics, takes on the meaning of a complicated life system, signaling the biocentric turn away from anthropocentrism’s tenet that a human life is the only life worth living. Escobar points to the notion of buen vivir, a Quechua and Aymara concept that upholds a philosophy of life that subordinates economic objects to ecological criteria, human and animal dignity, and social justice. How will people share the Earth with different animal species over the next hundred years? The following book offers a version of an earth ethics for the field of the humanities by studying five animal individuals used as spectacles in early modern Spain. It studies a rhinoceros, elephant, armadillo, bull, and lion in order to reflect upon the consequent ways that humans in the early modern period set precedents for a future that undermined the sustainability of the living planet. It is an example of how the humanities can, like the sciences or economics, produce scholarly work that seeks an earth ethics, which, in this case, looks to the damage to animal lives in the Anthropocene, the geological moment in which humanity’s impact on past and present tragically collide with respect to animal extinction. 2 For an overview of Gaia and the environment, see Crist and Rinker 2010. For the extension of Gaia theory beyond science into cultural studies such as Latour’s systems theory, see Clarke 2017. For avoiding the simplifying reductionism of the term, see Clarke 2014. For the relationship between Gaia and Pachamama to Spanish culture, see Beusterien 2016.

Introduction: Armored Beasts and the Elephant in the Room

17

Animal biographies have been the focus of many recent publications.3 With the goal of underscoring the importance of animal conservation in the Anthropocene, rather than animal “biographies,” the following study offers five “biogeographies.” The study of biogeography has typically been carried out by scientists. David Quammen writes in The Song of the Dodo: Island Biogeography in an Age of Extinctions: “Biogeography is the study of the facts and the patterns of species distribution” (1996, 17). E. O. Wilson (1929–) and mathematician Robert MacArthur (1930–72) pioneered the notion of biogeography, and their study of islands became the basis of the field of conservation. Following their lead, studies in biogeography generally focus on what influences the distribution of species across the planet. Different scientists continue to debate exactly when and what have been the most significant human factors that have impacted the planet and patterns of species distribution. This book does not focus on scientific questions relevant to the Anthropocene, such as what the most important reason for the rise of carbon dioxide concentrations in the atmosphere is or what focus animal conservation should take. 4 In the spirit of a growing body of studies that value science while carrying out humanities-based scholarship, the following study presents the biogeography of five animal individuals.5 Its goal is to provide an example of how the humanities can study the broader question of the distribution of a specific species across time and to underscore the age of extinction in the Anthropocene.6 In early modern Spain, the practice of giving animals as gifts on a global scale among potentates affected the lives of rhinoceroses, elephants, and lions. The rise of the humanist curio cabinet affected the lives of armadillos. 3 One can find innumerable popular books dedicated to the life stories of individual lions, rhinos, monitor lizards, apes, and dogs. The genre of the animal biography has also found hold in many academic publications. For instance, Susan Nance examines Jumbo in the context of global consumerism in Animal Modernity: Jumbo the Elephant and the Human Dilemma (2015), and André Kreeber and Mieke Roscher study the exceptional lives of unusual animals in Animal Biographies: Re-framing Animal Lives (2018). 4 Impacted by conservation efforts, some scientists study animals in light of the Anthropocene. For instance, the collaboration between Tigga Kingston, a bat biologist, and Christian Voight, a senior research scientist at the Leibniz Institute for Zoo and Wildlife Research, produced Bats in the Anthropocene: Conservation of Bats in a Changing World (2016). 5 One noteworthy incorporation of the notion of the biogeography for animals in the early modern period can be found in the work of Natalie Lawrence (2014 and 2015), who studies the commodification and exoticization of pangolins and birds of paradise. 6 The Reaktion Animal Series is an example of a combined effort to study animals in the context of science and the humanities. The Reaktion Animal Series has over ninety monographs dedicated to animals, from the albatross to the zebra, looking to collaborations between biology and the cultural life of species.

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Tr ansoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain

The rise of the primacy of the bull in staged animal combat affected the lives of bulls. In turn, each animal influenced the culture of future spectacles and how humans impacted the distribution of each of these species. The rhinoceros and the elephant are important for zoo history, the armadillo for the history of natural history museums, and the bull and lion for staged animal combats, especially the Spanish bullfight. The book, then, evokes the Anthropocene in the sense that it examines the extraction of five animal individuals from their habitats to show how institutions used them for a theatrical, spectatorial purpose and how they, in turn, affected modern institutions of animal spectacle. Spain was formative in the emergence of the modern animal spectacle. In the early modern period, the Spanish Habsburg monarchy claimed dominion over the planet’s animals and the planet itself. Spain divided Earth’s geopolitics into what it called the “four parts of the world,” as Serge Gruzinski (2010) writes in his study of the history of globalization and Spain. From 1580 to 1640, the Spanish Catholic monarchy was a significant player in the global arena of material and ideological dissemination at all levels because it brought “together territories, exchange routes, and areas of influence dispersed among several continents: Europe, Africa, America, and Asia” (Gruzinski 2015, 192). The Spanish divided the world into four parts—a division of the Earth that is crucial for understanding the significance of the animals studied in this book. Hawa’i the elephant and Abada the rhinoceros were from Asia, Fuleco the armadillo from America, Jarama the bull from Europe, and Maghreb the lion from Africa. The chart below provides the year and place of birth and death, as well as the place and date of each animal spectacle. Each chapter begins by offering a brief introduction to the species of each animal by explaining each one’s birth and the animal’s journey to Spain. Jarama the bull was transported a relatively short distance—36 miles—from the town of Aranjuez to Madrid. Ottoman authorities gifted Maghreb the lion to Spain in an act of diplomacy. Maghreb was captured in the Atlas Mountains, brought to Oran, and then transported by boat and over land to Madrid. Fuleco the armadillo was born and died in Brazil and his carapace was sent by ship across the Atlantic Ocean from Cartagena de Indias (in present-day Colombia) to Seville. Hawa’i the elephant and Abada the rhinoceros experienced the most harrowing journeys of the five. Like Maghreb, they were sent alive to Iberia as diplomatic gifts. The Mughal Emperor Akbar (1542–1605; r. 1556–1605) sent both animals to Iberia. They both travelled on ships from Goa, India, around the Cape of Good Hope, and were unloaded in Lisbon. Abada was transported in a cage and Hawa’i walked across land

19

Introduction: Armored Beasts and the Elephant in the Room

Name

Animal

Hawa’i

Elephant

Abada

Species

Asian elephant (Elephas maximus) Rhinoceros Indian rhinoceros or Greater one-horned rhinoceros (Rhinoceros unicornis)

Birth: Place, Death: Display: Place, Date Place, Date Date India, c.1580

London, 1593

India, 1573

Madrid, 1591

Fuleco

Armadillo

Brazil, Six-banded c.1559 armadillo (Euphractus sexcinctus)

Jarama

Bull

Spanish Fighting Spain, c.1626 Madrid, 1631 Bull (Bos taurus ibéricus)

Maghreb Lion

Barbary Lion (Pantera leo leo)

Maghreb, c.1621

Brazil, c.1569

Madrid, 1631

Antón Martín Hospital (Madrid), 1583-1591 1. General Hospital (Madrid), 1583-1591 2. Taxidermy specimen, Casa de Campo (Madrid), 1592-1598 Carapace specimen in collection of Gonzalo Argote de Molina (Seville), 1570-1586 Make-shift theater, Campo de Moro (Madrid), 1631 Make-shift theater, Campo de Moro (Madrid), 1631

Table 1. The Lives of Five Animals in Spectacles in Early Modern Spain.

to Madrid. Abada later died in Madrid. Hawa’i, in turn, left Spain for France and died in England. The following maps show each animal’s sex and the route each took in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, respectively. One tenet of the following study is the critical need to examine spectacle in light of animals’ acquired value as exotic. The biogeography of each animal illuminates how spectacles were part of a historical structure that mobilized animal bodies for the maintenance of a global Spanish Empire. In the early modern Spanish context, the bodies of the rhinoceros, elephant, armadillo, and lion were considered “exotic.” Each one’s body acquired the value of being exotic because they crossed oceans and imperial frontiers. The body of each acquired worth in the Spanish geo-cultural imaginary because of a global system determined by a network of trade, travel, and translation. As Jacques Lezra has written in Transnational Mobilities in Early Modern Theater, critical practice “requires the focus on the interrupted circuit of trade, travel, and translation on display” (2014, 216). Certain animals became exotic when their bodies were deployed for learning and enjoyment in Spain’s spectacle culture. Their symbolic and material value entered an

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Tr ansoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain

Sixteenth-Century Journeys.

Seventeenth-Century Journeys.

Escher-like circuit in which their physical transoceanic displacement had to be translated from the foreign to the home, producing a cultural surplus of value in both directions and in both contexts (Lezra 2014, 200). The newly shaped notion of the exotic animal in the early modern period influenced the formation of ways to visualize “home,” that is, the indigenous, domestic, or homegrown animal, propagating forms of human sight based on the emerging collective notions of Europe or Spain in contradistinction to

Introduction: Armored Beasts and the Elephant in the Room

21

the early modern division of the world into Africa, Asia, and the Americas.7 Scholars who study the history of animals in spectacle note the emergence of the notion of the exotic in the sixteenth century. Eric Baratay and Elisabeth Hardoin-Fugier point out in Zoo: A History of Zoological Gardens in the West that Rabelais used the term “exotic” in 1552 to describe new commodities arriving to Europe. Rabelais invents a fictional island, Medamothi, and describes the merchants from Asia and Africa who brought their wares to the markets at the port of Medamothi, including “various paintings, various tapestries, various animals, fish, bird and other exotic and well-travelled merchandise” (qtd. Baratay and Hardoin-Fugier 2002, 29). Early modern Spain was crucial for the emergence of the notion of the exotic animal in the emerging global system of the early modern period. Many studies, including those on animals in medieval Spain, ignore the specific context governing the appearance of the notion of exotic in early modern Europe and simply assume that humans universally construct “exotic” animals.8 “Exotic” is the first word of Vernon N. Kisling’s history of humankind, a collection of wild animals from ancient animal collections to the modern zoological garden. His study begins: “exotic animals have long been the ultimate collectibles” (2000, 1). Yi-Fu Tuan’s Dominance and Affection: The Making of Pets also uses a generic definition of the exotic to show how potentates throughout history dominated strange animals in a show of pride and prestige. For instance, when the founder of the Qin dynasty (221–207 BCE) created a capital city, it established a hunting preserve and park with captured animals from newly incorporated lands that included a rhinoceros from Huang and birds from Tiaozhi (Tuan 1984, 76). Kisling and Tuan’s use of the word “exotic” ignores the historical specificity of its emergence in early modernity. With respect to animal extraction and exploitation for aesthetic purposes, the exotic was contingent on spectacles, that is, human visual representations of animals, demonstrating that humans are not hard-wired across time and cultures to visually perceive animals in the same way. The term “exotic” as it exclusively applied to animals appeared at the beginning of the seventeenth century with the publication of Exoticorum libri decem (Ten Books of Exotica, 1605) by the Dutch botanist Charles de L’Écluse (Carolus Clusius, 1526–1609).9 L’Écluse constructed the 7 The experience of the Indies triggered a turn toward the discovery of indigenous European nature. For instance, see Cooper 2007. 8 For usages of the term “exotic” to describe animals in the Spanish Middle Ages, see Adroer i Tasis 1989 and Keller 1972. 9 For the connection between L’Écluse and Spanish humanists in Seville, see Gómez López 2005. For L’Écluse and botany, see Egmond 2009 and 2010.

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Tr ansoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain

definition of the exotic based upon how sixteenth-century Portuguese and Spanish authorities united the planet’s geography into the “East” (Africa and Asia) and “West” Indies (America). This book looks to the development of the notion of the exotic animal in the sixteenth-century Spanish context because it provides a foundation for European identity and globalism, particularly the case of the Dutch as informed by L’Écluse.10 The exotic animal appeared in the context of the Spanish Habsburg monarchy with Philip II (1527–98). Philip II, following a Renaissance model of outward-looking self-suff iciency, ideologically unified the East and West Indies into Europe’s exotic space.11 In terms of spectacle, one of most significant material signs of Philip II’s construction of the space of home (as Europe) versus the outside (as the Indies) can be found in how he employed armor. For Philip II, the most visually impressive European monarch dressed himself in the most visually impressive suit of armor. The source for Philip II’s exaltation of armor was Emperor Maximilian I (1459–1519). The Habsburg Maximilian I was the first significant king to use armor as a regal symbol. To do so, he exploited full-body armor as the iconic image of the king. He established the first royal armory in court at Innsbruck in 1504, dressed in armor for his official royal portrait commissioned to Bernhard Strigels (ca. 1460–1528), and wrote a pseudo-autobiographical chivalric romance titled The White King in which he established the primacy of armor as visual icon (Schroth 2004, 113; Stoichita 2016). The artist Hans Burgkmair (1473–1531) created the standard designs for Maximilian’s armor. Burgkmair’s competitor, Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528), also designed armor for Emperor Maximilian, including Three Studies of a Helmet (ca. 1514; Paris, Louvre); the Study of a Suit of Armor for Maximilian I (ca. 1517; Vienna, Albertina); and sketches of a Visor for a Jousting Helmet (ca. 1515; Albertina, Vienna) (Pimentel 2017; Clarke 1986; Smith and Findlen 2002, 20n.2). Dürer continued designing armor after Maximilian’s reign. He depicted Philip II’s father, Charles V, in armor. He won a project from the Nuremberg city council for a portrait of Charles 10 For the meaning of “exotic” before the eighteenth-century Enlightenment, including how it emerged in the Dutch context of globalism and in the sense of a European identity, see Schmidt 2015. 11 Spain’s outward-looking self-sufficiency contrasted with the perception of the exotic in terms of the Confucian model of inward-looking self-sufficiency and the European Enlightenment’s nineteenth-century outward-looking self-sufficiency. For an overview of the meaning of the exotic animal (a giraffe in the Medici court in the sixteenth century) with regards to the notion of outward-looking sufficiency, see Ringmar 2006.

Introduction: Armored Beasts and the Elephant in the Room

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Fig. 1. Rhinoceros (1515) by Albrecht Dürer (National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C).

V in which he designed an image cast on a medallion that showed the King wearing the characteristic Golden Fleece pendant and encased in armor (Chipps Smith 1983, 235). Burgkmair’s designs not only included armor for the human body, but also for the horse. The armored man on an armored horse in pageantry culture constituted an image of a composite living beast, a conjoined man on a horse, the epoch’s most marvelous visual show of royalty. Just as dressing up in armor signaled the Empire’s most revered human figure, so armor in the sixteenth century also signaled the most visually impressive exotic animal. Dürer single-handedly created the image of that armored animal when he drew an image of a rhinoceros (fig. 1). Dürer’s Rhinoceros achieved cultural currency across Europe by evoking the cult of armor. In The Rhinoceros and the Megatherium: An Essay in Natural History, Juan Pimentel, who also sees curiosity cabinets and private collections as precursors of imperial museums, begins his study with Dürer’s Rhinoceros. Pimentel calls Rhinoceros an “armored pachyderm” (2017, 3) and states that it was “imagined without being seen” and “transformed by the imagination into a picture that was reproduced and distributed around the world” (2017, 3).

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When Dürer made the broadsheet Rhinoceros, he created a hide on the animal that bears resemblance to his armor designs for Emperor Maximilian I from the same period. David Quammen writes that the Dürer rhino is a fantastically embellished version of a rhino; it is an armor-clad war machine. Quammen explains that the rhino is “complete with a gorget at the throat, a breastplate around the midsection, pauldrons for the shoulders, faulds skirting the thighs, and nicely aligned rivets along the plate edges” (2000, 205). Quammen concludes that Dürer emphasized the armor quality of the animal when he “angled back the angle of the horn, making it more dangerous as a weapon for hooking and ripping […] For good measure he added a second horn, smaller, pointing forward from the back of the neck. The lower legs he wrapped in chain mail” (2000, 205). Pimentel explains the visual impact: “the chain-metal armor evokes both a dragon and a reptile and, at the same time, the knight or samurai who has to combat it. This is where Dürer situates and transmits all the force of the animal and where he simultaneously displays his great debt to his experience designing armor” (2017, 97). Dürer encased armor on the body of Rhinoceros to signal its role as an outsider, the Empire’s exotic animal other. With Rhinoceros, Dürer established an important sixteenth-century truth with respect to the exotic animal: The iconic animal from the Indies was naturally clad in armor. Just as armor transformed the king and his horse into a visual symbol of the Empire, so armor on the animal transformed it into a visual symbol of the Empire’s exotic space. In contrast to the monarch whose armor represented dominion, control, and protection over the imperial home environment, the armor on the animal marked it as the exotic creature from the Indies that the Empire needed to conquer and place into captivity. Dürer had achieved a reputation as the century’s most accurate and naturalistic painter of animals. The most important sixteenth-century animal authorities, such as Conrad Gesner (1516–65), testified that Dürer’s enhanced Rhinoceros was true-to-life and scientifically accurate (Leitch 2017). Horses were fitted with armor, which, because of its cost and value to the elite, can be considered the most valued of all sixteenth-century artifices. When Dürer put armor on Rhinoceros, he evoked the valued artifice of armor. He also established a dichotomy between the armor produced as artifice in Europe versus armor as a natural product from the Indies. For Dürer, armor augmented Rhinoceros as a visual spectacle of wonder because it was not manufactured—like horse armor—but the natural hide of the animal. Dürer successfully mass marketed Rhinoceros, with its human eye staring back. Printers circulated Rhinoceros relentlessly, figuratively providing a

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familiar image of armor on the skin of Europe’s most important and iconic exotic animal. Ironically, through the materiality of armor, the exotic animal, the wholly other, also inhabited the most familiar space. Armor was shaped and crafted in Nuremberg, the global center for armor production, the city in which Dürer created Rhinoceros. “Exotic,” from the Greek, is literally that which comes from the outside or that which is foreign, and Dürer designed the century’s emblematic exotic animal icon with armor, the product forged in his hometown of Nuremberg. Dürer’s Rhinoceros sets one of the most important precedents for the foundation of the notion of exotic in modern animal spectacles. After taking the crown of the Spanish Empire, Philip II followed the precedent of the cult of armor from Dürer and Maximillian I. Philip II dressed himself in armor for his official portrait in self-promotion as planetary monarch. He built an armory in Madrid, his new capital city. Philip II acquired Maximilian’s, as well as his father Charles V’s, armor collection, and placed them in the Spanish Royal Armory in Madrid. Philip also commissioned new armor and bards. Early modern historians also celebrated Philip II as an armored monarch. The proposed frontispiece of the first official history of Philip II, Historia general del mundo (The General History of the World, 1599) by Antonio Herrera y Tordesillas (1549–1625), shows Philip encased in armor. Herrera y Tordesillas depicts Philip II as a new Hercules wearing armor, which symbolizes the monarch as a warrior who combines ideal classical and Christian virtues (Parker 2014). Philip II rode horses in pageants—each encased in armor—and Philip’s artificially augmented body transformed him into an awe-inspiring image of the planet’s most powerful monarch. By Philip’s reign, Dürer’s Rhinoceros had increased in popularity, contributing to the emblematic visual power of armor. Because armor not only covered the monarch, but also the armored beast that the monarch figuratively had to combat and conquer, Dürer’s broadsheet Rhinoceros—only an artistic creation—helped disseminate amazement about the natural world, particularly about animals from foreign places. The spectacle as quest to see an armored animal, a keen desire in Philip’s Spain, was influenced by Dürer’s armor-animal fiction that had become accepted fact. People craved to see a living rhinoceros and other animals supposedly naturally fitted with armor. Armadillo carapaces were the most popular animal specimens in collection cabinets. Nicolás Monardes (1493–1588), in fact, coined the name “armadillo” based on the fact that the armadillo specimen owned by Gonzalo Argote de Molina (1548–96) was supposedly a small version of a European armored horse that had been endowed with armor by nature. Philip II also

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made a spectacle of Abada, a living Indian rhino, and people perceived Abada through the lens of Dürer’s Rhinoceros. The goldsmith Juan de Arfe y Villafañe (1535–1603) went to Madrid to observe Abada and designed a magnificent gilded ewer that celebrated Philip II as imperial monarch (a detail of which is the cover image for this book). Arfe wrote, following Dürer, that Abada had skin that was like armor. *** I have organized each chapter of Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain in a similar way. Each begins with a summary of the life and death of each animal. Chapter 1 examines Hawa’i and Abada; Chapter 2 Fuleco; and Chapter 3 Jarama and Maghreb. Each chapter then focuses on the human institutions of theatrical animal display that radically altered the lives of each animal: Hawa’i and Abada as objects of spectacle in a proto-zoo in Madrid; Fuleco as a specimen exhibit in a proto-museum; and Jarama and Maghreb as performers in a staged animal combat. Finally, each chapter provides a brief conclusion that shows how the study of early modern Spanish culture can offer productive and creative aesthetic solutions for future human-animal cohabitation. I have coined a proper name for each of the five animals. Jane Goodall (1934–) famously named her chimps to the chagrin of the science profession, which insisted that the animals be given a number. Her naming, however, opened up a controversy in the field and stimulated new approaches to animal conservation. Although some animal individuals like certain elephants and bulls were given proper names in history, the following book anachronistically and intentionally provides names for five animals that had never received them before now. With the goal of writing a study grounded in the humanities in the spirit of animal conservation, I christened these animals with a name, like Goodall, to recognize their individuality and subjectivity; to stir academic controversy; and to encourage scholars, teachers, and students to create new animal biogeographies. Chapter 1 describes Philip II’s placement of Abada the rhinoceros and Hawa’i the elephant in a hospital in Madrid. A fee was charged to see each. Placed in hospitals in his newly created capital city, Philip II intimately tied the animals to theater. Hospitals got much of their revenue from plays and, in cities where stand-alone theaters were not built, innyards in hospitals were used for commercial public spectacles. Philip II’s proto-zoo featured Abada and Hawa’i and, like modern zoos, he used two captured exotic animals to enhance the image of the metropole capital and to enhance Spain’s imperial prowess.

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Chapter 1 especially focuses on the emerging public sphere in early modern Spain. The viewing experience of the animals combined cognitive and affective responses based on the public’s sense of collectivity and individuality. The primary thread that united the public’s response, such as the one shown on the ewer designed by Juan de Arfe, was Philip II’s use of the spectacle of the captive animal as a show of power. Hawa’i and Abada arrived to Europe as gifts from the Emperor Akbar, and Philip II flexed geopolitical muscle by not gifting away each animal after they came into his possession. The chapter concludes by pointing out that a history of the zoo, a microcosm of the Anthropocene, inspires compassion for animal sentience, especially for an animal’s sense of territory. Chapter 2 tells the story of Fuleco the armadillo. Ursula Heise writes in Imagining Extinction: The Cultural Meanings of Endangered Species (2016) that comedy as a genre opens new cognitive and emotional attachments between people and animals. Keeping Heise’s idea about comedy in mind, the chapter proceeds in an entertaining way with the hopes that nonfiction scholarship, like fiction, can adopt a comic tone for encouraging new modes of survival. The story of Fuleco sheds light on three important human figures: Gonzalo Argote de Molina, Nicolás Monardes, and King Philip II, each of whom imagined Fuleco’s body as showing off his particular version of a theater of the world. Gonzalo Argote de Molina used Fuleco to enhance his reputation because he established his home as a proto-museum and included Fuleco the armadillo, alongside paintings, books, armor, live purebred horses, trophy animal heads from hunting, and animal specimens from the East and West Indies. Nicolás Monardes used Fuleco to enhance his business interests when he published Fuleco’s image in Primera y segunda y tercera partes de la Historia medicinal, de las cosas que se traen de nuestras Indias Occidentales (Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies, 1574). Finally, King Philip II, who, like Monardes, visited Argote’s collection, most likely felt that Fuleco’s presence in Argote’s museum symbolically enhanced the value of the live horses and armor that he had collected in the Royal Armory in Madrid. Chapter 3 examines how Philip II’s grandson, Philip IV (1605–65), used a lion from Africa in a fight against a bull for the purposes of public entertainment as described in the collection of poems in Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, 1632) by José Pellicer de Ossau y Tovar (1602–79). Chapter 3 describes how the poets in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great used the spectacle of a staged animal combat to forge emerging collective identities of Europe and nation, as well as in terms of race. The chapter uses a performance studies framework to show the degree to which

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the staged animal combat formed part of the collective culture of spectacle. Furthermore, the chapter ultimately, by way of contrast, argues on the behalf of models of animal and human collaboration rather than human observation and animal destruction in spectacle. The chapter concludes by describing a performance model of human-animal collaboration through a reading of a graphic novel based on El retablo de las maravillas (The Marvelous Puppet Show), a play by Miguel de Cervantes. Dürer made the Rhinoceros exotic and, paradoxically, familiar by encasing it with armor from his hometown, just as The Amphitheater of Philip the Great also made the fighting bull simultaneously exotic and familiar. Pellicer and the poets that comprised Spain’s literary establishment depicted the fighting bull as exotic in the sense that it was the only wild animal left in the world to dominate. They describe the bull as a “lion from Spain,” evoking the king of beasts from Africa, but also writing that most ferocious bull was indigenous to Spain. According to The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, the most othered animal, the uncontrollable all-powerful bull, inhabited the most familiar space, bred on the grasses on the banks of the Jarama River in central Spain bordering the capital Madrid. Ultimately, the spectacle of animals in early modern Spain as told through the method of the biogeography I employ here helps scholars and students in the humanities to look beyond the superficial interpretation of images and texts in order to better understand landscapes of exclusion. The conclusion of Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain considers how teachers can use biogeography for that purpose. Students can invent their own names for animals in a class project that introduces them to the culture of animal spectacles in early modern Spain. For instance, they can name an anonymous quetzal bird from America. By way of example, I provide the case study of a shield with quetzal feathers which Philip II placed in the collection in the Royal Armory. In 1668: The Year of the Animal in France, Peter Sahlins explains how animals reveal the central dimensions of early French modernity in the seventeenth century. Sahlins studies living animals and their symbolic afterlives, noting that they are “agents in the making of early modern France, even as their agency extended to their dead bodies and painted representations” (2017, 20). The following book looks to five agents that expose much about the central dimensions of early modern Spanish culture. Hawa’i the elephant was literally a living animal on display in a room in Madrid, and my title for this introduction—the idiom “the elephant in the room”—refers to the erasure of something big and the omnipresent awareness of that erasure, namely, animals in spectacle culture in early modern Spain.

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Animal spectacles are vital to a holistic appreciation of Spanish culture. Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain examines animal spectacles that had repercussions for the emergence of the modern institutions like the zoo, natural history museum, and the bullfight. After providing a history of a destructive moment in the life of human-animal communities, particularly a description of a moment in early modern European history in which animals were extracted from natural habitats for human spectacle, the final goal of this book is to look toward an earth ethics. The goal of an earth ethics, influenced by species extinction in the Anthropocene, is to emphasize a history of destruction so as to inspire animal spectacles of mutual compassion. Just as f ields in the sciences need methods from the humanities for understanding the ethical dimensions of their research, so the humanities field needs methods from the sciences for full appreciation of its objects of study. Recognizing and valuing animal sentience, for instance, underscores mutual compassion by moving past human-centric definitions of spectacle. One important example of science enriching the humanities is the notion that animals come into sentience via territory. Art is born not solely through human expression, but emerges out of an animal expressing a sense of home through territory. Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari have written that animals’ marking of territory is “art in its pure state” (Deleuze and Guattari 1994, 183). Art begins with the animal or “at least with the animal that carves out a territory and constructs a house” since this marking of territory “implies the emergence of pure sensory qualities, of sensibilia that cease to be merely functional and become expressive features” (Deleuze and Guattari 1994, 183). The story of the lives and afterlives of f ive sentient animals in early modern Spain pushes toward new ways to imagine an earth ethics. With respect to the study of animals in early modern England, Erica Fudge writes that taking animals seriously highlights the fact that the marginalization of animals in modern humanities research itself serves an important philosophical and moral function. It obliterates a way of thinking that raises questions about the nature of the animal and the human; that offers us another inheritance, another way of conceptualizing both ourselves and the world around us. (2006, 4)

Of course, not all animals mark territory, and Luce Irigaray has suggested a more expansive sensitivity to animal territory by describing how animal territory is a grace gifted by animals that can lead toward altruism and

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communion with the living. For Irigaray, animals do not belong to the human nor in the human space, but in a space appropriate to their lives (Štuva 2013). In the context of human-bound animal extinctions and resurrections, Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain hopes for a future where humans and animals—and the Earth—establish interspecies relationships that demand lives of mutual caring.12

Works Cited Adroer i Tasis, Anna M. 1989. “Animals exòtics als palaus reials de Barcelona.” Medievalia 8: 9–22. Alves, Abel. 2011. Animals of Spain: An Introduction to Imperial Perceptions and Human Interaction with Other Animals, 1492-1826. Leiden: Brill. ——. 2020. “Domestication and Coevolution.” The Handbook of Historical Animal Studies. Eds. Brett Mizelle, Mieke Roscher, and André Krebber. Oldenbourg: De Gruyter. Baratay, Eric and Elisabeth Hardoin-Fugier. 2002. Zoo: A History of Zoological Gardens in the West. London: Reaktion. Beilin, Katarzyna. 2015. In Search of an Alternative Biopolitics: Anti-Bullfighting, Animality, and the Environment in Contemporary Spain. Columbus: Ohio State University Press. ——, Kathleen Connolly, and Micah McKay, eds. 2019. Environmental Cultural Studies Through Time: The Luso-Hispanic World. Hispanic Issues On Line. Beilin, Katarzyna and William Viestenz, eds. 2016. Ethics of Life: Contemporary Iberian Debates. Vanderbilt: Vanderbilt University Press. Beusterien, John. 2012. Canines in Cervantes and Velázquez: An Animal Studies Reading of Early Modern Spain. Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing. ——. 2016. “An Exemplary Iberian Peninsula for an Ethics of Life.” A Polemical Companion to Ethics of Life: Contemporary Iberian Debates. Eds. Katarzyna Beilin and William Viestenz. Hispanic Issues Series. 55–62. University of Minnesota Digital Conservancy, http://hdl.handle.net/11299/202295. ——. 2019. “Environmental Lessons from Some Spanish Animals: Donkey Humor and a Rhino Triptych.” In Beilin, Connolly, and McKay, 254–71. https://cla.umn. edu/sites/cla.umn.edu/files/hiol_24_12_beusterien__0.pdf 12 For studying animals as a way to forge new vocabulary and concepts of wider empathy, see Alves 2020; Beusterien 2012; Beusterien and Callicot 2013; and Beusterien 2019. For models from Spain as transforming modes of empathy with regards to the environment in the Antropocene, see Beilin 2015; Beilin and Viestenz 2016; Prádanos 2018; and Beilin, Connolly, and McKay 2019.

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—— and J. Baird Callicot. 2013. “Humor and Politics through the Animal in Cervantes and Leopold.” Comparative Literature Studies 50.1: 43–63. Chipps Smith, Jeffrey. 1983. Nuremberg, a Renaissance City, 1500-1618. Austin: University of Texas Press. Clarke, Bruce. 2014. “‘The Anthropocene,’ or, Gaia Shrugs.” Journal of Contemporary Archeology 1.1: 101–4. ——. 2017. “Rethinking Gaia: Stengers, Latour, Margulis.” Theory, Culture, and Society 34.4: 3–26. Clarke, T.H. 1986. The Rhinoceros from Dürer to Stubbs: 1515-1799. New York: Sotheby’s Publications. Cooper, Alix. 2007. Inventing the Indigenous: Local Knowledge and Natural History in Early Modern Europe. New York: Cambridge University Press. Crist, Eileen and H. Bruce Rinker, eds. 2010. Gaia in Turmoil: Climate Change, Biodepletion, and Earth Ethics in an Age of Crisis. Cambridge: MIT Press. Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. 1994. What Is Philosophy? Trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Graham Burchell. New York: Columbia University Press. Egmond, Florike. 2009. The Exotic World of Carolus Clusius: 1526-1609. Catalogue of an exhibition on the quatercentenary of Clusius’s death, April 4, 2009. Ed. Kasper van Ommen. Leiden: Leiden University Library. ——. 2010. The World of Carolus Clusius: Natural History in the Making, 1550-1610. London: Pikering and Chatto, 2010. Escobar, Arturo. 2011. “Sustainability: Design for the Pluriverse.” Development 54.2: 137–140. Fudge, Erica. 2006. Brutal Reasoning: Animals, Rationality, and Humanity in Early Modern England. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Gómez López, Susana. 2005. “Natural Collections in the Spanish Renaissance.” From Private to Public: Natural Collections and Museums. Sagamore Beach: Science History Publications. 13–41. Gruzinski, Serge. 2010. Las cuatro partes del mundo: Historia de una mundialización. Ciudad de Mexico, Fondo de Cultura Economica. ——. 2015. “Mexican Feathers for the Emperor of China: Towards a Global History of the Arts.” Images Take Flight: Feather Art in Mexico and Europe, 1400-1700. Eds. Alessandra Russo, Gerhard Wolf, and Diana Fane. Munich: Hirmer Verlag. 190–201. Heise, Ursula. 2016. Imagining Extinction: The Cultural Meanings of Endangered Species. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hillis Miller, J. 2001. Others. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Keller, John Esten. 1972. “The Depiction of Exotic Animals in Cantiga XXIX of the Cantigas de Santa María.” Studies in Honor of Tatiana Fotitch. Washington, D.C.: Catholic University Press. 247–253.

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Kisling, Vernon N. 2000. Zoo and Aquarium History: Ancient Animal Collections to Zoological Gardens. Boca Raton: CRC Press. Kreeber, André and Mieke Roscher, eds. 2018. Animal Biographies: Re-framing Animal Lives. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Lawrence, Natalie. 2014. “Disembodied Birds: Crafting the Dodo and the Birds of Paradise in L’Écluse’s Exoticorum libri decem.” Commodity Histories. Accessed December 29, 2019. http://www.commodityhistories.org/research/disembodied-birds. ——. 2015. “Exotic Origins: The Emblematic Biogeographies of Early Modern Scaly Mammals.” Itinerario 39: 17–43. L’Écluse (Clusius), Charles. 1605. Exoticorum Libri Decem. A nt wer p: Plantin-Raphelengius. Leitch, Stephanie. 2017. “Dürer’s Rhinoceros Underway: The Epistemology of the Copy in Early Modern Print.” The Primacy of the Image in North European Art: Essays in Honor of Larry Silver. Eds. Debra Taylor Cashion, Henry Luttikhuizen, and Ashley D. West. Leiden: Brill, 241–55. Lezra, Jacques. 2014. “Trade in Exile.” Transnational Mobilities in Early Modern Theater. Eds. Robert Henke and Eric Nicholson. Burlington: Ashgate. 199–216. Maravall, José Antonio. 1986. Culture of the Baroque: Analysis of a Historical Structure. Trans. Terry Cochran. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Nance, Susan. 2015. Animal Modernity: Jumbo the Elephant and the Human Dilemma. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Parker, Geoffrey. 2014. Imprudent King: A New Life of Philip II. New Haven: Yale University Press. Pimentel, Juan. 2017. The Rhinoceros and the Megatherieum: An Essay in Natural History. Trans. Peter Mason. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Prádanos, Luis I. 2018. Postgrowth Imaginaries: New Ecologies and Counterhegemonic Culture in Post-2008 Spain. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Quammen, David. 1996. The Song of the Dodo: Island Biogeography in an Age of Extinctions: New York: Scribner. ——. 2000. The Boilerplate Rhino: Nature in the Eye of the Beholder. New York: Touchstone. Ringmar, Erik. 2006. “Audience for a Giraffe: European Expansionism and the Quest for the Exotic.” Journal of World History 17.4: 375–397. Sahlins, Peter. 2017. 1668: The Year of the Animal in France. New York: Zone Books. Schmidt, Benjamin. 2015. Inventing Exoticism: Geography, Globalism, and Europe’s Early Modern World. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Schroth, Sarah. 2004. “Veneration and Beauty: Messages in the Image of the King in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries.” Spain in the Age of Exploration, 1492-1819, exhibition catalogue. Ed. Chiyo Ishikawa. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. 103–138.

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Smith, Pamela and Paula Findlen. 2002. “Introduction: Commerce and the Representation of Nature in Art and Science.” Merchants and Marvels: Commerce, Science, and Art in Early Modern Europe. Eds. Pamela Smith and Paula Findlen. London: Routledge. 1–28. Stoichita, Victor. 2016. “The Perfectible Body. Splendor and Misery of Renaissance Armor.” Iconologie: Studi in onore di Claudia Cieri Via. Eds. Ilaria Miarelli Mariani, Stefano Pieroguidi, and Marco Ruffini. Rome: Campison. 231–40. Štuva, Sara. 2013. “Breathing with Animals: Irigaray’s Contribution to Animal Ethics.” Breathing with Luce Irigaray. Eds. Lenart Škof and Emily A. Holmes. London: Bloomsbury. 130–48. Tuan, Yi-Fu. 1984. Dominance and Affection: The Making of Pets. New Haven: Yale University Press. Voight, Christian and Tigga Kingston, eds. 2016. Bats in the Anthropocene: Conservation of Bats in a Changing World. Cham: Springer Open.

1.

Hawa’i the Elephant and Abada the Rhinoceros Abstract Chapter 1 provides a biogeography of Hawa’i the elephant and Abada the rhinoceros, beginning with their births in India. When Philip II came into the possession of both animals, he took advantage of the financial and structural relationship between hospitals and theaters and placed each animal in a hospital in Madrid, where the public was charged a fee to see them. The spectacle of Abada and Hawa’i functioned like a proto-zoo, reflecting the emerging public sphere and Philip II’s desire to enhance the image of the capital city. Chapter 1 also examines a silver-gilt ewer (1583) designed by Juan de Arfe that uses an image of Abada and Hawa’i to show off Philip II’s planetary power. Keywords: zoo history, public sphere, Philip II of Spain (1527–98), Hawa’i the elephant (ca. 1580–ca. 1593), Abada the rhinoceros (1573–91), Juan de Arfe y Villafañe (1535–1603)

The zoo is a microcosm of the Anthropocene because it is a space where humans determine animal reproduction and choose who belongs. Madrid constructed a zoo in the Casa de Campo in 1972 and, before that, in the eighteenth century, the public went to see lions in cages in the Buen Retiro Park. Even before the creation of the Casa de Campo zoo and Buen Retiro Park, people had already visited a proto-zoo, where they paid a fee to see an elephant and a rhinoceros in Madrid.1 The following chapter follows the material conditions of the lives of the elephant Hawa’i and the rhinoceros Abada, especially focusing on their 1 For more on zoo history, see McDonald and Vandersommers 2019; Bruce 2017; Rothfels 2002; Malamud 1998 and 2017; Miller 2013; Anderson 1998; and Grigson 2016. For early modern Habsburg menagerie collections, see Jordan Gschwend 2010 and 2016, and Pérez de Tudela and Jordan Gschwend 2001 and 2007.

Beusterien, J., Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2020 doi 10.5117/9789463720441_ch01

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use as public spectacle in two hospitals in Madrid from 1583 to 1591. The chapter explains the nature of spectatorship for the sixteenth-century viewing public. People that saw Hawa’i and Abada saw different things. Like seeing a play, experiencing Hawa’i and Abada constituted complex social thinking and affective reactions based on the audience’s sense of collectivity and individuality.2 In general, the display of Hawa’i and Abada set destructive precedents for the lives of animals more generally because it perpetuated the elite gifting of live animals in a global economy, fomented an emerging orientalism, made the rhino body a symbol of a panacea, and used animals to create a sense of the world in which they were captive enemies of a universal monarchy. The chapter ends by focusing on the ewer designed by Juan de Arfe that transformed Philip II’s pachyderm spectacle into a spectacle of imperial triumph that is one of the most troubling features of the modern zoo—showing off one’s power with captive animals from a distant land. Humans need to develop deeper compassion for animal sentience with regard to space, especially because we do not fully understand the cognitive spatial sense in animals. The human language system shares characteristics with animal mapping systems in evolutionary terms because animals developed a sense of mapping in the same place in the brain where humans developed language (Hauser, Chomsky, and Fitch 2002). The chapter concludes with two images that show how Hawa’i and Abada can offer new ways to creatively reimagine ways of mapping that include the animal. Philip II’s use of Hawa’i and Abada overlooks animal space sentience: He strengthens a sense of worldliness, transforming Hawa’i and Abada’s bodies into an image of his planetary control that converges within the contours of Madrid. Despite providing safety for animals from the peril of a besieged wilderness, zoos as institutions ultimately promote the anthropocentric and anti-ecological fantasy that we are entitled to see everything and, as Randy Malamud writes, are “somehow above the ecosystems in which we live” (2017, 399). The goal, then, of the chapter is to show destructive mappings onto the bodies of each animal; in doing so, the chapter will clear the ground for looking at new ecosystems that heighten empathy toward animals and their sense of place. 2 For the Habermasian notion of the public in early modern theater, see Mullaney 2013. For the role of the activation of the human senses in the making of the public sphere, see Eberhart 2013. For the public sphere in the context of early modern Spanish theater, see Greer 2013. Also see Amelang 2018.

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Hawa’i (ca. 1580–ca. 1593) Only twenty or so elephants arrived alive to Europe during the course of the sixteenth century. All were from India. The nameless elephant that Philip II put in the hospital in Madrid in 1583 was most likely born in captivity in the menagerie of Akbar, the great ruler of the Mughal Empire. I am adopting the name of Akbar’s most famous elephant—“Hawa’i”—for Philip II’s elephant to signal that Hawa’i was most likely born in captivity in Mughal Agra under the supervision of Akbar. The number of live elephants held in captivity was a sign of power among the Ottoman Turks and the Mughals. Akbar’s father, for instance, impressed the Ottoman admiral Seydi Ali Reis (1498–1563), by showing off some 400 imperial elephants at his palace court (Groom 2019, 7). At his court in Agra, Akbar had 101 stables for elephants. Five men tended each elephant, feeding them rice, sugar, milk, and ghee. A superintendent reported the condition of each elephant to Akbar (Grewal 2007, 60). In the 1570s, geopolitical tensions between two world superpowers—the Ottoman Turks and Mughal India—radically transformed the lives of Hawa’i and Abada. On unhealthy terms with the Ottomans, Akbar sought out an alliance with Iberia. In early 1582, Akbar established direct contact by sending an envoy with a letter and gifts to Philip II. The letter ostensibly describes his interest in Iberia’s Christianizing mission and asks Philip for missionaries and religious books in Persian so that he could learn about Christian doctrine. Akbar, however, primarily sought out an alliance with Philip—a powerful European counterpart to the west of the Ottoman Empire—to secure his own territory to the east (Thomas and Chesworth 2017). Akbar planned to send the envoy of ambassadors, along with the letter and gifts, to Goa and then on to Lisbon. The envoy consisted of the Mughal emissaries Sayyid Muzaffar and Abdullah Khan, as well as the Jesuit missionary António Monserrate (1536–1600). I suspect that Hawa’i was the primary gift that Akbar sent with the envoy to the Portuguese. Historical data is incomplete because the ambassadorial mission fell apart. Muzaffar abandoned the mission—he opposed Akbar’s religious heterodoxy and fled. Khan did not abandon the mission and only arrived to Goa with Akbar’s letter and Hawa’i. Khan, however, did not continue on to Lisbon because, as Montserrate writes, “the project of the embassy was entirely abandoned” (qtd. in Thomas and Chesworth 2017, 105). A letter written by Philip II to his children in 1582 provides one key reason why the ambassadorial mission to Goa fell apart: The viceroy in Goa had

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died. In the letter, Philip II writes that the viceroy that he appointed to Goa, Fernão Teles de Menezes (1530–1605), had just replaced the previous one who had died in March 1581. Philip states to his daughters that Fernão Teles de Menezes arrived just in time to be able to secure him an elephant gift that may have cheered the spirits of their brother: I only know that the ship carried an elephant, which has been sent to your brother by the viceroy whom I sent to the Indies […] who has already arrived there, and he arrived at a good time too because the one who was there already—I mean the viceroy who was there already—was dead. Tell your brother about the elephant […] God keep you as I desire: your loving father. (qtd. in Woodward 2013, 99)3

Philip II was living in Lisbon at this time (from 1581 to 1583) and away from his family. Philip shows no concern for the rest of the cargo that arrived to port except for the elephant because he hoped that a new elephant would improve the health of his son Diego, who he calls in the letter “convalescent and weak.” Philip’s enthusiasm over Hawai’i’s arrival is bittersweet. Over thirty years earlier, Philip II had hoped that elephants would please his deceased son Don Carlos (1545–68), the sole hope at that time for the continuation of the dynasty. When Carlos was five years old, he received a nine-year-old elephant bull from his father and Catherine of Austria (1507–78). Catherine was mother to Maria Manuela of Portugal (1527–45), Philip II’s first wife, who was deceased by the time of this gifting. Catherine wanted to indulge Carlos, Philip’s son and her grandson, now growing up motherless in the Spanish court. 4 Deeming the elephant’s custody to be too costly, Philip regifted the elephant two years later. Despite having given away this first elephant, nine years later, in 1562, Philip II chose to give the gift of another elephant to his sixteen-year-old son Prince Carlos. The Venetian ambassador in Spain describes Carlos’s reaction to the second elephant from his teen years, writing that Carlos “cherishes it so and frequently 3 “solo he sabido que viene esta nao un elefante que envía a vuestro hermano el virrey que envié a la India […] que era ya allá y llegó a buen tiempo porque era muerto el que alla estaba, digo el virrey que allá estaba. Decid a vuestro hermano esto del elefante […] Y dios os guarde como deseo, vuestro buen padre” (qtd. in Bouza 1998, 191). 4 Prince Carlos’s elephant was originally a gift from Bhuvaneku Bahu, King of Kōṭṭe (r. 1521–51) to the Portuguese Queen Catherine of Austria (1507–78). Popularly known as Suleyman, this elephant was raised in Ceylon in Bahu’s royal stables and, at two years old, was taken to Queen Catherine in Lisbon (Jordan Gschwend 2010).

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orders it to be brought to his room where he delights in seeing such a novel and strange animal” (qtd. in Jordan Gschwend 2010, 35). When Philip saw Hawa’i arrive in Lisbon in July of 1582, the experience of the previous two elephants as gifts for a sickly son pervaded his sentiment in the letter to his daughters. Hawa’i, nonetheless, never saw the new heir alive—Prince Diego, Philip’s fourth son, died at seven years old from smallpox a few months after Hawa’i arrived on the Portuguese galleon. Not long after the death of his son, Philip II decided to move court from Lisbon. The following year, Philip left for Madrid, mourning the loss of his son but with Portugal and its territories under his monarchic wing. When he returned to Madrid, he transported Hawa’i and Abada as part of the royal move (Staudinger and Irblich 1996, 265; Jordan Gschwend 2017, 333). Philip first placed Hawa’i in a stable near the Alcázar Palace in Madrid. Indicating that Hawa’i was unhappy with the living situation and lacked space, a royal payment was made to Catalina Santaclara on August 1, 1583 for damages done by Hawa’i to her house next to the Alcázar (Pérez de Tudela and Jordan Gschwend 2007, 443 n.87). Shortly after damaging the dwelling near the Madrid palace, Philip ordered Hawa’i to be brought to the Escorial. Philip II’s historian describes: On October 9, 1583, the king ordered that an elephant be brought from Madrid so that the monks could observe it. The elephant arrived to the gardens at 2 p.m. A noble black man [caballero] rode on its neck and guided it. Before His Majesty, the elephant showed off to all its ability to pay tribute and bow, lie on the ground, and take fruit with its trunk. Later they put it in the cloister of the monastery and it entered in the monk’s quarters, and from there they brought it to the college through the cloister. It was quite tame. The same elephant also came a few days later and walked up the main staircase to the cloister on the upper level some 30 feet above ground. It entered in the cell of the Vicar and there it did all that the black man commanded.5 5 “En 9 días del mes de octubre de 1583 años por mandado de S.M. trajeron de Madrid un elefante para que le viesen los padres desta casa. Entró en el jardín a las dos horas después de mediodía. Venía un negro caballero en el pescuezo que le guiaba. Hizo delante de S.M. todas sus habilidades de hacer reverencia, y echarse en el suelo y tomar frutas con la trompa. Y luego le metieron por los claustros de la casa, y entró en la celda de nuestros padres, y de allí le llevaron al colegio por los claustros, muy doméstico. Y otro día después le tornaron a traer y subió por la escalera principal a los claustros altos de los treinta pies, y entró en la cella del padre vicario, y hizo allí lo que el negro mandaba” (Salvá y Sainz de Baranda 1845, 368–9).

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As all the sources that make reference to Hawa’i, the Escorial chronicler does not provide a proper name for the elephant. It should be noted, though, that some elephants did receive proper names in early modern Spain. Often, they were given the title of “don,” like Don Quixote. Louise Rice (2017) has studied Don Diego, the elephant who served as model for the painter Nicholas Poisson (1594–1665). Don Diego was sent from Portugal to Spain and Philip IV placed him in the Casa de Campo in 1621, the year he ascended the throne. I suspect that Philip IV’s elephant may have been christened Diego after his grandfather Philip II’s son Diego, who died a few months before Hawa’i arrived in Madrid. As I note below, another Spanish elephant was christened Don Pedro. Philip II sent Don Pedro as a gift to the Japanese. Could Don Pedro’s name also derive from the name of one of King Philip II’s sons, that is, his illegitimate son Pedro from his relationship with Isabel de Osorio? Aside from providing no name for the elephant, the Escorial chronicler also does not provide a proper name for the mahout. He simply calls him “a noble black man.” More study is also needed on the history of mahouts in sixteenth-century Europe. In 1517, one of the two mahouts that traveled with Hanno the white elephant from Asia to Portugal, and then to Rome, was Mahmet (Jordan Gschwend 2010, 6). A mahout named Oçem accompanied the first rhinoceros to arrive in Europe at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Another document from the same period in Lisbon lists Dharma and Drama as mahouts for elephants (Jordan Gschwend 2010, 6). The mahout Gaspar came from Goa to Lisbon and served the elephants and the Portuguese King John III, who granted Gaspar freedom in 1559 (Jordan Gschwend 2017, 332). The mahout that accompanied Hawa’i had most likely bonded with Hawa’i when he was born at Akbar’s court. Upon arriving in Europe with their elephant or rhino, Philip II would have provided Hawa’i’s mahout with lavish European clothing, following the previous treatment of mahouts by Iberian kings. In 1517, King Manuel supplied Dharma and Drama, “servants of the elephants,” a wardrobe of clothing (Jordan Gschwend 2010). For Philip’s 1562 elephant, the tailor Gabriel Várez completed an order that describes the unnamed mahout as the “elephant’s Indian” (yndio del elefante) (Jordan Gschwend 2010, 35). Várez’s clothing order includes: yellow pants and a top, along with a red tabard cloak (Jordan Gschwend 2010, 35). One Antwerp artist, Jans Mollihns I, created a colorful broadsheet that represents Philip’s 1562 elephant (see f ig. 2). The mahout in Mollihns’s broadsheet wears yellow leggings and a yellow shirt with a red tabard cloak, demonstrating that he was still wearing the clothes that he received from

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Fig. 2. Philip II’s 1562 elephant (1563) by Jan Mollins I (British Museum, London).

Philip II when he was traveling in northern Europe. The mahout in Mollihn’s image carries a long baton, riding on the shoulders of an elephant that wears a yellow and red checkered cover over its back (Jordan Gschwend 2010, 38). Aside from the image of the unnamed mahout, Mollihns’s broadsheet shows some men that pull the elephant’s tail, another appears to push and prod the elephant, another measures its head, and another appears to bow as the animal passes by. Two elderly women watch from a window; one of them points at the animal.

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The description in the Escorial of the mahout who took care of Hawa’i describes the man as a “noble caballero.” The association between the mahout and aristocracy was a commonplace, just as the association between the elephant and aristocracy. The practice of giving an elephant the noble moniker of “don” was the object of humor in one seventeenth-century novel. In El diablo cojuelo (The Limping Devil, 1641) by Luis Vélez de Guevara (1579–1644), a character sits atop a tower and watches the goings-on in Madrid. He offers a scathing critique of everyday life in Madrid. The narrator points out a mahout bringing an elephant to the Puerta del Sol and lambasts the relative ease in which people christen themselves into the nobility by appropriating the label “Don”: Other elephants are usually called don Pedros, don Juanes and don Alonsos. I just don’t know how the mahout, or nair as they call them in India, can make such a mistake. Such an animal is nothing more than a commoner and the label “don” is falsely put upon it. By god, I will get rid of that label because a “don” on an elephant for me takes away the sacredness and privilege of the title.6

The Spanish and Portuguese typically referred to mahouts as “nairs” in the early modern period, a word that, in the Indian context, refers to the Nair (or Nayar) people, a group of Hindu castes that lived and live in the Indian state today known as Kerala. In the sixteenth century, the Nair peoples lived in various kingdoms, most notably, from the point of view of the Iberians, Calicut and Cochin, the kingdoms known for pepper production.7 After the Escorial, Philip decided to make Hawa’i a spectacle for the public for nine years in the Antón Martín Hospital in Madrid. Afterwards, in 1591, Philip II dispatched Hawa’i as a gift to the new Bourbon King of France, Henry IV (1553–1610, r. 1589–1610). After a year, Henry IV grew tired of Hawa’i’s upkeep and unloaded him as a gift to Queen Elizabeth of England (1533–1603, r. 1558–1603) in 1592 (Rice 2017; Lach 1970, II: 155). One study of Asian elephants found that males continue to gain weight throughout their lives (Chapman and Mumby 2015). Elizabeth was not happy with Hawa’i and complained that he kept growing. As English historian Anne Somerset 6 “Los más suelen llamarse […] don Pedros, don Juanes y don Alonsos. No sé cómo ha tenido tanto descuido su ayo o naire, como lo llaman los de la India Oriental; plebeyo debía de ser este animal, pues ha llegado tan tarde al don. Vive Dios que me le he de quitar yo, porque me desbautizan y desdonan los que veo” (Vélez de Guevara 2019, 23). 7 The role of non-European keepers, and their status within society more widely, merits further attention. For nineteenth-century African lion-tamers in Britain, see Cowie 2014.

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writes: “Her Majesty was not content with the sending of the elephant” (qtd. Somerset 2010, 486). Elizabeth, no doubt, like Henry IV in England and Philip II in Spain, did not wish to concern herself with the welfare of the animal. Captive elephants usually die by forty years of age and it seems that Hawa’i, who survived journeys from Mughal India to Spain to France, probably died in England of neglect at around thirteen years old.

Abada (1573–ca. 1591) Abada arrived in Lisbon five years before Hawa’i. About nine Indian rhinos arrived in Europe before 1800. Only two, possibly three, rhinos survived transport to Europe in the sixteenth century. All the rhinos, like Hawa’i and the other nineteen or so elephants, were from India. Many scholars have studied Ganda, the first rhino to arrive alive to Europe in the early modern period, but none has examined Abada, the only rhinoceros to have lived long term in captivity in Europe in the sixteenth century.8 Abada was a single-horned Indian rhino, the largest of the five rhino species and the most difficult to train. As opposed to the popularity of the broadsheet Rhinoceros, by Dürer, that shows Ganda’s altered image, only one printed image of Abada was made in the sixteenth century. Philip Galle (1537–1612), a printer and publisher in Antwerp, took a now-lost sketch of Abada and, like Dürer, made Abada, a copper engraving, and printed a broadsheet (fig. 3).9 Galle did not alter the rhino’s body with armor like 8 For a history of captive rhinos, see Rookmaaker 1973, and Rookmaaker, et al. 1998. One of the best sources for the history of the rhinoceros in Spain is an unpublished manuscript by Martín Sarmiento (1695–1771). Sarmiento begins “Noticias de un cuerno del rinoceronte” (“News about a Rhinoceros Horn”, ca. 1762) by stating that he was inspired by a horn bought from a dealer in Madrid—“the horn I have now on my desk” (“el cuerno que tengo sobre la mesa” [357]). He then writes nearly 350 pages devoted to sources that describe the rhinoceros from antiquity to the present. He provides invaluable sources on Abada, especially in the section titled “Testigos oculares de Rhinozeronte” (“Rhino Eyewitnesses,” 383 ff.). 9 One of Galle’s printed broadsheets of Abada is found in Museo de Historia de Madrid. A list of other extant Galle broadsheets is found in Faust 2003, 5. Lazarus Roeting (or Rotingus) (1549–1614) engraved and copied Galle’s print. Roeting’s nephew Michael Rotenbeck (1568–1623) included Roeting’s copy in Theatrum Naturae (The Theater of Nature, 1615). The inscription or legend of Roeting’s copy of the Galle rhinoceros is a four-line handwritten textual abbreviation of the text found in Galle’s block print inscription. Another copy Galle’s Rhinoceros was made by Galle’s nephew, Collaert. One collection of Collaert’s prints includes nineteen hand-colored plate engravings with a title page that depicts Orpheus charming and taming the birds and beasts of the forest. The colored plate with Galle’s rhino (now in a private collection) includes two elephants at its side.

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Fig. 3. Abada (1586) by Philip Galle (private collection).

Dürer, who added rivets and an extra horn. Galle did, however, alter one feature from the original sketch. As other painted images and sketches of Abada from the period indicate, she had been dehorned. Galle, who received an image of the rhinoceros without a horn, felt obliged to add a horn. “Rhinoceros,” after all, means “nose horn” and even basic, standard references like Officinae epitome (or Officina) by the French humanist Jean Tixier de Ravisi (ca. 1480–1524) note, under the section “Diverse Animals,” that “The rhinoceros has a horn on its nose.”10 Because he felt the need to include its most basic feature, Galle added a horn. The thin version of the horn in Abada, however, does not at all resemble the much thicker horn of the Indian rhinoceros (Rhinoceros unicornis). The Flemish engraver Galle included seven lines of block print to Abada and, thanks to that, I have been able to determine that Abada was born in 1573. The text on the Galle broadsheet depiction states that she was thirteen years old in 1586. Abada, like Hawa’i, has no recorded name in the historical record. I am calling her Abada because that was the popular word for rhinoceros in late sixteenth-century Europe. The word abada (and its variation, bada) arrived into Portuguese, Spanish, and other European 10 “Rhinoceros unum habet in nare cornu” (Tixier de Ravisi 1559, 201).

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languages derived from the Malay “badak” or “badoh,” pronounced “bada” in certain dialects of Malay (Boxer 1953, 77–78). In Malaysia, badak referred to a different and, today, much rarer species, the Javan or lesser one-horned rhino (Rhinoceros sondicus). After the Portuguese established an important trading post in Malaysia after the conquest of the Malacca Sultanate in 1511, Portuguese descriptions of the region used abada and bada to describe rhinos. When the same sailors travelled back to Portugal from Malacca, they stopped in the port of Goa and also used abada or bada. Even though badak referred to the rhinoceros from Java, at the time, sixteenth-century Europeans used the word to describe rhinos in general and, most especially, Abada, who was a Rhinoceros unicornis from India not Java, and who they observed in Lisbon in 1578 and then in Madrid from 1583 to 1591. While I suspect that Hawa’i was born in captivity in Akbar’s menagerie, Abada was not. Even though Akbar might have had some captive rhinos, it is most likely that Abada was taken by Akbar from her mother after she was killed in a hunt, probably near the Yamuna river. Abada had depended on her mother for suckling in the wild for two years. When she was orphaned around three, Akbar took her and assigned her a mahout. Abada imprinted herself on the mahout, her new mother, especially in her early years because rhinos have a prolonged dependency on their mothers. One miniature from a page from a manuscript from the late sixteenth century provides a visual scenario for the hunt in which Abada was captured (fig. 4). The miniature is from a lavish, fully illustrated edition of the Baburnama (the Book of Babur, 1589) that Akbar commissioned to honor his grandfather, Babur (1483–1530).11 The miniature shows how Babur’s retinue hunted (using fire); which animals were used in the hunt (horses, a falcon, and dogs); how the animal was processed on the spot (its head is saved and various men butcher the rest of the animal); and how some rhinos escaped. Two rhinos leave the scene in the foreground and six rhinos huddle in the background behind the flames set by Babur’s retinue. In the sixteenth century, rhinos were still hunted in northwestern India. The artist drew Babur hunting rhinos from his imagination, some seven decades after Babur entered India and founded the Mughal dynasty at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Nonetheless, Indian rhinos were still 11 The miniature is taken from folio 21v from Baburnama by Abdur Rahim Khan-i-Khanan. Baburnama was a Farsi translation of Babur’s memoirs, originally written in Chagati Turki, and Akbar’s courtier Abdur Rahim Khan-i-Khanan assembled Baburnama. The original Baburnama does not survive—the pages have been dispersed. For a list of museums where Baburnama’s pages can be found and where later copies exist, as well as more Mughal rhino illustrations, see Divyabhanusinh, Das, and Bose 2018, and Ettinghausen 1950.

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Fig. 4. Zahir al-Din Muhammad Babur hunting rhinos in Swati (1589) (Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, Maryland).

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hunted in the sixteenth century. The Baburnama notes live rhino sightings when Babur entered Hindustan near the Swat river, the image depicted in the illustration. The Baburnama also records hunts for live rhinos near Bigam, Peshawar, Hashnagar, the Siyahab river, the Indus river, Bhera in Punjab, and the Sangu river in the Kumaun region (Divyabhanusinh, Das, and Bose 2018). The westernmost limit of the sixteenth-century rhino habitat was the eastern bank of the Yamuna, the place where Abada was likely born. Prince Salim or Akbar’s son Jahangir (r. 1605–27), the 4th Mughal emperor, boasts in his memoir about having killed sixty-five rhinos (Divyabhanusinh, Das, and Bose 2018, 78). A watercolor drawing, Prince Salim at a Hunt (1600–4) shows an alternative scenario in which Abada could have been taken captive (fig. 5). The image shows the Mughal prince Jahangir killing a rhino with a musket, while another young rhino’s life is spared. The image depicts an expressive interchange between Jahangir, who shows the palm of his hand—possibly wishing to kill the rhino—and the men on the ground, one of whom guides the rhino with a stick, and who appear to point and plead Jahangir to spare the young rhino’s life. After her mother was killed, Abada would have been taken to Agra and then sent off as a diplomatic gift in 1578. Hawa’i the elephant was a diplomatic gift and part of a failed diplomatic mission between Akbar and Philip II in 1582. In contrast, in 1578, Akbar also sent a diplomatic mission to the Jesuits that was successful. As part of the 1578 ambassadorial mission, Akbar sent Abada as a gift to the Portuguese viceroy Diogo de Menezes in Goa (r. 1576–8) along with other gifts and an accompanying letter by the Portuguese Jesuit Pero Tavares. The letter that Akbar sent with Tavares shows off his power by describing his control over a large number of massive animals. The letter states: Akbar is so powerful that there are 70 tributaries under him, with 300,000 horsemen and 20,000 elephants, besides 16,000 horses in the stable. He has 14,000 deer out of which 4000 are brought up in the house and 700 domesticated panthers and 10,000 oxen to draw carts, and 500,000 birds. Each day 1500 birds are slaughtered for food for the others. He has a postal system, 20,000 men on horse to guard him, and 500 brave elephants to guard the palace at night. (qtd. in Malekandathi 2013, 19)

Akbar’s letter requested a meeting with the Viceroy Menezes at the Mughal court in Agra. Even though Akbar was vastly more economically and politically powerful than the Portuguese (he conquered Gujarat in 1575), he—just as in the later 1582 envoy to Philip II—wished to establish contact

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Fig. 5. Prince Salim at a hunt (1600–4) (Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Los Angeles).

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with the Portuguese in the hopes of an alliance against the Ottoman Turks (Malekandathi 2013). Akbar followed a significant precedent from earlier in the century when he gifted the young, newly weaned Abada and her mahout. Muzaffar Shah II (r. 1511–26) from Cambay in the Gujarat Sultanate in Northwest India sent two sets of envoys of ambassadors to Afonso de Albuquerque (1453–1515), first governor and founder of the Portuguese empire in India, under King Manuel I (1469–1521; r. 1495–1521) (Yule and Burnell 1886, 363–4). In 1514, Muzaffar’s envoy included Hanno the white elephant and, in 1517, a rhino, the only other one to have survived the trip to sixteenth-century Europe and who was also nameless, but affectionately called Ganda by many scholars. “Ganda,” from the Sanskrit for rhinoceros, was used by many Portuguese historians to describe the first rhinoceros brought to Portugal in the early sixteenth century. Akbar followed Muzaffar’s earlier model of gift-giving. He sent Abada to Goa. The Portuguese exported rhino body parts for medicine in Europe, but the appearance of a living rhino in Goa was a rarity. Garcia d’Orta (1501?– 68) writes, for instance, that he never saw one alive in Goa: “I have not seen any rhinoceros.”12 Orta, Diogo de Menezes, and the other Jesuit humanists living in Goa knew of the immense fame that Muzaffar’s earlier rhino gift of Ganda had after she arrived in Europe such as having inspired Dürer’s Rhinoceros. Well aware of the uniqueness of new rhino in Europe to follow on Ganda’s fame, they recognized the immense potential value of Abada. Menezes loaded Abada, along with her mahout, onto a ship and sent them to King Sebastian in Portugal. Hawa’i and Abada’s overseas journey must have been harrowing. They most likely travelled on a large three-mast vessel of 400 tons or more developed by the Portuguese for transporting large cargoes across great oceanic distances. The same type of boat was used by Vasco da Gama and Christopher Columbus. Although the door may have had to have been expanded, Hawa’i may have been led up a gangplank like horses were. A model ship from the Naval Museum in Madrid shows how horses were led up a plank into the hull of a ship. Because she was more difficult to control than Hawa’i, the four-year-old Abada may have been hoisted up and down from the vessel with ropes and a pulley. One image from a sixteenth-century Tournai tapestry, the Arrival of Vasco da Gama to Calicut or Cochin, on first glance, looks entirely fanciful. It shows ornamental flowers where water should be and also a unicorn. Stylized 12 “eu não vi algum rinoceronte” (qtd. in Wicki 1970, 330 n.41).

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tapestries form the late fifteenth century like The Lady of the Unicorn and Unicorn Tapestries feature unicorns and thousands of small flowers. But the Portuguese Tournai tapestry illuminates how animals were loaded in vessels that traveled great distances along Portuguese trade routes, from Europe, along the coast of Africa, to Goa, Malaysia, and then back again. As sailors from Portugal made their way south along the west coast of Africa around the Cape of Good Hope and into Asia, they often stopped along the way and acquired live animals, such as birds, camels, and lions, from markets in one port to sell in markets in another. One ship, the Bom Jesus, left Lisbon for India in 1533 and sank near Oránjemund in Namibia in southern Africa (it was found in 2008). It contained two tons of copper ingots and 2,000 gold coins destined for the spice trade in Asia. A large number of ivory tusks were on board, destined for markets in Goa, Cochin, and Gujarat, probably collected en route along the West African coast (Jordan Gschwend and Lowe 2015). It probably contained live animals, which also would have been collected from the West African coast. Many early European descriptions—notably, Marco Polo’s—referred to the greater one-horned Indian rhino as a “unicorn.” The image of the unicorn in Arrival of Vasco da Gama to Calicut or Cochin may provide insight on how the weighty calf Abada was lifted into the ship when the Portuguese vessel left from Goa toward Lisbon. Horses and smaller caged live animals traveled below deck. Because of their size, Hawa’i and Abada traveled on deck between the masts. Both animals would also have to be hobbled. Trachtenbuch (The Book of Garments, 1530/1540) by Christoph Weiditz (1498–1559) includes images of clothing and dress in sixteenth-century Europe and as well as other images demonstrating, for example, how horses were typically hobbled aboard ships. Even though they were below deck, Weiditz’s image shows all four legs of the horse hobbled. With respect to transporting elephants by ship, Bedini notes that even the best behaved of elephants were hobbled. Some early images also show Abada’s predecessor, Ganda, hobbled. Burgkmair’s woodcut image shows ropes around the rhino’s front legs (fig. 6) and Penni’s woodcut of a rhino shows metal shackles in the same place (fig. 7). I have circled each artist’s rendition of how Ganda was hobbled. Ganda’s death at sea in a storm was a well-known event in the sixteenth century. Writers of popular books of emblems, such as Guillaume Rovillé (ca. 1518–89) and Paulo Giovio (1483–1552) wrote that, after her ship sank near Portovenere, Ganda was unable to swim because her legs were hobbled. Both emblem books also note that the Pope ordered Ganda’s portrait and gathered her remains, which were sent to Rome (Rovillé 1561, 48).

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Fig. 6. Hobbled Ganda. Rhinoceros (1515) by Hans Burgkmair the Elder (Albertina Museum, Vienna). Circle added by author.

The images and descriptions of Ganda provide evidence that Abada was also probably hobbled to be kept at bay while on board the ship. Hawai’i and Abada were given room on the vessel. In transporting horses, traders allowed a prize horse some eight times more room that that given to a slave (Ridley 2004, 8). Other domestic animals traveled with them to supply the sailors with food. The log of one ship with the rhino for Versailles notes the rhino had become tolerant of the presence of a goat, which it would allow to eat hay from between its legs (Ridley 2004, 9). A canvas canopy would have been rigged over the cage to keep the sun off Hawa’i and Abada. A cage would have also been necessary for Abada. With Hawa’i and Abada on board, the ship’s ballast became uneven, with the weight in the ship shifting from the bottom to the top and making sea travel more precarious. The secured iron cage on the foredeck provided Abada a safe berth if the ship pitched violently in waters, such as off the Cape of Good Hope or in storms. Many animals died during transportation on the transoceanic journey. They experienced delays in ports and a confined space. Five degrees north and south of the equator, ships experienced the doldrums in which winds stagnate. Sailors often called the region “horse latitudes” because the sailors threw horses overboard to get rid of ballast. Portuguese ships from Goa took about 120 days with layovers in Mozambique, St. Helena, and on the Azores. From 1500 to 1634, an estimated 28% of all Portuguese ships that sailed the

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Fig. 7. Hobbled Ganda. Frontispiece for “Forma e natura e costume de lo Rinocerote” (1515) by Giovanni Giacomo Penni (Biblioteca Capitular Colombina, Seville, sign.: 6-3-29[29])  (Copyright Cabildo Catedral de Sevilla). Circle added by author.

Indian Ocean trade routes were lost at sea (Strobel 2015). An Indian rhino died en route to London in 1737. Another Indian rhino died aboard a ship to Amsterdam in 1677 and, when James Douglas visited Leiden in 1739, he saw the stuffed body of that rhino (Clarke 1986, 42).

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The hull of the ship that Hawa’i and Abada travelled in would have been filled with spices. Giovanni Giacomo Penni’s poem “Forma e natura e costume de lo Rinocerote” (“The Shape, the Nature, and the Way of the Rhinoceros,” 1515) purports to describe Ganda the rhinoceros. Instead, the poem focuses on the humming commerce of consumer goods, especially animals and plant products arriving from Asia. The poet begins by mentioning the origin of the energetic activity in Lisbon: “I hear that from Kolkata” three boats have arrived.13 It mentions that the rhino arrived with other creatures, including monkeys and baboons. It also mentions rare gems and pearls. But the poem is principally dedicated to plant products on the laden three-boat fleet. The poem describes pepper, ginger, myrrh, and sandalwood, used as scents for courtesans, for food preparation, and for medicine. Ganda had lived in Lisbon for the less than a year when Manuel I sent her to the Pope as a gift. As part of the Pope’s gift package, Manuel I filled the ship with spices from the Asian spice trade to offset the weight of the ship carrying the 3,000-pound animal. As Silvio Bedini notes, the ship carrying Ganda that sank in the Mediterranean also carried well over 3000 pounds of pepper, cloves and cinnamon, ginger, aromatic nutmeg, ordinary nutmeg, kevel pepper, and benzoin, the substance used in early modern medicine, as well as to make incense (Bedini 1998, 126). Portuguese sailors became experienced in animal care along the routes. Abada and Hawa’i’s primary caregivers, however, were not the sailors, but their mahouts. Abada and Hawa’i would not have survived without the bonds of a human companion. Cristóbal Acosta (1515–1594) provides an example of their physical and emotional bond: “elephants fear the night and, after falling asleep, suddenly wake up with a fright and are afraid. Because of this, their mahouts [who are called Nairs] sleep on top of them and speak to them to calm their sleep.”14 Two students, Caleb Lightfoot and Yinting Fin, and I created an image, Abada and Her Mahout on the High Seas, in which Abada’s mahout sleeps in a covered cage on the ship’s deck (fig. 8). We have overlaid the hand drawn image with a painted image of vessels from the period.15 Hawa’i and Abada’s mahouts were in charge of feeding on board. Bedini notes that the famed white elephant Hanno was around two years old and 13 “Sento di Calicute” (Penni 2006, 160). 14 “son los elefantes muy temerosos de noche: y cuando duermen, despiertan con ímpetu y temor despertándose. Por lo cual, sus maestros [que se llaman Nayres] duermen sobre ellos y estánles hablando, impidiendo el sueño” (Acosta 1578, 436). 15 Compare with other visual renderings of rhinos on early modern ships such as Clara on a Dutch vessel (Winters 2017, 151) and Walton Ford’s Loss of the Lisbon Rhinoceros (2008), which shows Ganda about to drown on a Portuguese vessel.

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Fig. 8. Abada and Her Mahout on the High Seas (2018) by Caleb Lightfoot and Yinting Fin.

accompanied by two mahouts who took care of his every basic need when he was transported. The Portuguese viceroy Albuquerque specified that his two mahouts on the ship should feed him hay and twenty liters of cooked rice a day and that butter or oil was to be used to anoint his skin. The mahouts anointed the animal to keep the skin soft and pliable in preparation for its long exposure to salt air during the voyage (Bedini 1998, 31–32). The first sixteenth-century image of Abada upon her arrival to Europe is from an anonymous artist in a manuscript about the history of Portuguese kings, attributed to Pedro de Andrade Caminha (1520–89) (found in a private collection). The image in the manuscript shows, standing in a field with a palace in the background, a lifelike Indian rhinoceros, especially in the details of the folds on its skin, its large ears, and three-toed feet. A mahout holds a long hook—a version of the ankusha—upright in his left hand, standing beside the animal. The man is dark-skinned and is dressed with a hat and an orange cloak. The text that accompanies this image provides

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the inspiration for the image of Abada that my students and I made, since it states that the mahout “slept by her side.”16 The text about Abada from the manuscript also gives details about her demeanor and how she was fed: “she is very tame” and “eats everything you feed her, even little stones, as well as hay, oats, wheat, and other legumes.”17 Abada most likely survived by eating great quantities of the foods supplied to domestic animals. Glynis Ridley provides the life history of another Indian rhinoceros in Europe in Clara’s Grand Tour: Travels with a Rhinoceros in Eighteenth-Century Europe (2004). Like Abada, Clara (ca. 1738–58) was born in India. Unlike Abada, Clara, who arrived in Rotterdam in 1741, traveled on tour throughout Europe. She traveled from Denmark to Italy and later died in London. Clara, like Abada, weighed about three tons and needed prodigious quantities of food and drink—around 150 pounds a day. Hawa’i and his mahout arrived in Lisbon from Goa in 1582. In turn, Abada and her mahout arrived in Lisbon in 1578. Abada lived in Lisbon for five years, where one visitor from Italy called her the “Marvel of Lisbon” (Jordan Gschwend and Lowe 2015). In Lisbon, Abada had the benefit of a water habitat. Indian rhinos favor wetlands and spend plenty of time in cool water, grazing on grasses near wet areas, especially succulent and juicy aquatic plants. Abada frequently bathed in the Tagus River. An account from two Venetian visitors to the city state that she “would raise herself, plunge into and wade through the water; it was stupefying to watch this great beast” (qtd. in Jordan Gschwend and Lowe 2015, 157n.4). When Philip was living in Lisbon, Philip delighted in observing Abada. One manuscript notes that, in 1582, he asked for the animal to be sent to him: “as soon as he arrives to Abrantes, his Majesty wants them to send the rhinoceros that he had enjoyed seeing previously.”18 When he moved back to Madrid in 1583, Philip transported Abada, like Hawa’i, to stables near his palace Alcázar. One royal document denotes that the locksmith Benito Hernández was contracted in 1583 for the “house for the rhinoceros” (Pérez de Tudela and Jordan Gschwend 2007, 443 n.87 and n.88). I suspect that Abada’s stable was also near the Alcázar, like Hawa’i’s, and that it was located on the present-day Abada Street. Hawa’i and Abada had been transported from Lisbon to Madrid, and then were transported 16 “por dormir a par dele” (qtd. in Fontes da Costa 2009, 79). 17 “E muito mansa e vagorosa. Come quanto lhe dao. Silicet. Palha cevada trigo e os mais legumes” (qtd. in Fontes da Costa 2009, 79). 18 “sua Magestade quer que tanto que embora for em Abrantes […] lhe mande aly a bada que fogara de a ver” (qtd. in Bouza 1998, 191).

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from Madrid to the Escorial. After briefly housing Hawa’i and Abada in 1583 near his palace in Madrid, Philip brought both animals to the Escorial about thirty miles away. Moving both animals, especially Abada, across even this relatively short stretch of land would have been filled with technical difficulties. She was probably caged and pulled in a specially made cart by oxen or strong horses. In her narration of Clara’s life, Glynis Ridley recreates the specific cart that had to be created when the Dutch rhino was transported for public viewing across Europe. After they moved from Lisbon, the quality of Hawa’i and Abada’s caretaking diminished. The historical sources do not mention Hawa’i’s mahout after the Escorial visit and Abada most likely killed the mahout who arrived with her in Lisbon. Abada arrived to the Escorial a few days after Hawa’i. Philip’s historian at the Escorial writes: “On October 16, 1583, they placed the rhinoceros in the patio by order of his Majesty and, since the animal arrived overheated, they put a number of buckets of water on its body and head. It then rolled on the ground and gave happy-sounding moans.”19 Abada was difficult to feed: “It is an ugly and melancholy animal. It appears armored. It is ungrateful and unfriendly and it does not recognize those who want to do it well, so it must be fed by putting the feed behind it.”20 Things turned for the worse for Abada at the Escorial. The Portuguese, with more direct experience in India, seemed to have provided an environment for Abada that more directly fit her behaviors. Although rhinos have good hearing and an excellent sense of smell, blinding a rhino is of little consequence since the animal’s eyesight is already quite poor. Nonetheless, Vincent Leblanc (1554–1640), a French traveler and trader who visited El Escorial, describes her blinding and the removal of her horn: The difficulty was in the execution [of cutting off the horn] for they were constrained to put him [sic] in a close place to bind him [sic] which was done with so much trouble and danger that nothing more; for he [sic] wounded and maimed divers: there was one Casabuena, a bold resolute man who to prevent danger, put an armor of proof under his cassock, the beaste came upon him with such force, that he threw him against the 19 “En 16 de octubre de 83 metieron por mandado de Su Majestad el rinoceronte en el jardín para verle desde allí, y como venía caluroso le echaron en el cuerpo y cabeza muchos cubos de agua con que se refresco, y de contento se revolcó en el suelo y gimió” (Salvá y Sainz de Baranda 1845, 368). 20 “Es animal feo, melancólico y triste, esta como armado, es animal ingrato y desconocido que no conoce a los que le hacen bien, porque para darle de comer, se lo echan por detrás del” (Salvá y Sainz de Baranda 1845, 368).

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wall with such violence he was carried forth for dead, bleeding both at mouth and nose. The Duke of Medina advised the king to kill him [sic] with a musket because he had maimed a gentleman. (LeBlanc 1660, 160)21

The Duke of Medina recommended that Philip execute the rhino because of its bad behavior. Philip ordered that her eyes be cut out and horn cut off, but ignored the Duke’s advice to execute the animal. Images and accounts from those who later visited Abada at the General Hospital later confirm the Escorial incident. Diego de Funes y Mendoza (1560–1625), a translator of Aristotle’s treatise on animals, mentions: “there was another rhinoceros in Madrid in 1585. When I went to see it, they had removed its eyes to prevent it from causing injury.”22 The lexicographer Sebastián de Covarrubias (1539–1613) also writes: “in our days they brought 21 Although some of the seventeenth-century account of LeBlanc’s world travels was made up, his story of the rhino in the Escorial is an authentic account from his personal diary as collected by Pierre Bergeron, who knew Vincent le Blanc when he was alive and published LeBlanc’s notes and memoir (Atkinson 1922). I am convinced of the veracity of the rhino account at the Escorial since LeBlanc provides details of the event that coincide with the events as described in other contemporary sources. He also references a man from the obscure, but existent, Casabuena noble line, a detail that only an eyewitness could muster, and the chronology of his travels suggested that he would have been in Spain at this time. The passage in French reads: “La difficulté fut à executer cela; car on fut contraint de se mettre en un lieu renfermé pour le lier, ce qui se fit auec tant de peine & de danger que rien plus, il en bleffa & estroupia plesieurs. Il y eut un homme braue & resolu, nomé Casabuena, qui s’arma d’une cuirasse à l’espreuue sous fa casaque, pour euiter tout inconvenient: la beste l’atteignit de telle forte, qu’elle le ietta contre la muraille si rudement qu’il sut remporté comme mort, iettant le fang par la bouche & par la nez. Le Duc de Medine conseilloit au Roy de le faire tuer à coups de mousquet, pource qu’il auoit estropié un de ses Gentils-homme, nommé le Cavalier Mortel; mais le Roy ne le voulut permettre, & enfin apres beaucoup de peine on en vint à bout, & eut les yeux creuez, & le corne coupée” (LeBlanc 1648, 242). In Diálogos de contención entre la Milicia y la Ciencia (Contentious Dialogues between the Military and Science, 1614), Francisco Núñez de Velasco also states that “it was necessary to remove” Abada’s eyes. Núñez de Velasco’s account of the incident, however, differs from LeBlanc’s: “Desta especie vimos uno en la corte de su magestad, al qual fue necesario sacar los ojos por la persecución que hacía a los caballos onde quiera que los veía y yendo en seguimiento de un caballo en la ciudad de Lisboa donde a la razón estaba el Rey don Felipe Segundo de gloriosa memoria nuestro señor iba el rinoceronte con tanta velocidad en la corrida tras el caballo que dio de encuentro con la testera y el cuerno en la copa y edificio de una famosa fuente que por ser obra de uno de los reyes de Portugal es muy costosa y de notable curiosidad y del encuentro la debarató y deshizo” (Núñez de Velasco 1614, 16). I suspect that Núñez de Velasco’s account about Abada was a popular legend because it was written over twenty years after the eyewitness account in the Escorial. 22 “En Madrid hubo otro rinoceronte el año de mil y quinientos y ochenta y cinco, que fue cuando le vi, al cual le habían sacado los ojos porque no hiciese mal” (Funes y Mendoza 1621, 180).

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King Philip II, may he rest in peace, a rhinoceros that was in Madrid for a long time. Its horn was cut off and it was blind to not cause injury.”23 A gem engraver working in Philip II’s court observed Abada firsthand and depicted Abada without her horn. Jacopo da Trezzo (ca. 1514–89) created a lifelike image of Abada on a gem cameo, crafted on sardonyx—an agate with straight and parallel banding (Jordan Gschwend 2017, 209). Trezzo had served Philip II in the Netherlands and England and, in the 1580s, he worked on a variety of royal projects, including the Escorial. His cameo suggests that Abada’s horn had been removed, but a stump in its place indicates that one may have been growing again.24 Female rhinos are solitary creatures and, when protecting their territory against intrusion, they, like their male counterparts, can be tough and aggressive, particularly during the estrus cycle every four months or so. Covarrubias writes that Abada may have killed one or two people: “Her caretakers act with great uneasiness because she had already killed one or two of them.”25 Aside from her original mahout, Abada most likely killed the nobleman at the Escorial. Moreover, Hans Khevenhüller (1538–1606), the ambassador for the Holy Roman Emperor in the Spanish court, confirms that she killed a member of Philip’s court: “Even though its horn has been cut down off its snout, it does not cease to kick and maltreat people around it. Recently, it killed a man in front of the Palace.”26 Another source suggests Abada’s aversion to horses. An English–Spanish lexicon (1599) by John Minsheu (1560–1627) has an entry for abada that indicates familiarity with Abada in Madrid: “It is an enemy to the horse, so that when he [sic] seeth him, he [sic] maketh al haste, and with swift runing overtaketh and killeth him” (Nieto Jiménez 2007, 1, 6). Following classical descriptions of the rhino such as those of Pliny (23–79 CE), writers from the period, like playwright Lope de Vega (1562–1635), 23 “En nuestros días trajeron al rey Felipe II, que santa gloria haya, una bada, que por mucho tiempo estuvo en Madrid; tenía aserrado el cuerno y estaba ciega, porque no hiciese daño” (Covarrubias 1998, 499). 24 Trezzo may have had two freed black slaves who helped create the gem cameo of Abada. In addition to two elephants, Catherine of Portugal gifted Philip II two black slaves, Diego and Juan. When the heir Prince Carlos died, Philip II set Diego and Juan free. Diego and Juan could have been involved in helping Trezzo create the gem cameo of Abada because they began to work for Jacopo Trezzo when they were set free (Pérez de Tudela and Jordan Gschwend 2001, 16 n.115). 25 “y curaban de ella con mucho recato por el peligro de los que la tenían a su cargo; de los cuales mató uno o dos” (Covarrubias 1998, 499). 26 “Aunque le cortan el cuerno que trae sobre el hocico, no deja de atropellar y tratar mal las gentes. Y mató el otro día uno delante del palacio” (qtd. in Staudinger and Irblich 1996, 265).

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describe all rhinos as prone to attack, most especially as having a supposed natural animosity toward the elephant. Pliny’s comments that the rhino was ferocious and often killed the elephant through impaling it through the soft underbelly, a fable echoed throughout the sixteenth century, are untrue. In general, the two animals are not mutual predators (they avoid each other) and no evidence exists that a rhino has ever killed an elephant. Despite their obstinacy and periodic aggression, the single-horned Indian rhino is, most of the time, calm and passive, even in captivity. Eyewitness accounts of Abada note that she was generally docile. Francisco Vélez de Arciniega, a Spanish pharmacist who had rhino horn in his pharmaceutical cabinet as a remedy, describes Abada when she first arrived to Madrid: “she did not dare eat or drink.”27 But, he concludes, “as time passed, she did not only eat hay and oats that was put in her trough but, if someone took a handful of that hay, she opened her mouth so one could put it inside.”28 The animal taxonomist Buffon’s firsthand experience with an Indian rhino is instructive. An Indian rhino was held in the private menagerie at the Palace of Versailles and, after the Revolution, it became part of Paris’s first public zoo (Pequignot 2013; Rookmaaker 1983). Buffon regularly visited the rhinoceros and mentioned that he fed and caressed the animal. Most of the sketches of Hawa’i and Abada are now lost. But two anonymous and nearly identical oil paintings that depict Abada exist in Vienna. Both images show Abada without a horn, with no added background features (Jordan Gschwend 2015). A 1584 image of Abada appears in Adam Hochreitner’s diary in Innsbruck. Adam Hochreiter was a chamberlain and agent for collecting animals for Archduke Ferdinand II. Hochreiter compiled his travel records in the form of a diary and he wrote observations about animals such as those in Philip’s menagerie in Aranjuez. Philip constructed an aviary for exotic birds and ostriches in Aranjuez in 1584. Hochreiter described the hedges in Aranjuez as cut in the shape of animals; he also noted its large aviary and camel breeding station—with seventeen specimens. At Aranjuez, Hochreiter saw two ostriches, five flamingos, as well as white peacocks, Indian ducks, pigeons, guinea pigs, Indian swallows with red beaks, and a “very small parrot, the size of a Eurasian bullfinch” (qtd. in Haag 2015, 123). Aside from Aranjuez, Hochreiter went to Madrid in 1584 and saw Hawa’i and Abada. He painted or purchased a watercolor painting of Abada 27 “aun no osaban darle de comer, ni beber” (Vélez de Arciniega 1613, 49). 28 “curóle el tiempo de manera que no solamente comía la paja y cebada que le echaban en los pesebres mas si alguno cogía un puñado de la dicha paja, abría la boca para que se la echasen dentro” (Vélez de Arciniega 1613, 49).

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dehorned on a sort of elevated island. He notes in his diary that Abada was accustomed to seeing people but was skittish around other animals: “in Madrid I saw a young elephant as well as another monstrous animal called a rhinoceros […] This animal doesn’t do anything to people, but it is not at all nice to the horses, donkeys and other animals” (qtd. Haag 2015, 123; also see Jordan Gschwend and Lowe 2015).29 La Casa del Campo, a forest-rich park that would be used for the Madrid Zoo and Philip II’s garden and choice hunting grounds in the northwestern vicinity of Madrid not far from the Alcázar palace, also held Abada after she died in 1591. Abada’s remains were considered highly valuable. In order to preserve the animal, first her flesh would have to be processed, most likely butchered and eaten, like bull meat. Then, her skin would have to be preserved in an improvised taxidermy method. Jakob Cuelvis (known as Diego de Cuelbis in Spain, 1574–?), a German student, visited Madrid in May of 1599 and saw Abada’s preserved body not far from where she was displayed while alive. In his travel account, Thesoro Chorographico de las Espannas (Chorographic Treasure of the Spanish Kingdoms), Cuelvis describes the Casa del Campo: “There are many fish and swans swimming in the ponds. There is a rhinoceros and elephant dead for more than eight years.”30 Philip put Abada’s body on display, next to another unidentified desiccated elephant. Taxidermy techniques were crude and undeveloped, but monarchs and elites in Europe in the sixteenth century had their prized animals stuffed and made them appear lifelike. Pope Leo X had Hanno the elephant stuffed, and he also received a stuffed European bison as a gift.31 The second elephant that Philip gifted to his son died in Vienna in the menagerie of Maximilian II (1527–76). After the elephant, affectionately called Süleyman by Anne Marie Jordan Gschwend, died in 1553, Maximilian II ordered the hide dried out and stuffed with straw. Two years later, a visitor saw Süleyman on display in the King’s garden mounted by a mannequin of an Indian mahout (Jordan Gschwend 2010, 33). In the Medici Boboli Gardens in Florence, a chamber was filled with lifelike taxidermized displays of the most prized animals from the menagerie (Groom 2019, 105). While Hansken 29 “zu Madrid ein iungen Elefanten, gleichfals ain ander groß ungeheüer Their genant Rinocero, auf Spänisch La Abada gesehen, […] Dises Their thuet dem menschen nichts, Aber dem pferdten Eseln un anndren thieren ist es gar gramb” (qtd. Haag 2015, 132–3). 30 “Hay una grande cuantidad de pescados y muchos cisnes nadando por los estanques. Hay un rinoceronte y elefante muertos antes de ocho años” (qtd. in Checa Cremades 1992, 39-40). For Diego de Cuelbis, see Domínguez Ortiz 1969. 31 For Hanno the elephant as taxidermy specimen, see Bedini 1998. For the stuffed bison, see Booth 2019.

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the elephant toured Europe, he died in Florence. The Medici Grand Duke Ferdinando II (1610–70) ordered the skeleton and skin of Hansken be put on display at the Uffizi Gallery (Groom 2019, 25n.1).32 After Philip II died in 1598, Abada’s remains were moved from the Casa de Campo to the royal collections and kept in the Royal Treasury. Five years later, Antonio Voto, the Royal Treasurer to King Philip III (1578–1621, r. 1598–1621) negotiated with Hans Khevenhüller, the ambassador to Rudolf II, the Holy Roman Emperor (1552–1612, r. 1576–1612) who desperately wanted Abada’s remains. In a letter dated December 6, 1603, Voto states that, the day before, the King went to the Royal Treasury to see what remained of the rhinoceros, Abada, and the elephant (the unknown specimen from the Casa de Campo) in the Royal Treasury. Voto makes no mention of any elephant remains but states that he “sent the partial horn” from Abada to Khevenhüller.33 Rhino horns can grow back after removal (if the skull is not damaged), so, in 1603, Khevenhüller would have sent Rudolf Abada’s newly grown horn that she had when she died. After searching the Royal Treasury, Antonio Voto found more of Abada’s bones. Hans Khevenhüller reported to Rudolf the success of the negotiation in obtaining the rest of Abada’s remains. On December 20, 1603, Khevenhüller wrote the following to Antonio Voto: today upon your instructions they handed over to me the rhino’s partial horn […] I am quite sad that her skin has not been found—I have no doubt your account of its deterioration is correct. I am thus asking you to hand over to me the rest of the rhino’s bones so that I can include them with the others that you gave me today so I can send them all to my king the emperor. That would greatly please me.34 32 Other early modern taxidermy animals include numerous rhinos and a hippo. The collection of Vincencio Juan de Lastanosa (1607–81) in Spain and the Gresham College London Museum in England contained a number of stuffed rhinos. For a hippopotamus as taxidermy specimen in the Medici collection, see Groom 2019, 248. For improvised taxidermy practice across time and place, see Poliquin 2012. Also see Parker-Starbuck 2015 and Chapter 2. 33 “un cuerno chato de la Bada” (qtd. in Staudinger and Irblich 1996, 266). Also see Belozerskaya 2006, and Haupt, et al. 1990, 245 n. 21. For Khevenhüller and the Spanish, see Jordan Gschwend 2020. 34 “Hoy me han entregado por parte de Vuestra Merced el cuerno chato de La Bada […] y pésame mucho que no ha aparecido el cuero de la Bada. Sin duda habrá pasado con lo que vuestra merced dice. Así mismo suplico a Vuestra Merced me la haga de mandar me entregar también los demás huesos de la Bada que quedan para que los pueda enviar juntos con los otros que vuestra merced me envió hoy al emperador mi señor y será muy grande para mí” (qtd. in Staudinger and Irblich 1996, 267).

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Antonio Voto responded: “I already sent you the rest of Abada’s bones. There are over 130 pieces.”35 Khevenhüller sent Abada’s remains to the Holy Roman Emperor in Vienna. Rudolf II would have added Abada’s body parts to his already large collection of rhino horns and body parts. One of Rudolf’s most prized possessions in his massive collection was a large rhinoceros horn, mounted with filigree gold bands set with precious stones (still extant in Vienna). Rudolf II was extremely pleased to receive what he calls a “beautiful piece” as a gift from Empress Maria of Portugal, who had, in turn, received the previous horn as a gift from a Portuguese relative in Braganzas in 1582 (Pérez de Tudela and Jordan Gschwend 2001, 15). As evidence of Rudolf’s great esteem for rhino body parts, he had one of his artists paint a rhino horn, as well as a tooth and piece of rhino skin, that he included in the manuscript that contains the list of objects in his collections. This manuscript can now be found in the Austrian National Library in Vienna. Rudolf II never realized his lifelong desire to obtain Philip II’s pachyderms alive. Rudolf chose two colored images of Philip’s rhino and elephant, based on lost sketches of Hawa’i and Abada, for the first two pages of the inventory of his massive collection. Khevenhüller sent Rudolf II at least one image of Abada with a shipment of other rare collectables. Rudolf, however, never obtained the live rhino, nor Abada’s supposed armor-like skin. If Philip II had still been alive, he probably would not have given Abada’s rotting remains to Rudolf. Philip II had kept two small rhino horns, inherited from Charles V, in his private wardrobe. When Maria of Austria, who Philip held in highest esteem, asked him to send her a piece, he only conceded a piece of the horn the size of a small coin (Pérez de Tudela and Jordan Gschwend 2001, 15). His son Philip III, nonetheless, sent what remained of Abada to Rudolf. Antonio Voto reports that Abada had rotted away: “we have not been able to locate the hide of the rhinoceros. His Excellency the Duke of Lerma gave me permission to inquire about the hide and I have discovered that, since it was not properly preserved, it became swollen with worms and has wasted away.”36 Abada’s skin decomposed by 1603. The skin from the only living rhino on public display in the sixteenth century had decomposed, in radically bitter contrast to the continued survival of the image of armor as skin on Dürer’s Rhinoceros. 35 “Mir hat der Antonio Voto des Königs guarda joyas alberait die gepain von der Bada angehendigt. Der sien über 130 stück” (qtd. in Staudinger and Irblich 1996, 266). 36 “no se ha podido hallar cuero de la Bada. El Señor Duque de Lerma me envió a mandar hiciese diligencia en saber del y lo que he podido averiguar es que, como no se aderezó. Se hinchó de gusanos y se perdió” (qtd. in Staudinger and Irblich 1996, 265).

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Two Hospitals in Madrid Louis XIV’s private Versailles menagerie was converted into the Jardin des Plantes in 1793 after the French Revolution—effectively turning a menagerie for aristocratic elites into Europe’s first modern zoo for the at-large public.37 The design of Europe’s first modern zoo, the Jardin des Plantes near Paris, shares an important connection with a nearby hospital. Both the original layout of the Jardin des Plantes and its neighboring General Hospital were designed by the same architect, Louise Le Vau (1612–70). Le Vau designed Louis’s menagerie at Versailles (1662) and, at the same time, began plans for the consolidation of five hospitals into a single General Hospital (Salpêtrière 1656; Senior 2019). The consolidation of a group of older hospitals into a single General Hospital in the same place as an area for observing animals was not the first time that the architecture of a hospital combined with animal spectacle. Philip II chose two hospitals as the place where people could observe Hawa’i and Abada. In the medieval and early modern contexts, hospitals provided “hospitality.” They provided lodging; they were a place for the impoverished sick to be healed; and they provided food for the poor. In the early modern Spanish empire, hospitals also served the needs of the burgeoning public interested in theater. As in seventeenth-century France, sixteenth-century Spain consolidated Madrid’s hospitals into a single General Hospital and also used the space to display animals. Philip II could have put Abada and Hawa’i in one of his royal menageries: with the swans in the Casa de Campo, or the camels in Aranjuez that he bred not far from the fields he used to breed sixteenth-century Spain’s most famous wild bulls. He could have sent them off to tour major cities like the Dutch did with Clara the rhinoceros and Hansken the elephant in the seventeenth century. Indeed, Hans Khevenhüller remarks to Rudolf II that Philip II considered a tour as a possible spectacle. Khevenhüller explains that Philip first ordered Hawa’i and Abada “be taken to Seville and other parts of Spain so that he could profit from them.”38 But Philip II decided against that idea because of the great difficulty of a travelling with the animals, especially the rhino. Philip II first put the rhino and elephant near the Alcazar in the center of Madrid, where he had lions and other exotic animals, including birds and at 37 See, for instance, Robbins 2002, 206–30. 38 “dio la licencia para llevarlos a Sevilla y otras partes de España, para ganar con ellos, no es poca merced si él lo sabe encaminar, por como la Bada es bestia tan fiera, no sé cómo se podrá avenir con ella” (qtd. in Staudinger and Irblich 1996, 265).

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least one llama.39 He then moved them briefly to the Escorial. Having just experienced Abada’s rage at the Escorial, Khevenhüller writes, with regard to the possibility of moving her across the country: “as the rhinoceros is so savage, I do not see how they will be able to manage her.”40 Philip II’s choice of commercializing the spectacle in a hospital was a natural fit in the context of Madrid’s burgeoning theater culture. From the monarchy’s perspective, one way to show imperial beneficence in the new design of urban space in Madrid was through the creation of hospitals for the poor. The most important hospital that linked to the formation of commercial theater in Spain was Philip’s General Hospital. One of the city’s principal planners, Alonso Francisco de Sotomayor (1523–91), writes in 1565 that he discussed with the King many times the need to reform the city hospitals (Escobar 2004, 366). As part of the urban design project, Philip II combined three older hospitals and founded Madrid’s General Hospital (in 1566), which took in hundreds of patients annually. The location of Madrid’s first consolidated General Hospital under Philip II was at the end of the Carrera de San Jerónimo (“Saint Geronimo Street”) and the end of Prado Street on the east side of Madrid, directly on the opposite side of the city from the Alcázar. In an early seventeenth-century history of Madrid, Jerónimo de Quintana writes that the General Hospital was formed by consolidating three houses near the Saint Geronimo monastery: They used “some houses near the meadow [prado] by the Royal Saint Geronimo Monastery […] and they founded [the General Hospital] in that place.”41 When Philip II reorganized Madrid’s hospitals, his act of beneficence was not only an altruistic act for the city’s poor and sick. He linked the function of the imperial Spanish hospital to theater, a newly created way for filling royal coffers. Theater in Madrid was more active than in any other city in sixteenthcentury Europe. Under Philip II, commercial theater became a thriving business and part of the daily culture of Madrid. As opposed to the extramural playhouses of London, the public theaters in Madrid (as well as in other cities across the Spanish-speaking imperial world) were centrally located, close to the city’s commercial center. In the case of Madrid, the Corral de 39 For the exotic birds and the 1562 description of a llama as an animal from Peru that resembles “both a camel and a sheep” in Philip II’s Alcázar in Madrid, see Martínez Arranz 2011, 10-11 n.25. 40 “como la Bada es bestia tan fiera, no sé cómo se podrá avenir con ella” (qtd. in Staudinger and Irblich 1996, 265). 41 “unas casas cerca del prado de San Geronimo el Real […] y en ella se fundó este hospital” (Quintana 1629, 449). For further study of Madrid’s sixteenth-century hospitals and the location of the General Hospital in 1584, see Huguet-Termes 2009.

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la Cruz and Príncipe were close to the Plaza Mayor and the Puerta del Sol, bustling centers of commerce and public activity. Philip II forged a financial, structural, and symbolic connection between Spanish theater and hospitals. Financially, like Madrid, in Valencia and Lisbon (where Spanish plays were also popular), hospitals received funding from proceeds from theatrical productions. Structurally, following Madrid’s example, the patio or innyard within hospitals across Spain also served as theater spaces. Today, the reconstructed early modern theaters in Alcalá de Henares and Almagro reveal that each also served as a hospital. The hospital patio in Guadalajara, Spain served as a theater for the production of plays (Ruano de la Haza and Allen 1994, 198; Múnoz Jiménez 1984). In Zamora, one source notes that a separate theater needed to be built because the staff, including a doctor and a surgeon, put play-watching above medical attention and allowed some patients to die (Shergold 1967, 194 n.6). Innyards of hospitals also served as theatrical spaces in Málaga at the Casa de Comedias del Hospital, Murcia at the Hospital de Nuestra Señora de Gracia, Salamanca at the Hospital de la Santísima Trinidad, Tudela at the Hospital de Señora de Gracia, Trujillo at the Hospital de la Caridad, and Toro at the Hospital Nuestra Señora del Pecador (Amelang 2019). Spain also exported the hospital-as-theater model to the New World. In early seventeenth-century Mexico City, the innyard of the Royal Indian Hospital in New Spain served as the city’s theater. Indeed, members of the Mexico City council were assigned designated boxes within the Royal Indian Hospital to view performances (Ball 2016, 74–75). Spain’s first commercial theaters were based on the architectural space of the corral. The primary characteristic of the corral was its singular entrance, an essential architectural feature for allowing only those who had paid an entrance fee to watch the play. The so-called corral de vecinos was a living space common in Arabic urban architecture in which a door could close to bar entrance to the living quarters on the inside. Mozarabic documents describe the curral (qurraleat, in the plural), a type of living arrangement in Jewish quarters in many Spanish cities, as a patio with a singular entrance and surrounding living quarters (Morales Padrón 1974, 12). The corral living arrangement helped keep inhabitants safe and isolated from other neighbors. The corral also kept a community’s domestic animals, providing a place where they could breed and be safe. When converted into theaters, corrales—already surrounded by walls with windows—could be covered and converted into a viewing space for the public. Because the theatrical area was enclosed within the innyard of the urban structure, the audience had to go through the main doors

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of the structure. As opposed to the open area of a public square in which anyone might find a place to see for free, the interior courtyard provided an enclosed space in which only a paying audience could see the dramatic production. In hospitals, rooms were occupied by the sick or the poor and, typically, the residents were free to leave the infirmary rooms at will. As a theatrical space, and as commercial theaters grew, the rooms bordering the theatrical space converted from rooms for the sick into theater seats. By 1583, when Philip II returned from Portugal with Hawa’i and Abada, commercial theater had so grown in popularity in Madrid that it no longer took place on makeshift stages in the patios of the city’s hospitals and other structures. Madrid finished two newly constructed theaters, the corrales of Cruz and Príncipe, stand-alone playhouses with new structural alterations added in 1583 and 1584, such as a special gallery for women spectators, a permanent stage with a place for costume changes, platforms for seating, and windows for viewing. The creation of these stand-alone playhouses, Cruz and Príncipe, did not eliminate the bond between hospitals and theaters in Madrid. In fact, with the creation of two permanent playhouses, Philip solidified the role of theater as a financial provider for Madrid’s hospitals. A royal decree from 1616 notes that Madrid hospitals still controlled the administration of theaters a quarter of a century later: “the property of theaters for plays in the Court city of Madrid is controlled by and belongs to its hospitals.”42 Proceeds from theatrical spectacles went to help the downtrodden and other patients at the hospitals. Davis and Varey provide archival evidence stating that, in 1583, administrators ordered a quarter of theatrical proceedings go to the care of patients in the General Hospital. One source notes that “because of the great need to financially help the General Hospital they ordered that four maravedis be targeted to the hospital from the ticket cost to a play from every person regardless of their status and rank.”43 The majority of money went to the General Hospital (rather than the other three in Madrid). One document from April 24, 1584 notes: The money is “destined to remedy the great and extreme need of poor people suffering in the General Hospital.”44 In the “Memorial from the City of Madrid to 42 “la propiedad de los teatros de la comedia de la Corte toca y pertenece a los Hospitales” (qtd. in Pellicer 1804, I: 110). 43 “y para alguna ayuda de lo mucho que es menester mandaban que de cada persona de cualquier estado y condición que sea que quiere entrar a ver las dichas comedias cobren las personas que para ello se han deputado cuatro maravedís de entrada por cada comedia para el dicho Hospital General” (qtd. in Davis and Varey 1997, 123–4). 44 “la grande y extrema necesidad que padecen los pobres de el Hospital General y lo muncho en que aquella casa esta enpeñada” (qtd. in Davis and Varey 1997, 123–4).

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Philip II” (1598), theater revenues should be donated to hospitals: “Plays are extremely important for maintaining hospitals in this court-city, including the General Hospital […] and Antón Martín Hospital.”45 The names of the vast majority of plays and performances in hospitals and other corrals are not preserved in the historical record. Sometimes, works of fiction allude to early modern spaces for theater, such as when Berganza, the talking dog in Cervantes’s El coloquio de los perros (The Colloquy of the Dogs), states that he often acted in theatrical performances, many of which took place in hospitals. The historical record indicates the cost of a play. In the 1580s, people were charged half a real (sixteen maravedis or five cuartos) to see a play. 46 In 1584, the price of admission was raised from twelve to sixteen maravedis (Davis and Varey 1997, 18). Sometimes, people paid more. A document from 1585 indicates that women spectators paid a full real for admission and a seat (and the majority of the theater attendees were women) (Shergold 1967, 187). Generally, a quarter of the admission ticket, around four maravedis, went to the hospitals. An administrative council of theologians in 1589 refers to Cruz and Príncipe, noting: “The General Hospital in Madrid has two theaters [corrales] where plays are represented and every person that enters to see those plays pays four cuartos for a seat to sit down. Of this entrance fee, besides that which goes directly to the theater troupe, another cuarto is given [to the General Hospital].”47 People in Madrid were accustomed to seeing live horses, donkeys, sheep, and cows in the streets. They were also used to seeing live animals like chickens in the markets. Some animals like dogs and pigs not only populated the streets of Madrid, but were used in popular spectacles. Sancho Panza in Don Quixote mentions having seen a dog thrown up and down on a blanket as part of carnival festivities. There was also a pig race in Madrid, and the winning pig was crowned and rode through the streets on a donkey (Montoliú Camps 2002, 120). As opposed to the domestic animals that people observed on a daily basis across the urban landscape, the arrival of an elephant and rhino was something new. People clamored to see the new animals and paid a fee to see them. 45 “Nace de las comedias otra muy gran utilidad […] que es […] sustentarse en esta corte […] hospitales, como el General […] y el de Antón Martín” (“Memorial dirigido a Felipe II por la Villa de Madrid,” as qtd. Sanz Ayán and García García 2000, 66). 46 For the buying power of maravedies in the period, such as the cost of eggs in Madrid in 1583, see Alvar Ezquerra 1989. 47 “El Hospital General de Madrid tiene dos corrales donde se representan comedias y cada una de las personas que entran a ver las dichas comedias dan por el asiento en que se asientan cuatro cuartos, y a la entrada, además de lo que se da los comediantes se da otro cuarto” (“Consulta de los administradores de las obras pías a los teólogos,” as qtd. in Pellicer 1804, 2: 191).

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Philip II supplemented the funding of his hospitals from the newly built permanent playhouses Cruz and Príncipe by putting Abada in the General Hospital and Hawa’i in Antón Martín Hospital. Since permanent playhouses were newly completed in Madrid, Philip II had hospital space available for Hawa’i and Abada. Hans Khevenhüller writes, in a letter from July 10, 1583: “The King put the rhinoceros in the General Hospital and the elephant in Antón Martín Hospital.”48 The cost to see the pachyderms was a half real, the same price that it cost for a play ticket in 1583. Khevenhüller corroborates: “Whoever wishes to see them [Hawa’i and Abada] should pay a half real which is then given as a donation to the poor.”49 Hawa’i and Abada would have provided the hospitals with better revenue than plays since they were owned by the King and the entire proceeds went directly to the hospitals, as opposed to only the quarter of the proceeds from theater companies. Like Spain’s first commercial theaters, the two hospital patios provided an ideal enclosed space for seeing animals in exclusivity. After Abada and Hawa’i, the Crown put on other types of animal spectacles in the innyards of hospitals, such as staged animal combats, to raise money. Hospital Administrators of the General Hospital in 1614 note that, when alms did not suffice to meet expenses, the hospital made extra money by holding staged animal combats: When “alms were not sufficient […] [the General Hospital held] fights between tigers and lions.”50 Holding Hawa’i and Abada in the corral of the hospital meant that they were placed behind the front entrance of the building and were reached in the same way that one reached a patio or corral from the street. In general, because the sun hit the patio, a roof, or some sort of cover, was built to provide shade. This protected the people in the patio from the sun and it protected Hawa’i’s and Abada’s skin, which needed to retain moisture and stay cool. Documents do not mention the animals’ original mahouts, but each animal needed continual caretakers for feeding and cleaning urine and feces off the dirt floor of the patio. The animals were not in cages, but it is likely that each animal’s legs were shackled. Hawa’i’ and Abada’s audiences were the same as theatergoers. The theater public in Madrid included the imperial family, bureaucrats, and noble members of the royal court. Spectators could also be visitors from other 48 “La Bada puso el rey en el Hospital General y el elefante en el de Antón Martín” (qtd. in Staudinger and Irblich 1996, 266). 49 “Yeder ders sechen Will, muess ain haben real zallen daher, den Armen ain starckhes unnd guetts almusen volgt” (qtd. in Staudinger and Irblich 1996, 266). 50 “no podía allegar limosna […] teniendo luchas de tigres y leones” (Informes, o relaciones originales, que dieron los contadores de los hospitales el año de 1614, as qtd. in Pellicer 1804, I:158).

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parts of Spain and from abroad, clergy, artisans, young people, and women of means. One play, Diálogo de las comedias (Dialogue of Plays, 1620), jokingly states that just about everyone went to see plays, including “working people, people with nothing to do, and women.”51 The theatergoing moneyed classes would most probably have gone to see Hawa’i and Abada on Sundays and feast days because these were the same days that people went to see theatrical performances in the 1580s (Albrecht 2001, 56). Some authors make direct mention of the pachyderm spectacle in their fiction. One such manuscript, the anonymously written Diálogos de la montería (Dialogues about Hunting), circulated in Philip’s court in 1587. Ostensibly a fictional dialogue, Boscán, one of the two interlocutors, states: “I also saw [a rhinoceros] in Madrid where the King our Majesty ordered it brought from Lisbon together with an elephant. The Indians call her ganda and people here in Spain commonly call her bada.”52 Another poet from the period evokes the pachyderm spectacle in his critique of Madrid’s growth and the culture of popular spectacle. A sonnet (1588) by Luis de Góngora (1561–1627) references Hawa’i and Abada in order to poke fun at the new residents on the streets, flocking to the court city. The poem jokingly calls all the new residents flocking to Madrid more “like elephants and rhinos” than people.53 Góngora makes every Madrid resident out be another Hawa’i and Abada, stating that they, like the elephant and rhino, were all arrogant and overblown. The public also fed Hawa’i and Abada. As in theaters, it is likely that the public bought refreshments, not only for their consumption, but for feeding. The humanist Alonso López (or López Pinciano, 1547–1627) describes the scene inside the patio of the Corral de la Cruz. He describes a scene of “seeing so many people together […] and seeing them sell fruits or sweets.”54 Pinciano also writes that a fruit seller tossed up fruit into the gallery and sometimes accidently hit spectators in the face with it. Sebastián Covarrubias suggests that Hawa’i had readily available fruit: A few years ago, in honor of our King Don Philip II they brought another elephant with a rhinoceros, both of which we all saw in Madrid. The elephant was so tame that it put its hand or trunk in the pockets of 51 “gente ocupada; gente ociosa and mujeres” (qtd. in Albrecht 2001, 72). 52 “También vide el animal en Madrid, adonde el Rey nuestro Señor lo mandó traer de Lisboa, juntamente con un elefante. […] Los indios lo llaman ganda y la gente vulgar le ha puesto por nombre en España la Bada” (Diálogos 1935, 32). 53 “más que elefantes y que abadas” (Góngora y Argote 2010). 54 “con ver tanta gente unida; […] y el ver al frutero o confitero” (qtd. in Albrecht 2001, 76).

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those that entered to see it. It would take out money or fruit from inside them. I use the phrase “put its hand in” because classical authors use that expression for the trunk that it has on its snout which it uses as if it were a hand.55

Quite likely, the fruit that Covarrubias mentions was sold on-site. People would have been interested in looking at Hawa’i’s ivory tusks, a product heavily used in crafting everyday objects and furniture for the houses of European elites and as diplomatic gifts (Biedermann 2018). To sum up, after surviving a journey from India to Madrid, Abada and Hawa’i spent about eight years of their lives as public spectacle. Abada died in Madrid. At this point, Hawa’i’s novelty as spectacle wore off and he was removed from Antón Martín Hospital. Philip II chose to get new value from Hawa’i and he gave him as a gift to the King of France, who, in turn, sent Hawa’i as a gift to England, where he died.

Abada and Hawa’i at the Service of Philip II’s Planetary Control By making Abada and Hawa’i a spectacle for eight years in Madrid, Philip II firmly established himself as a player in the global economy of gift giving. Monarchs and elites established global connections in sixteenth-century Eurasia through using gifts for diplomacy (Biedermann, Gerritsen, and Riello 2018). Although a few elephants were gifted in the fifteenth century and in the centuries before, the transport of Indian gift elephants to Europe began in vigor at the beginning of the sixteenth with the reign of Manuel I, King of Portugal and grandfather to Philip II of Spain (Bedini 1998). Philip II’s grandfather Manuel gifted Hanno and a rhino to the Pope. The economy of the pachyderm gift existed across the planet in the sixteenth century and, of all diplomatic gifts, animals were the most valuable, and, among all gift animals, live elephants and rhinos were the most valued. Philip II used the bodies of Abada and Hawa’i to flex geopolitical muscle in front of other men of power. When Abada arrived in Europe in 1578, the Portuguese King Sebastian (1554–78; r.1557–8) promised to gift her to Pope 55 “Pocos años ha que a la buena memoria del rey nuestro señor don Felipe Segundo, le truxeron otro con una bada o rinocerote, que todos vimos en Madrid, tan doméstico que metía la mano o trompa en la faltriqueras de los que le entraba a ver, y les sacaba los dineros o fruta que aposta en ellas; dije que metía la mano, porque así llaman todos los autores antiguos a la trompa que tiene en el hocico, por usar della como si fuera mano” (Covarrubias 1998, 499).

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Gregory XIII for the Belvedere Park. The Archduke Ferdinand II of Tyrol (1529–95) also tried to purchase Abada for his menagerie at Ambras Castle in Innsbruck (Jordan Gschwend 2017, 333). Most significantly, Philip II’s cousin, Rudolf II the Holy Roman Emperor, yearned to acquire Abada and Hawa’i from Philip II for decades—from the moment they arrived in Iberia. In not gifting Abada and Hawa’i, Philip asserted a show of power over European contemporaries, all the while enhancing the value of both animals in the economy of pachyderm gift-giving exchange. Philip II showed that he did not have to cement diplomatic bonds with anyone and, by keeping Abada and Hawa’i in his possession, he flaunted Madrid’s status and circulated his own image as the world’s premier monarch, who kept the planet’s most valuable gifts for himself. Philip II, for instance, used the bodies of Abada and Hawa’i as symbols of international power by impressing a Japanese envoy.56 In an eventual effort to exert geopolitical influence over China, Philip II first seeded relations with Japan in 1584, when the Tenshō embassy, sent by the Christian Japanese Lord Ōtomo Sōrin (1530–87), arrived in Europe. The four young Japanese men bore Philip diplomatic gifts, including two sets of Japanese armor that Philip so highly prized that he kept them with his beloved armor collection. After seeing the Escorial, Philip impressed his visitors by showing them the Alcázar palace in Madrid. He showed off his armor and prized horses. The Macau-based Jesuit Duarte de Sande (1547–99) published a book in Goa in which he speaks on behalf of the Tenshō embassy: After taking our leave of the religious of that most celebrated monastery and of the prior we did indeed go back to Madrid, where there were many things which we had yet to see. After our return, then, we saw first a royal stable and then a royal armory, both of them in the same building, with the horses in the lower part, and the upper story given over to arms. (Sande 2012, 248)

The Japanese visitors marveled at Philip’s horses: This royal stable had […] seventy specially selected horses, some trained in the art of jumping, others for racing, some outstanding for their fighting power, others for their bodily form and singular beauty in walking; all of them standing out for their size, some of them especially so; all of them, 56 The Portuguese missionary Luís Fróis (1532–1597) wrote a description of the trip of the Japanese envoy, which includes a portrait of each of the young men. See Fróis 1942.

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finally brought from various provinces and chosen from the flower and breeding of the noblest of horses. (Sande 2012, 248–9)

Philip kept the armor, including bards, in the upper story above the live horses: “there were besides, placed all over the armory, fifteen cabinets containing different kinds of arms for the protection of the body […] at the far end of this armory there were six wooden horses with sheets of copper found them in the form of armor” (Sande 2012, 249). After the visit to the Alcázar, Philip showed Abada and Hawa’i to the Japanese emissaries. The emissaries concluded: we saw two animals of, as it were, a prodigious nature, namely an elephant and a rhinoceros, which have been brought from India to Portugal and then to Madrid, and which are kept there because of their enormous bulk of body and extraordinary shape, so that all can view them as sort of prodigies of nature. (Sande 2012, 250)

Sande’s account was published in Macao, and the Japanese emissaries traveled back to Japan from Europe, spreading news of Philip’s spectacle. Thirteen years after the Japanese emissaries visited Madrid, Philip gifted an elephant to Japan in 1597, a result of the establishment of diplomatic relations, after having whetted Japan’s appetite by showing off Abada and Hawa’i. While, ostensibly, the intent of animal gift giving in European courts was an offer of friendship and influence, in Asia, Philip’s diplomatic gifts were established protocol that aligned with a stringent hierarchical system of tributes. Japan, desirous for a position of geopolitical dominance, modeled itself in the image of China, and interpreted the acceptance of gifts as reinforcing its position of superiority over the gift giver (Pérez Riobó 2015). Philip II’s gift to Japan included the elephant, Don Pedro, and two mahouts, who left the port of Manila in 1597.57 Japan’s second great unifier, Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1537–98) favored Don Pedro the elephant above Philip’s other gifts. Upon the elephant’s arrival, Hideyoshi invited the Spanish ambassador Luis de Navarrete to his court: “when don Luis de Navarrete arrived to Nagasaki, Hideyoshi summoned 57 When Toyotomi Hideyoshi received Don Pedro the elephant, it was probably not the first time that Don Pedro was given as a gift. Don Pedro might have previously been a part of a gift package sent to the governor Luis Pérez Dasmariñas of Manila (r.1593–6). Antonios de Morga (1559–1636) notes that “two elephants […] and quantities of benzoin, ivory and other saleable goods” (Morga 1971, 81) were sent as gifts to Luis Pérez Dasmariñas in 1594.

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him and his gift from Luzón to his court because he wanted to see them, especially the elephant, of which he took great delight.”58 The elephant caused great public uproar. Hideyoshi organized a procession in Nagasaki for the animal, and one Spanish merchant wrote that there was such a rush to see the animal that a number of people died in the tumult to see the spectacle. In Europe, animal gifts confirmed status, solidified friendships, maintained peace, and joined the person and animal in a more intimate way with the family group (Zemon Davis 2000; Pérez de Tudela and Jordan Gschwend 2001, 5). In the case of Japan, Hideyoshi interpreted European gifts as tributes from a less potent regime that celebrated his growing hegemony in the region. Hideyoshi aspired to outdo China and convert Japan into a new Asian power. One source states the gift of Don Pedro the elephant “was proudly valued and publicized” and that “the Spanish had sent the elephant because of their fear of Hideyoshi, as tribute of respect for his power, and so that he would not destroy them.”59 In turn, from Philip II’s perspective, the gift of the elephant with two mahouts was diplomatic in nature in the sense that he attempted to leverage influence. The elephant was designed to appease potential Japanese aggression against Manila and its fleets in the region. With the elephant gift, the Spanish requested Hideyoshi to return the valuable cargo of the galleon San Felipe, which Japan had looted the year before. Hideyoshi ignored the request. The Spanish also used the elephant to request the return of the bodies of the Christians martyred in Nagasaki in 1597. Hideyoshi agreed to the second request and returned the bodies (Pérez Riobó 2015, 133). Closer to home, other European powers considered Philip II’s spectacle of animals as a display of imperial power. The spectacle, for instance, caught the eye of an important imperial actor for the Dutch empire, Jan Huyghen van Linschoten (1563–1611). In Lisbon in 1582, Philip II appointed Linschoten to serve João Vicente da Fonseca (1530–87), the archbishop of the East Indies (Thomas and Chesworth 2017, 73). Linscholten, considered a spy working for the Dutch, later published descriptions of strategically important Portuguese trade routes and maps in Voyage ofte schipvaert van Jan Huygen van Lischoten naer Oos ofte Portugales Indien (The Voyage of Jan Huygen van Linscholten 58 “llegado a Nangasaqui don Luis de Navarrete, Taicosama envió desde la carta, con mucho gusto, por el embajador y presente que se le enviaba de Luzón, que lo deseaba ver, especialmente el elefante, de que holgó mucho” (qtd. in Pérez Riobó 2015, 132–3). 59 “arrogantemente se preciaba y publicaba”; “se lo habían mandado los españoles por miedo que le tenían y por reconocimento de tributo y señorío, porque no los destuyese” (qtd. in Pérez Riobó 2015, 133).

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to the East Indies, 1596). The information about navigation routes supplied by Linscholten that served Dutch maritime expansion also included notes on Abada and Hawa’i: “In the year 1581, as King Phillip was at Lisbone, there was a rhinoceros and an Elephant brought him out of India for a present and he caused them both to be let with him unto Madrid, where the Spanish Court is holden” (Linscholten 1598, 88).60

Emerging European Orientalism Linscholten was not the only author that described Philip II’s rhino and elephant in the context of a book about the distant East. Philip II’s display of Abada and Hawa’i played a role in shaping how China was exoticized by Juan González de Mendoza (1545–1618). Even though he gathered most of his information from the travel notes from Miguel de Luarca (1540–1591), González de Mendoza was the most important author since Marco Polo to spread ideas about China in Europe. Mendoza’s Historia de las cosas más notables, ritos y costumbres del gran reyno de la China (History of the Most Notable Things, Rituals, and Customs of the Great Kingdom of China, 1586, reprinted in 1596, and published in English in 1588) was the first book to contain Chinese characters for Western readers and, with multiple editions and translations, had an enormous impact on early modern European perceptions of China. Aside from his book, Juan González de Mendoza perpetrated an image about China in Europe through material objects. Philip II had sent a letter to emperor Wanli (1563–1620) of the Ming dynasty in 1581, accompanied by lavish gifts, including f ine textiles dyed in crimson with American cochineal, engraved harnesses and silk saddles, two portraits of Charles V on horseback by Alonso Sánchez Coello (1531–88), live American elk, and horses (Hsu 2010, 337; Hsu 2004). After the ship with the gifts sank, Juan González de Mendoza traveled to Lisbon in 1582 to report to Philip about the unfortunate mishap and told Philip that the envoy of gifts to China were lost at sea. González de Mendoza, however, brought Philip gifts from China that had arrived to Mexico from the Philippines. The gifts caught Philip’s eye. Among the gifts, Philip was most impressed with a pair of Ming square-backed huanghuali folding chairs, probably because they appealed to his austere practicality (Sola 2018, 215). Philip placed the chairs in the

60 For the Dutch description, see Linscholten 1596, 70.

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Escorial along with his collection of porcelain and books in Chinese that he kept in the “desk of the emperors” (Pérez de Tudela 2012, 29). Even as he had an enormous impact on Europe’s perception of China, González de Mendoza never set foot there. Mendoza’s only firsthand experience in the Far East was having seen Abada in Lisbon. While writing the History of the Most Notable Things, Rituals, and Customs of the Great Kingdom of China in 1584, Mendoza states proof of having seen a rhino: “I saw one in Lisbon” and it was the same as the one that “is now in Madrid.”61 Mendoza’s book about China also served as an advertisement for the spectacle in Madrid as a novelty for all of Europe: “many go to see the animal because of its strangeness and since it has never been seen in our Europe.”62 Mendoza’s experience of having seen Abada provided the public a sense of an authentic experience of the East. For Philip II, the pairing up of Abada with Hawa’i was important for communicating a more complete sense of an oriental experience. In his account of China, Mendoza generally mentions rhinos and elephants together. Moreover, the pairing of both animals as an iconic pair from the East Indies could be found in the work of Christopher Columbus (1451–1506) and Marco Polo (1254–1324). Marco Polo’s descriptions of places frequently contained elephants and rhinos. In his copy of a Latin Marco Polo incunabulum (published in Ambers in 1485), Columbus jotted down the words “elephants and rhinos” on a number of occasions in the marginalia. For instance, when Marco Polo mentions that elephant, rhinos, and other unnamed wild creatures abounded in the Mien Province, Columbus noted two words in the margin: “elephants” and “rhinos” (Gil 1987, 109). At another point, alongside the names of the two animals, he annotated geo-nautical information of a specific area and then wrote that, in this place, there was an abundance of all sorts of spices that had never been seen before in Europe (Gil 1987, 109). Columbus’s annotations of Marco Polo, thereby, helped make the elephant and rhino pair an icon of a yet-to-be discovered world of spices in the Indies. Sixteenth-century artists and illustrators paired the rhinoceros and the elephant, most commonly depicting them in a fight. Replacing classical motifs of human forms, Nouveaux pourtraitz et figures de termes pour user en l’architecture (A Terminology of New Portraits and Figures for Use in 61 “vi uno en Lisboa” “está ahora en Madrid” (González de Mendoza 1596, 357). Although published later, as the prologue indicates, Mendoza wrote the manuscript of History of the Most Notable Things, Rituals, and Customs of the Great Kingdom of China in 1584 while in Rome. 62 “lo van a ver muchos por cosa extraña y nunca vista en nuestra Europa” (González de Mendoza 1596, 357).

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Architecture, 1586) by Josephe Boillot (1546–1605), one of the first books of early modern architecture, imagined a rhino atop the figure of an elephant as part of new spatial design. Sometimes, the image of an elephant and rhino was literally part of buildings, such as in a fresco by Rafael titled The Creation of the Animals in the official residence of the Pope. The Villa di Castello gardens of the country residence of Cosimo I de Medici include an elephant and a rhino in the grottos. Beyond the Pope’s residence, images of rhinos and elephants are part of other powerful people’s houses, even those built on the outskirts of Europe’s newly controlled territory in America, such as one in the New Kingdom of Granada. The elephant-rhino pair was also included within cities in the form of ephemeral architectural structures that celebrated a royal entrance or military victory. One image from the period depicts an arch displayed at the Rossmarkt in Vienna (Jordan Gschwend 2010, 46). The arch was the highlight of a 1563 Habsburg celebration of the transfer of power granted from Emperor Ferdinand I to his son Maximilian II. It depicts live horses passing in between a rhino and elephant that face each other. The pachyderms signify the geographical reach of Habsburg power into Asia, now contained on ephemeral architecture in an urban space that celebrates a new monarch. As symbol of the Orient, the spectacle of Abada and Hawa’i in the 1580s later impacted the creation of allegorical displays of the continents of the world in Spain. An artificial elephant and a rhino were part of one of the most ornate public spectacles on the streets of Madrid in the seventeenth century, as described by Fernando Monforte y Herrera in Relación de las fiestas que ha hecho el Colegio Imperial de la Compañía de Jesús de Madrid en la canonización de San Ignacio de Loyola y S. Francisco Xavier (News about the Parade That Imperial College of the Company of Jesus Held in Madrid for the Canonization of Saint Ignatius of Loyola and Saint Francis Xavier, 1622). As part of the celebration in honor of the Jesuit saints, four allegorical floats, representing the parts of the world, were included. Each float consisted of three or four carriages, and each elaborately ornamented carriage was pulled by six horses. Floats representing America were followed by Asia, then Africa, and then Europe. Monforte y Herrera wrote that the elephant in the parade represented Africa. The people in the African float wore long black gloves and black face masks; the person who sat on top of the float wore emeralds and diamonds and carried a shield with three silver elephants. The Asia section of the parade ended with a woman dressed up as Asia, who sat in a throne riding on top of a float made in the image of Abada. Asia’s riches were allegorized with Abada’s body: “The last float in the Asia procession was flat with railings

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of jasper and gold. Its five-leveled terraces were of a thousand colors upon which sat a throne. On top of the throne was a rhinoceros [abada], the iconic animal from that land.”63 Men were most likely hidden inside the artificial automaton of the hollowed life-size Abada. It was not unusual to create animal floats for parades. One elephant in a 1579 Medici pageant was made with papier-mâché (rags soaked in plaster) applied over an internal support of wire mesh, wood, and other materials, with men inside (Groom 2019, 147). The baroque fanfare of the massive procession in Madrid underscored that the iconographic program of the seventeenth century was impacted from three decades earlier, when Philip II wished to put the world on display in Madrid with the live pachyderm spectacle.

Tenochtitlan’s Zoo When Philip II renovated the urban space of Madrid, he wanted an imperial capital to rival ancient Rome. He, also, however, wanted to rival great cities from the Indies, like Tenochtitlan. At the time of Madrid’s renovation as capital, Philip II was familiar with detailed maps of Tenochtitlan. Indeed, Charles V and Philip II promoted themselves as emperors of universal peace and as just conquerors of the Amerindian continent through disseminating printed maps of Tenochtitlan. Maps of Tenochtitlan circulated across Europe in the sixteenth century. The maps included a depiction of the gardens and zoos in the city center of Tenochtitlan. Hernando Cortés had sent off a map of conquered Tenochtitlan in 1520 (which arrived to Seville in 1522), where it was promptly copied and appeared in published form across Europe. The German translation of Hernando Cortés’s second letter to Charles in Nuremberg (1524) included a map of Tenochtitlan, which was republished in Lyon (1564), Cologne (1576), and Venice, with multiple editions throughout the course of the sixteenth century (1524; 1556; 1565) (Mundy 1998). The printed maps of Tenochtitlan depicted the House of Animals alongside the religious temples in the center of the city. The House of Animals is a square space divided into smaller squares, displaying birds, a feline, and humans—Moctezuma collected humans, including albinos, dwarves, 63 “Daba fin Asia en un airoso carro, que, desde un plano coronado de verjas de jaspe y oro, daba paso por cinco gradas bordadas de mil colores a un trono sobre que estaba echada una abada, animal propio de aquella tierra” (Monforte y Herrera 1622, 43).

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hunchbacks, and those with deformed limbs. Just as Moctezuma had displayed power through a royal menagerie, so Cortés brought back exotic animals and people to Europe, which had formerly been occupants of cages in the House of Animals in Tenochtitlan. Tenochtitlan’s House of Animals may have partially impacted Philip II when he constructed places to symbolize imperial power. For instance, the construction of the aviary in Aranjuez may have been inspired by Montezuma’s magnificent House of Birds, the Totocalli, a space found in sixteenth-century depictions of Tenochtitlan. Europe had a long tradition of menageries, but none was in the center of a newly built capital city for public display. Tenochtitlan’s House of Animals may have also inspired Philip II to take two live animals—prized captives from the East Indies—and put them in Madrid’s center. In that sense, Philip II took the model from the West Indies, the House of Animals, now destroyed, and refounded it within Madrid’s urban landscape. With regard to the public perception of the pachyderm spectacle, many would have seen the animals as symbols of the Indies. In the case of a nineteenth-century zoo in a European capital city, the public would have perceived the geopolitical distinction between India and America in quite a different way than in the sixteenth century. Abada and Hawa’i would have been considered captive prisoners of war from the far-off “Indies,” the lands that supposedly belonged to Philip II.

Abada as Emblem of Philip II as Christian Warrior Books of emblems were one of the most popular early modern literary genres. In Gobierno general moral y politico hallado en las fieras y animales silvestres (The General Governing Morals and Politics Found in Beasts and Wild Animals, 1658), Andrés Ferrer de Valdecebro (1620–80) used the emblem book genre to connect the rhinoceros will all sorts of moral advice. After pages of sermonizing about the rhino as Christian emblem, Valdecebro mentions Abada’s captivity under Philip II, who he calls “Seneca,” as one of three historical moments in which Europeans observed a living rhino: “The Romans saw one in their Coliseum; the Portuguese saw one in Portugal in the time of King Manuel; and the Spanish [during the time] of our Seneca of Spain.”64 64 “En su teatro le vieron los romanos, en Portugal los lusitanos en tiempo del rey Don Manuel; y de nuestro Seneca de Espana los españoles” (Valdecebro 1658, 56). Valdecebro calls Philip II

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Books of emblems, particularly those that included a copy of Dürer’s Rhinoceros, would have served as a visual guide for interpreting Abada when she lived in Madrid. The circulation of books of emblems, like the Spanish language itself, formed part of an evangelization process in establishing the sixteenth-century global Habsburg political order. In the context of Spanish-language publications of emblem books and attesting to the growth of Spanish as the new imperial language under Philip II, the most significant book of emblems to include the Dürer’s Rhinoceros is the Diálogo de las empresas militares y amorosas (Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems, 1561) by Guillaume Rovillé (ca. 1518–89). Guillaume Rovillé, a humanist working in sixteenth-century Lyon, was a pioneer of emblem books in France, having translated and published Andrea Alciato’s emblem book into French. Rovillé received permission to publish Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems in Lyon under the auspices of the French King Henry II (1519–59). Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems, written in Spanish, although published in France, combined two different emblem books and included Rovillé’s introduction. Rovillé explains that he published the book to celebrate Philip II of Spain. Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems follows the formulaic genre of the emblem book. It first includes an image with an accompanying motto. It then includes an explanation of the allegorical image-motto. Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems also followed the enormously popular sixteenth-century genre of the dialogue—two interlocutors comment on the book’s emblems. As opposed to his French translation of Alciato, Rovillé published Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems with the help of Alonso de Ulloa (?–1580), a Spanish-speaking fellow resident of Lyon. The combined emblem books that formed the single volume were a Spanish translation of two Italian books. The first book was Rovillé’s translation of Dialogi dell’impresse militare et amoris (Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems, 1557) by Paulo Giovio (1483–1552). The second was Rovillé’s translation of Imprese morali et heroiche (Moral and Heroic Emblems, 1559) by Gabriele Simeoni (1509–70), which he had published in Lyon two years earlier. Rovillé states in the introduction that he published the book in Spanish to “be in some way a service to the Spanish nation.”65 Saving the most “Seneca” based on a reference originally found in Felipe Segundo, Rey de España (Philip II King of Spain, 1619) by historian Luis Cabrera de Córdoba (1559–1623). Philip as Spain’s second “Seneca” was a seventeenth-century commonplace, repeated by authors like Juan Pérez de Montalbán (1602–38). 65 “servir en algo a la nación española” (Rovillé 1561, n.p.).

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important for last, the final emblem is not found in the original Italian books. Rovillé adds a new emblem into the Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems. It is a description of an emblem of Philip II: “I have decided to finish the book with the greatest prince and king of the Christian faith of our time.”66 The emblem for Philip II is a horse: the “swiftest horse, running in the middle of the Roman Circus.”67 The motto that accompanies the image of the horse is “the world is not enough,” or non sufficit orbis (Rovillé 1561, 217). Eschewing plus ultra, the well-known Spanish motto from the beginning of the sixteenth century, Rovillé adopted a more geographically expansive motto to celebrate Philip II’s imperial reach. In the explanation of the image-motto, he explains that, since his father Charles V went beyond Europe and conquered America, his son Philip II justly merits non sufficit orbis to demonstrate that a single kingdom is not enough for a Habsburg, because “our King continues to prosper with every day discovering and naming new kingdoms.”68 The image of Philip II as horse is the last emblem in Rovillé’s book. To complement that image, one of the f irst emblems of Rovillé’s Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems is Dürer’s Rhinoceros—copied from Paolo Giovio’s Italian version. Dürer Rhinoceros is amplified. It has more armor and an enlarged second horn. Rovillé’s prose description of the rhino in Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems notes that Giovio designed the emblem in celebration of the marriage between Alessandro de Medici (1510–37) and Margarita de Parma (1522–86), the daughter of Charles V (47). The rhino symbolizes Alessandro de Medici’s loyalty to the Spanish Habsburgs. Alexander is Charles V’s armored beast, ready and willing to die for the Spanish imperial cause. The emblem “demonstrates valor and greatness in war” on behalf of Charles V, “for having achieved fame by having valiantly faced every sort of hardship, ready to conquer or willing to die [vencer o morir].”69 I have translated vencer o morir as “ready to conquer or willing to die.” The use of the verb vencer (conquer, win a battle) in the context of fighting 66 “determinado de acabarlo con el mayor príncipe y rey de cristianos de nuestro tiempo” (Rovillé 1561, 216). 67 “velocísimo caballo que puesto en carrera sale y pasa de la mitad del circo romano” (Rovillé 1561, 216). 68 “no le basta un reino solo. Por lo cual prosperando nuestro señor sus cosas, le va cada día descubriendo y dan nuevos reinos” (Rovillé 1561, 217). 69 “deseaba mostrar su valor y bondad en la Guerra […] que por alcanzar floria, y defender la parte imperial habria entrado valorossamente en cuaquiera dificultosa empresa, determinando vencer o morir” (Rovillé 1561, 48–49).

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for Charles V directly inspired the motto for the rhino emblem: no vuelvo sin vencer (I do not return without winning). Rovillé mentions Giovio’s classical inspiration, stating that the motto was derived from the verse “The rhinoceros never returns from the enemy defeated.”70 The modified Dürer Rhinoceros became a battle emblem for fighting on behalf of the Habsburg monarchy. For this reason, Rovillé underscores that Giovio originally wrote the motto in “the Spanish language”—as opposed to Italian—in a show of his allegiance to the Spanish monarchy.71 The conclusion of the description of the rhino emblem states that it was engraved on the breastplate of the Duke of Medici’s favorite running horse.72 By adding the last emblem about Philip II as racehorse, Rovillé linked the Dürer Rhinoceros that was engraved on horse armor with the final emblem—a noble racehorse that represented Philip II. Linking Rhinoceros with horse armor and the Habsburgs, the Duke of Medici’s racing horse is the final allegorical emblem that celebrates Philip as planetary monarch for whom “the world is not enough.” Although the vast majority of public that saw Abada had not read Rovillé’s emblem book, they would have nonetheless connected Abada with King Philip II, seeing her as a former enemy and now as his captive. Moreover, they would have visualized Abada in the context of the heightened turn to religious orthodoxy in Counter-Reformation Spain. Another emblem book published in Spain approximates a description of the version of Catholicism as practiced in the Spanish Habsburg context. Empresas espirituales y morales (Spiritual and Moral Emblems, 1613) by Juan Francisco de Villalva (1545?–1619?) redeployed Dürer’s rhinoceros image as emblem. As with Rovillé, Villalva used a rhinoceros image to convey an allegory of a didactic and religious message with an accompanying motto, as well as prose and poetry to describe the image-motto. The publisher of Spiritual and Moral Emblems also included a crude rhinoceros woodcut inspired by Dürer. As with Rovillé’s rhinoceros, Villalva’s rhino image further accentuates the armor garniture originally found in Dürer’s Rhinoceros. Villalva’s image shows a rhino with multiple plates of armor, four clear rivets, a horn that looks like a drill, and, in the place where Dürer had added a second horn to the single-horned Indian rhino, Villalva adds three additional small horns. The image in Spiritual and Moral

70 ‘Rhinoceros nonquam victurs ab hoste redit’ (Rovillé 1561, 49). 71 “lengua castellana” (Rovillé 1561, 48). 72 “la hizo entallar de labor grabada en el pecto de su arnés” (Rovillé 1561, 49).

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Emblems depicts the rhino sharpening its largest horn, getting ready for battle, borrowing from the description found on Dürer’s Rhinoceros. The rhino image in Villalva’s Spiritual and Moral Emblems is accompanied by the Latin motto Fortius ut pugnem (“I am strong so that I can fight,” Villalva 1613, 45). As in many emblem books, Spiritual and Moral Emblems includes a poem and further description to explain the meaning of the image-motto. The gloss poem reads: The noble rhinoceros Never fights with the Wise, belligerent elephant Without first sharpening its horn […] He who decides to fight A savage enemy Must sharpen his steel On the divine stone Which is Christ, The affirmed weapon of faith.73

The rhinoceros was no longer an exotic beast, but a man who went into battle armored and armed with faith sharpened by the whetstone that is Christ. Spiritual and Moral Emblems, then, provides one religious interpretation of how people might have interpreted their visual experience with Abada. The living rhino was perceived through a Dürer-inspired allegorical lens that made her an emblem of a Christian in the context of Counter-Reformation Spain—a soldier of Christ made captive by their armored monarch King Philip II.

Abada as Panacea One characteristic of Counter-Reformation Spain was a heightened interest in relics of saints. Philip II had over 7,000 human relics, including ten whole bodies, 144 heads, 306 arms and legs, and thousands of bones in his vast collection (Kamen 1997, 189). Following Philip II’s belief in the healing 73 “Con el sagaz belígero elefante / competidor eterno, / nunca lucha el gentil rinoceronte / sin que en piedra bastante / primero aguce el cuerno / […]Quien mostrar quiere al enemigo fiero / bien agudo el acero / que en la piedra divina / que es Cristo / la arma de la fe se afirma” (Villalva 1613, 45).

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power of holy relics, people believed that touching a saint’s body part was a panacea. Relics—body parts of holy people—had the power to cure, and, if the holy flesh-and-blood person was still alive, then their power to cure was even more extraordinary. Contact with a living saint was more powerful than touching a relic. If the sacred object was living, people desired to touch the saint’s body or blood. They desired to come close enough to the sacred person so that he or she might breathe upon them. Products from the Indies, such as coconuts or bezoar stones extracted from the animal’s stomach, circulated in the sixteenth century were believed to have curative powers like holy relics.74 Simple physical contact, or the consumption of a liquid that touched the object from the Indies was like touching a relic—it offered, for instance, an antidote against poison. One example of a cup composed of a coconut, bezoar stone, and rhino horn is found in Rudolf II’s collection. In order to get a maximum effect of all three different objects’ curative powers, the cup is half coconut, it has a bezoar stone that sits at the bottom of the cup attached with a golden chain, and the cup’s handle is made out of a rhinoceros horn. One who drank out of the cup got a triple curative effect because the liquid touched the coconut and came into contact with the bezoar stone. Moreover, the hand of the person who drinks has also touched the rhino horn handle (Fricke 2018, 358). Products from the Indies were not only purchased by elites. Influenced by practices common in Chinese workshops, apothecaries across Europe took advantage of marketing an influx of panacea cures related to rhino products. Iberians living in Goa helped not only to establish popular medical practices of coconuts and bezoar stones, but they also touted the curative power of the rhinoceros horn, teeth, blood, hide, and three-toed hooves. Garcia d’Orta, for instance, the author of Colóquios dos simples e drogas da India (Colloquies of the Remedies and Drugs from India, 1563), wrote that, although he had not seen a live rhinoceros, the curative properties of rhino body parts were well known. An inventory from a ship sailing from Goa in 1578, the same year that Abada was sent to Lisbon, included a box for the Jesuit Father António Cordeses (1518–1601) in Toledo. It was filled with coconuts, bezoar stones, and rhino parts: “Three rhino teeth; a rhino hoof; a rhino horn; two small bezoar stones; rhino blood; three pieces of coconut from the islands [one big one and two small ones]; a large piece of rhino 74 Bezoar stones were extracted from the stomachs of a variety of animals, including monkeys, porcupines, hogs, goats (Borshberg 2010). When the stones came from the Indies, such as a rhinoceros from the East Indies or a vicuña from the West Indies, they were considered more powerful.

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hide; […] two rings made from a rhino hoof which they put on the index finger in order to cure the disease of melancholy.”75 The panacea lore of the rhino is a great myth. Its curative power, for instance, is still believed in parts of the world, even though rhino horn is nothing more than compacted hair, composed of keratin, not much different from a human finger nail. Pharmacies in early modern Spain nonetheless processed animal body parts, like rhino hooves or horns, and sold them to the public. Apothecaries, for instance, would grind up the hooves of the rhino on a mortar and make it into a powder, or mix the results with a liquid such as extract of primrose flowers. The essence or concentrated liquid was then sold as an antidote for poison, a cure for epilepsy, or a general cure-all. Cristóbal Acosta translated and annotated Orta’s Colóquios dos simples e drogas da India as Tractado de las drogas y medicinas de las indias orientales (Treatise of the Drugs and Medicines of the East Indies, 1578). By including descriptions of rhinos in a treatise on elephants in a book about medicine from the East Indies, Cristóbal Acosta contributed to the legend of the curative power of the rhino. Acosta also wrote Remedios específicos de la India Oriental y de la América (Specific Remedies from East India and the Americas) and worked in a pharmacy in Burgos. He describes the rhinoceros or abada as a cure for all sorts of ailments: “its blood, like its hide, bones, and other body parts have infinite virtues.”76 Specific Remedies from East India and the Americas concludes that “A speck or two [of the powder from the rhino’s hoof] in an infusion is most highly recommended” as a “cure for mental disorders and the worst heart problems: […] [it is] a universal medicine.”77 Dürer’s creation of the armored beast from the Indies influenced early modern medical practice, like that of Acosta. As mentioned in Chapter 2, Monardes wrote a book about the medicinal quality of plants from the Indies and, influenced by Dürer, he included an image of an armadillo, the armored beast from the West Indies, in his book. Animals with impenetrable skin became legendary for their miraculous power to cure, fueling a global market for animal body parts such as hooves. The Dutch, for instance, 75 “Tres dientes de bada, una uña de bada, un cuerno de bada; dos pequeñas piedras del bazar; sangre de bada; tres pedazos de coco de las Islas, un grande y dos pequeños; un grande pedazo de cuero de bada; […] dos anillos de uña de bada puestos en el dedo del corazón aprovechan para la melancolía” (Wicki 1970, 330). 76 “sus virtudes son infinitas en su sangre, como en el cuero, huesos y otras partes de su cuerpo” (qtd. in Chinchilla 1841, 59). 77 “Un grano, o dos en infusiones será mas eficaz […] remedio contra afectos hipocondriacos, y cardiologías más rigurosas […] le tiene por medicamento universal” (Acosta n.d., n.p). The pagination would be folio 31.

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followed the Spanish example, naming one animal reputed to have armored skin, the elk, the “Great Beast,” and mass marketing its hooves for European pharmacies (Podgorny 2018).78 If an animal was naturally endowed with impenetrable skin, then its body parts offered a cure. Hooves, horns, and other rhino body parts were also said to have an intrinsic therapeutic value in curing epilepsy (“the falling sickness”), characterized by the sudden onset of convulsions and seizures. Some writers, such as Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–81), criticized the use of rhino body parts as a cure for epilepsy. In a Calderón play from the mid-seventeenth century, “Mojiganga del Parnaso” (Parnassus Interlude), two cheeky women, María and Bernarda, scam men passing by them on the street. María pretends to faint and go into an epileptic attack (gota coral). A man passing by shows concern and wants to help María. He asks Bernarda where María lives and Bernarda tells him: on “Calle del Abada” (Calderón de la Barca 1989, 256).79 The man responds: “I’m off to that street to find out what I can do to fix this.”80 The women are mountebanks in two senses: They try to scam men out of their money, and they purport the fanciful curative properties of the rhino. In the sixteenth century, rhino body parts were believed to offer miracle cures like holy relics. The arrival of Abada to the General Hospital was like the arrival of a living saint. The very first description of Abada when she arrived to Lisbon highlighted her special power to cure: They say that she has the ability to cure sickness. There is a black man that takes care of her who was cured by her breath because he sleeps by her side. They also say her blood cures many sicknesses. The king [King Sebastian of Portugal, 1554–78] holds her in great esteem and he shows her off because she is a novelty for us and very strange.81 78 Hooves from the African oryx and American tapir and moose were also marketed for medicinal purposes in the seventeenth century. 79 Abada’s first stable in Madrid was located on the present-day Abada Street in Madrid near Philip II’s Alcázar. Aside from referencing popular belief of the rhino as panacea, Calderón’s play confirms M. Molina Campuzano’s study on early Madrid cartography, which shows that the popular name for Abada’s street had already become a standard name in the seventeenth century. Abada Street is where King Philip II first put Abada upon arriving from Lisbon. Molina (1960, 520) notes that the street was mostly called “Abada” or rhinoceros (eleven times), but also “Bada” or rhinoceros (six times), and Abad or abbot (three times). He also cites Concerning the Names and Streets of Madrid (1626–32), which refers to Bada Street (Calle de la Bada). 80 “Yo iré por allí a saber en que el accidente para” (“Mojiganga del Parnaso, Segunda parte de la rabia,” Calderón de la Barca 1989, 256). Also see Casey 2019. 81 “Dizem que tem muita virtude para sarar gafos e que um negro que tinha cuidado dela que com o seu bafo por dormir a par dele que sarao e que o sangue aproveita muitas enfermedades […]

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Touching Abada and feeling her breath was a much more powerful curative experience than simply touching or consuming a rhino body part. Spectators who came to see Abada in the General Hospital would have associated her with the unicorn and its horn, a legendary panacea. They would have tried to touch the place of her missing horn or the horn that was starting to grow back. In seeking to come in contact with her, many probably touched Abada compassionately, like they did their small companion animals.82 Their touch may have even benefitted Abada’s well-being, a moment radically at odds with the suffering she experienced most of her life.

Conquered Enemies At the end of the eighteenth century, in order to raise hospital income, the Bedlam Asylum in London charged the public a fee of a penny to stare at caged patients. People did not pay to see patients in Philip II’s hospitals, but, nevertheless, he not only consolidated Madrid’s hospitals in an act of charity, but also as a way to control and observe vagrants, prostitutes, criminals, and the mentally ill. In places such as Bedlam and the General Hospital in Paris, crowds treated the ill and insane with cruelty (Senior 2004, 222). People also observed and mistreated the deranged and mentally ill in early modern Spain, and they were increasingly the object of spectacle. The character Don Quixote, at the end of the spurious sequel to Part I of Cervantes’s novel, was sent to a hospital for the insane. Quixote was not only a character in fictional novels, but he was also the protagonist in short comic plays and in parades, spectacles that exaggerated his character as ridiculous and loony. One historical patient in Spain may also have been the object of spectacle. Juan de Dios was forcibly detained in the Hospital of Antón Martín in the 1580s, and evidence exists that one woman went to see Juan de Dios at the same time she may have also seen Hawa’i. Hawa’i was lodged in the Hospital of Antón Martín, located near the present-day plaza of Antón Martín. The Hospital of Antón Martín was dedicated to skin diseases, primarily sexually transmitted diseases like syphilis. Lucretia de León (1567–?), the daughter of Tem-la El Rei em grande estima qui la aquí desenhar por ser cousa nova a nos e muito estranha e dar fim a este libro pois neste tempo veio” (qtd. in Fontes da Costa 2009, 79). Also see Cruz de Almeida and Lino Rodrigo 1992. 82 Some small dogs were kept near the breast or on the lap and touched intimately (Martín 2020). Accounts exist of elites that cherished the act of touching their small companion animals. Isabella d’Este Marchesa de Mantua acquired a small cat with soft fur from India that she kept in the sleeves of her clothing (Cockram 2017).

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a merchant who lived in Madrid in the 1580s, visited the Hospital of Antón Martín in 1588—ostensibly, not to see Hawa’i, but Juan de Dios. Richard Kagan has studied inquisitional documents that record the Lucretia’s dreams. In one record from 1588, Lucretia describes a dream in which she recounted a visit to the hospital of Antón Martín and in which she saw a monstrous elephant-like creature (Kagan 1990, 71–72). For Kagan, Lucretia’s dream description suggests a real experience she might have had with the quack prophet Juan de Dios in the hospital. Lucretia states that, when she was in the hospital, Juan de Dios told her that King Philip II would cause the destruction of Spain because he did not expel the moriscos. Lucretia’s description of an elephant monster follows popular accounts of a prophesy about moriscos connected to elephants. The Carmelite friar and historian, Marcos de Guadalajara (1560–1631), for instance, wrote about the popular elephant connection in Memorable Expulsión y justísimo destierro de los Moriscos de España (Commemoration of the Expulsion and the Most Just Exile of the Moriscos of Spain, 1613). Marcos de Guadalajara writes that the Spanish (whom he refers to as the Sagittarians) “are stronger than the elephants.”83 Lucretia’s experience suggests that not all the public who came to the hospitals to see the pachyderms came seeking a cure. They did not all touch Abada and Hawa’i with compassion. Some of the public would have also looked at both pachyderms as Spanish enemies and great prisoners of war. They touched them with awe and disgust. Overawed by their immense size, some poked and prodded their thick hides and attempted to injure the animals. The poem in Villalva’s Spiritual and Moral Emblems describes the Christrhino as fighting a “belligerent” elephant. Many would have associated the elephant with Islam, Spain’s outcast religion. For instance, when Philip arrived to Lisbon in 1580, the city celebrated a royal entrance procession, and the silversmiths of the city created a float. They represented Philip as a lion and the Turk as an elephant. A description describes the float: “The right-hand panel showed a globe of the world split in two halves. One of them was clutched in the claws of a lion and the other half had an elephant with its trunk accompanied by ferocious wild animals with claws.”84 The interpretation of the iconographic program continues: “the image was an allegory of the world 83 “son más fuertes los Sagitarios que los Elephantes” (qtd. in Lee 2020, 181). 84 “O painel da mano direyta se mostraba o globo do Mundo partido em duas ametades. Huna das quaes tinha aferrada com as unas hun leão & a otra hum elefante com a trova juntamente como outros animais feroces con as unas” (qtd. in Pizarro Gómez 1999, 140–1).

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divided in two parts. The first was King Philip II as a strong and powerful lion that possessed half the world and the other half was controlled by the Great Turk, accompanied by the Muslims and other pagans.”85 Many visitors who saw Hawa’i would have thought of him as a Turkish captive. Early modern Europe in general often equated elephants with Turks. In 1531, Charles V’s envoys, Joseph von Lamberg and Niklas Jurischitz, reported that, on their way to the audience chamber in the first court of the Ottoman palace, they saw two elephants (Reindl-Kiel 2010, 279–80). The Turk-elephant connection appears in European accounts such as Ogier Ghislain de Busbecq (1522–92), who served as ambassador in the Sultan’s court (1554–62). Ghislain de Busbecq, like Covarrubias, calls attention to elephant’s “hand”: I also saw a quite young elephant which greatly amused me, because it could dance and play ball […] When the elephant was ordered to dance it advanced on alternate feet, swaying back and forth with its whole body, so that it obviously meant to dance a jig. It played with a ball by cleverly catching it, when it was thrown, with its trunk and hurling it back, as we do with the hand. (qtd. Jordan Gschwend 2010, 28)

The connection between Turks and elephants can also be found in published images from the period, such as the Danish engraving (1559) by Melchior Lorck (1527–64), which shows Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent (1494–1566) in front of the mosque that he built in 1557 with two men riding on the back of an elephant. When King Philip II placed Abada and Hawa’i in Madrid, he not only followed the example of the House of Animals in Tenochtitlan, he also adapted the Turkish practice of keeping captive animals for imperial propaganda. In the sixteenth-century Ottoman court, live elephants provided the necessary splendor for a properly magnificent Islamic court (Reindl-Kiel 2010, 279). The Ottoman Empire’s two capitals, Cairo and Istanbul, held animals— such as lions, cheetahs, panthers, giraffes, and most especially elephants—in enclosures, as living symbols of empire (Mikhail 2014). In sixteenth-century Istanbul, over 200 animals were on display and Süleyman strategically expanded the power of the Ottomans in the East, facilitating Istanbul’s steady supply of animals (Groom 2019, 11). 85 “A qual historia significaba o Mundo divido em duas partes, das quaes el Rey Phillippe como forte & poderoso leão possue ametade: & a outra o grão Turco, juntamente com elle os Mouros & mais paganos” (qtd. in Pizarro Gómez 1999, 140–1).

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In a short comic play, La gran sultana Doña Catalina de Oviedo (1615) (The Great Sultana, 2010a and 2010b), Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616) jokes about the common popular connection between the elephant and the Turks. The comic gracioso human character, Madrigal, a Spanish captive in Istanbul, pretends that he is a mahout and can teach the sultan’s elephant to speak. The elephant in the play is a symbol of the Great Sultan of Turkey, Murad III (1546–95), and Madrigal (rather than the elephant) is the captive. Cervantes cleverly inverts cultural references: The live Turkish captive is not Hawa’i in Madrid, but the human Spanish captive Madrigal in Istanbul. For many spectators, Hawa’i and Abada were the embodiment of Philip II’s conquered enemies like the Great Turk. Much of the public would have perceived both animals as animals of war under Philip II’s control. With regard to elephants, sixteenth-century artists depicted images of elephants, with soldiers riding them into bloody battle, alongside Hannibal (247–183BCE) attacking Rome. Monarchs staged live mock battles that included battle elephants. One tapestry (ca. 1576) shows Catherine de’ Medici watching a magnificent mock battle—complete with fireworks—with soldiers in a two-story box on top of an elephant, alluding to Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps. Moreover, disseminating the image of the war pachyderm in Treatise of the Drugs and Medicines of the East Indies, the book on plants from the East Indies, Cristóbal Acosta included a supplement titled “Tractado del elephante y sus calidades” (“Treatise on the Elephant and its Qualities”). The treatise contains a woodcut of an image of an armored elephant (fig. 9), and Acosta states that elephants “go to war with armor garniture on the forehead, and on their breasts, like armored horses.”86 Some members of the public, perhaps soldiers or those interested in the military, would have been interested in Hawa’i as prisoner of war and his potential as new European war technology. In turn, with regard to Abada, members of the public would have imagined that the greatest armored beast from the Indies was under Philip’s dominion. Dürer’s depiction of the rhino as a war machine was known from emblem books and popular legends that described rhinos as tools used in battle.87 Francisco Hernández, who 86 “Van a la guerra armados en la frente, y en el pecho, como caballos encubertados” (C. Acosta 1578, 438). 87 No evidence exists to suggest that rhinos were actually used in battle. Nonetheless, early sixteenth-century Portuguese historians described epic battles in the Orient that included armored elephants and rhinos. A 1645 Spanish translation of the experience in the Portuguese East Indies of Fernão Mendez Pinto (1509–83) refers to abadas and notes that “80,000 rhinos carried the military equipment” in a battle waged on Peking (“ochenta mil abadas en que traían el bagaje”) (Pinto 1645, 236). In Lendas da India (Legends from India, 1534), Gaspar Correa (1492–1563)

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Fig. 9. Elephant with armor. “Tractado del elephante y sus calidades” (1578) by Cristóbal Acosta (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla).

describes a fantastic battle with elephants and epic rhinos with the grandeur of the weaponized war rhinos from the film Blank Panther. Referring to Ganda and also calling rhinos ganda or “beast” in the feminine (bicha), Correa states that the Tartar king: “divided his army into five well-arrayed battalions, consisting of 140,000 on horseback and 280,000 on foot, and in front of them a battalion of 800 elephants, which fought with swords upon their tusks, and castles with archers and musketeers on their backs. And, in front of the elephants, 80 rhinoceroses, like the one

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wrote a Spanish translation of Pliny in the 1570s, referred to the popularity of Dürer’s Rhinoceros: “no better description can be made of the rhinoceros than its icon and image which, as I have said is well depicted and authentically represented in books by contemporary authors who discuss the animal.”88 One Dominican author, Luis de Urreta (1570–1636), mentioned Abada in Madrid and referred to the image of the rhino in “portraits and books.” Like Mendoza, who described China with contemporary accounts without having been there, so too Urreta described Ethiopia largely through the lens of contemporary fantasy accounts of Prester Juan. The live presence of Abada, however, just as she was an observable fact for Mendoza, was also important for Urreta: The rhino is now quite well known since people saw it in Madrid for a long time and there are many portraits and prints in books. The entire animal is armed with scales, a cuirass so durable that no lance, or arrow, or any weapon can cause a dent to it. There is no shotgun nor musket that can penetrate its hide.89

Urreta’s description suggests that people not only sought a cure when they saw her, they may have also tried to test the durability of her hide with weapons. Plays from the period highlighted the popular desire to see new animals with natural armor. In the play Lo fingido verdadero (Acting is Believing, 1607–8) by Lope de Vega, a character marvels at a group of animals. One of the animals is a fantastical elk that has lames on an armor-type hide of that which went to Portugal, and which they called ‘beast’ fought strongly, carrying three-pronged iron weapons on the horn of their snout […] the Mogors took the advantage by shooting arrows, wounding many of the rhinos and elephants, which, as the arrows pierced them, turned and fled” (“fez repartição de sua gente em cinqo batalhas bem ordenadas, em que leuaua cento e corenta mil de cauallo e duzentos e oitenta mil de pé, e diante huma batalha de oitocentos alifantes, que pelejauão com espadas nos dentes e em cima castellos com frecheiros e espingardeiros. E diante dos alifantes oitenta gandas, como huma que foy a Portugal, a que chamarão bicha, que no corno que tem sobre o focinho tinhão ferros de três pontas com que pelejauão muy fortemente […] os mogores com frechas fizerão grande entrada, ferindo muy fortemente nas gandas e alifantes, os quaes, sentindo as frechas, voltarão fogindó”) (Correia 1862, 3: 573–4). 88 “Y esto baste de la forma del rhinocerote porque le describen muchos autores antiguos y modernos y no hay mejor descripción que su icón y figura, la cual está, como tengo dicho, muy bien retractada y sacada al natural en algunos libros de modernos que ventilan esta materia” (Hernández 1976, 2: 377). 89 “su figura ya es cosa muy conocida, porque le vieron en Madrid mucho tiempo, y ay muchos retratos y estampas en los libros: todo el esta armado de unas costras, y como corazas tan fuertes, que ni lança, ni saeta, ni arma ninguna le puede hacer mella, ni ay escopeta, ni mosquete que le pueda falsar el pellejo” (Urreta 1610, 245).

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which are made shields through which “no iron can penetrate.”90 Urreta’s description of the rhinoceros suggests that people who went to see Abada wanted to test how tough her supposedly armor-like skin was. González de Mendoza wrote that her “hide is so tough that no man, no matter how strong, can pass a stake through it.”91 Another eyewitness in Madrid in 1585, Diego de Funes y Mendoza, notes that she had “very hard shells around the head and the hide was so strong as to withstand a bullet.”92

Juan de Arfe Depicts Captives of Scipio Africanus In 1583, the master goldsmith and engraver Juan de Arfe y Villafañe (fig. 10) rented his house in Seville and went to Madrid, where he observed Abada and Hawa’i. Arfe, in turn, chose a scene from classical antiquity to represent each. In the scene that he crafted on an elaborate ewer, which is now owned by the Metropolitan Museum of Art (fig. 11), an elephant and rhino march as part of a victory parade of Scipio Africanus (236–183 BCE).93 Arfe ignored each animal’s place of origin.94 His primary concern was to measure their 90 “ningún hierro los penetra” (Vega 1986, 85–86). 91 “cuyo cuero es tan duro que ningún hombre por de grandes fuerzas que sea lo podrá pasar de una estocada” (González de Mendoza, 1596, 357). 92 “En Madrid hubo otro rinoceronte el año de mil y quinientos y ochenta y cinco, que fue quando le vi, al qual le habían sacado los ojos porque no hiciese mal. Tenía este unas como conchas muy duras cerca de la cabeza, y el cuero tan fuerte que casi pudiera resistir una bala” (Funes y Mendoza 1621, 270–1). 93 An ewer is essentially a glorified water pitcher, often crafted with an accompanying basin. Finely crafted ewers and their accompanying basins formed part of the silverware of elite homes across Renaissance Europe. Luxurious sixteenth-century ewers and basins were produced in Portugal, France, Italy, and Germany and can be found in collections across Europe, including Venice (Conte Cine Collection); Florence (Museo degli Argenti); London (Victoria and Albert Museum, Wallace Collection); and Munich (Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, Schazkammer of the Residenz). Today, it is difficult to see a Spanish ewer from the period because almost all of the ewers were melted down to take advantage of their base metal. One surviving ewer and basin is on display at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam; it was taken as booty by the Dutch from a captured Spanish ship from the period. Paintings also give an idea of the lost elaborate master craftsmanship of ewers from this period. One painting depicts an ostentatious ewer with a dragon-head-shaped spout. The ewer on its basin is in the front and center of La última cena (The Last Supper, 1588) by Alonso Vásquez (ca. 1565–ca. 1608) in the Museo de Bellas Artes in Seville. 94 Arfe was not the first artist to use an Indian rhinoceros in an African setting. For instance, based on Ganda, Francesco Granacci depicted an Indian rhino and his mahout in a scene that depicts Egypt in Joseph Introduces his Father and Brothers to the Pharaoh (1517) (Bedini 1998, 134).

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Fig. 10. Juan de Arfe’s self-portrait. Frontispiece from De varia commensuración para la esculptura y architectura (1585) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla).

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Fig. 11. Gilded silver ewer (1583) by Juan de Arfe (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City).

proper proportions. They served as captive African animals in a scene that celebrated Philip II as emperor of universal peace and just conqueror of Portugal and Portuguese Asia. No scholar has identif ied Juan de Arfe as the creator of the ewer, a detail of which I have chosen for the cover of this book.95 Juan de Arfe was sixteenth-century Europe’s most important humanist-goldsmith. His craftsmanship of metal objects for the Catholic church is well known. Aside from reliquaries, chalices and patens, altar crosses, incense boats, and candlesticks, he most notably designed a massive monstrance for the cathedrals in Avila, Valladolid, and Burgos. His monstrance for the Seville cathedral weighs over a thousand pounds and stands at ten feet tall. Aside from the vast number of material objects made in gold and silver, Arfe also published De varia commensuración para la Esculptura y Architectura (Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture, 1585), which was 95 The Scipio Africanus ewer and accompanying basin by Arfe survive in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. J. F. Hayward was the first to put forward the possible attribution of the ewer and basin to Arfe: “This ewer and basin are of the quality one would expect from [Juan de Arfe’s] workshop” (1976, 194). The Roman mark on the ewer does not correctly indicate its origin. Hayward notes that the mark appeared well after the ewer’s creation: “Both ewer and basin are struck with a later Rome mark, apparently dating from the 18th century” (1976, 369).

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reedited and published several times over the next three centuries.96 In Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture, Arfe explains that there are many ways to make a ewer, but that he, in a show of pride, created ewers of the most felicitous proportions and that he was the most accomplished ewer artist. Arfe’s description of the ewer’s ideal proportions—the special height of the handle as well as the different parts, including the spout, body, and basin—corresponds to the Scipio Africanus ewer that survives in the Met. Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture was Arfe’s argument on behalf of metalsmiths as distinguished artists, rather than craftsman. Charles V had not officially recognized the artistry of the goldsmith until 1552, and Arfe used Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture to dispel the notion that those who practiced metal crafting were commonplace and unexceptional (Hayward 1976, 92).97 He begins Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture with “To His Readers,” in which he explains that his purpose was to show the ideal proportions of the human body in the art of sculpture and architecture and, after showing diagrams of how to imitate nature’s design of the human body, he concludes: “Truly sculpture and architecture are the epitome of all the arts because they are born from crafting material with your hands and using one’s reason and judgment to inform the creation of that artifice.”98 Even though many know Arfe as having created opulent objects for the Church, Arfe also made many objects influenced by iconography from the classical tradition. Arfe wrote that the objective of Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture was to establish rules of proportion for crafting precious metals: “In my book I only wish to gather all the authors that 96 Other publications include Quilatador de oro, plata y piedras (Assayer of Gold, Silver, and Precious Stones, Valladolid, 1579) and Descripción de la traça y ornato de la custodia de plata de la Santa Yglesia de Sevilla (Description of the Form and Decoration of the Silver Monstrance in the Holy Church of Seville, Seville, 1587). See Sanz 2006. 97 Arfe influenced how Diego de Velázquez conceived of his role as artist. Jonathan Brown has argued that the desire to raise the status of painters was fundamental for understanding Diego de Velázquez’s art (Brown 1986, 2). Arfe’s Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture influenced Arte de la pintura (The Art of Painting) by Francisco Pacheco (1564–1644), which appeared in Seville twenty years later and would have been obligatory reading for Diego Velázquez (1599–1660). Arfe’s desire to raise the status and prestige of the metal crafter above that of manual laborers influenced Pacheco who, in turn, impressed the desire to raise the status of painters upon Diego de Velázquez. 98 “Verdaderamente la escultura y arquitectura son una perfección de todas las artes: las cuales nacen de la fábrica que labra la materia con las manos, y de la razón y juicio que dan las cosas fabricadas” (Arfe 1585, 5r).

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correctly interpret these arts to establish the necessary rules to craft gold and silver and other metals.”99 He writes that, of all the arts practiced by the Greeks and Romans that were later taught to “barbarous” nations, the most important were sculpture and architecture, the subjects of his treatise.100 Arfe’s primary sources were Greek and Roman authors, and he described the craftsmanship of precious metal as the height of all the arts. As Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture was republished over the next centuries, architects and scientists appreciated the detailed attention to the proportions of machines and the human body. Early modern zoologists also appreciated Arfe’s dispassionate treatment of animals. Arfe described the proper proportions of animals by stating the height and length of each and by including an image in which its height and length is marked. One of the silver plates of the massive monstrance in the Seville cathedral shows a lion, bull, eagle, and man pulling a crowned figure on a Roman-style chariot. The prophet Ezekiel received a divinely inspired vision in which God was pulled by the four beings. Arfe borrows the common motif of the Christian renaissance in which each one represented the four evangelists— Matthew, the man; Mark, the lion; Luke, the ox; and John, the eagle. One of the lions on the Scipio Africanus ewer is remarkably similar to the lion on the 1580 Seville monstrance. Aside from the Scipio Africanus ewer designed for Philip II, Arfe designed another ewer, now lost, for Philip III upon Philip II’s death in 1598. The Philip III ewer also depicted animals. Even though the object is lost, the description of the Philip III ewer survives. The Philip III ewer contained an image of Orpheus charming the animals (Martín 1980). Arfe’s interest in Orpheus connects to one of the great visual motifs—and human fantasies—of the Renaissance: a man who uses music to control the animal world.101 99 “Pues lo que yo en mi obra pretendo es solamente juntar de todos los autores que mejor acertaron estas artes, solas las reglas necesarias para labrar artificiosamente la plata y oro, y otros metales” (Arfe 1585, 5v). 100 “De todas las artes que antiguamente florecieron entre los griegos y romanos, de los cuales después fueron enseñadas otras naciones bárbaras, las que más llegaron a su punto fueron la escultura y arquitectura” (Arfe 1585, 5r). 101 Because it is lost, it is impossible to know how Arfe depicted Orpheus on the Philip III ewer. Nonetheless, the Orpheus motif was common in printed books and even on elite household furniture. Following models of table cabinets produced in the Grand Ducal Medici court (one example is found in the Detroit Institute of Arts), elites in Europe passionately collected table cabinets made of multicolored, intricately cut hard semiprecious stones. A common iconographic program for the cabinets was to show Orpheus mollifying the wild animals of the world with his music. Wolfram Koeppe and Anna Maria Giusti (2008) note at least eighteen of the hardstone or pietre dure with the Orpheus animal plaquettes in cabinets in existence today. Demonstrating

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Arfe devotes an entire section of his master opus Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture to animals, and states that he represents the animals that he observed firsthand. Under the entry for “Rhinoceros,” he explains “other animals have horns, but not having seen them alive, I do not discuss them.”102 In an effort to create an authentic image, Arfe describes animals as living machines and provides details on how the metal crafter can reproduce the movement of live animals.103 Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture contains woodcut images of the animals that Arfe observed. Aside from the measurements of each animal, he includes its phenotypical description, such as the number of toes or the length of the animal’s thumb. The lion description, for instance, describes its appearance and how it moves: “a graphic description of movement is as follows: it sets the back foot down before it lifts up its front foot from the other side, it takes big steps when it walks and the back foot does not pass the front foot.”104 With respect to the elephant and rhinoceros on the Scipio African ewer, Arfe radically displaced their Indian origins and depicted them through the lens of firsthand observation experience by making them captive African animals. Scipio Africanus is a victorious prince leading the animals: He returns to Rome from the victory in Africa, leading the procession of soldiers and animals. Scipio Africanus reclines in his chariot, with the detail of his elbow on the side of the chariot and a palm frond in the shape of a rope flowing alongside.105 Scipio is followed by a procession: two men on bucking orientalism as fashion for home design, Tomás Hiepes (ca. 1595–1674) in Spain (Grapes, peaches and a snail in a Chinese porcelain bowl atop a gilt and inlaid cabinet, Valencia, 1646) depicted a still life of a Chinese porcelain bowl sitting atop a cabinet that shows Orpheus playing his lyre among the animals, including a rhinoceros facing off against an elephant. 102 “otros animales de cuernos ay, pero por no los haber visto vivos no tratamos dellos” (Arfe 1773, 205) 103 Arfe also published a version of Aesop’s fables. When Arfe returned to Seville, his brother Antonio died. Arfe wrote that he had saved a series of poems that his brother had written in Aesop’s style and, in honor of his brother’s memory, he published the animal poems. He writes in the prologue: “After the death of Antonio my brother, I was going through his papers and found these Aesop fables among them […] for the love of my brother and not letting them die with him, I decided to bring them to light for the eyes of the world” (“Después de la muerte de Antonio de Arsemi hermano, revolviendo un día sus papeles, entre otros, a caso, hallé estas fabulas de Esopo […] por el amor de hermano, en no dejarla morir juntamente con el, y así determiné sacarla a luz y ponerla ante los ojos del mundo”) (A. Arfe 1642, 2–3). 104 “Su movimiento a diámetro, que es asentar el pie antes que alce la mano de su lado, alza mucho los pies manos cuando camina y no pasa del pie a la mano” (Arfe 1773, 194). 105 In his creation of the triumphal procession on the ewer, Arfe borrowed themes and images drawn by Giulio Romano (1499–1546), which were used for a number of tapestries that

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horses, a bull in between a female and male lion, a camel, an elephant, a rhinoceros, and, finally, another bull. The Barbary male lion looks back menacingly at the rhinoceros (fig. 12). The Scipio Africanus iconographic program had formerly been represented in some of the most famous tapestries produced in the period. Arfe added a rhinoceros to the procession of animals, an image not found in the source images of animals such as the Scipio Africanus iconography on the tapestry cycle. With respect to his zoological description of the rhinoceros, Juan de Arfe writes a short prose description stating that the rhinoceros is “of great size—about two meters high. It has enormous strength and it is light on its feet. It is covered with hard shells.”106 Arfe also repeats much of the same information found in the text from Dürer’s Rhinoceros. After the prose description, Arfe includes a short poem about the rhino. He writes that depicted scenes of the triumphal return of the Roman general Scipio Africanus. Renaissance artists considered Scipio Africanus one the greatest Roman generals and emblematic of Roman imperial triumph. The most prominent visual representation of the triumph of Scipio Africanus from the sixteenth century was realized in a magnif icent tapestry cycle woven in Brussels, commissioned by Charles V—but which ultimately fell into the hands of King Francis I of France (1494–1547) due to lack of money from the Spanish Crown. Gaining back much of what his father lost, Philip II acquired seven of the tapestries when they were bequeathed to him by Mary of Austria (1505–58) (De Armas 1998, 74). Ten out of the twelve of the Scipio tapestry cycle show Scipio’s triumphal return to Rome. One of the tapestries, “The Triumph of Scipio” (in the Maryland State Art Collection) depicts Scipio outside the gates of Rome. Scipio sits in a chariot and holds a palm frond, the Roman symbol of victory, in his hand. The tapestry shows soldiers on foot and horses lined up around him in preparation for the victory procession to celebrate Scipio’s victory against Hannibal at the Battle of Zama. It also depicts a Roman soldier riding a bucking horse. Arfe uses the image of the bucking horse and adds the detail of a Roman soldier riding the horse carrying a shield with the letters SPQR, an anagram for “Senate and People of Rome” (senatus populous-que romanus). In the Roman era, SPQR was on coins, documents, and flags, and, in the Renaissance, Arfe and other metal engravers used the letters SPQR to evoke an image of Roman glory. One example of a Renaissance casting of the Roman motif of SPQR is found on a medal cast for Pope Julius, which shows a bucking horse with Roman soldier holding a shield embossed with SPQR (Hersey 1993, 46). Like the tapestry “The Triumph of Scipio,” Arfe’s ewer depicts Scipio seated in his chariot with Roman soldiers around him. Scipio is not only holding a palm, but woven ropes of palms on the ewer fill the ewer. A palm frond extends down from Scipio’s elbow across the chariot and another palm frond hangs down from the first bull’s horn, which is flanked by a male and female lion on its right and left, respectively. One of Giulio Romano’s sketches (found in the Walker Gallery, Liverpool) used as model for the tapestry cycle is also called “The Triumph of Scipio” and shows a haphazard procession of Romans and animals. The animals include four bulls, leading two elephants—one with a lion on its back—and a camel. In his depiction of the procession on the ewer, Arfe also depicted the same animals: two bulls, two lions, a camel, and an elephant. 106 “El rinoceronte es animal de mucho cuerpo y su alto dos varas, tiene mucha fuerza y es muy ligero, todo su cuerpo tiene cubierto de recias conchas” (Arfe 1979, 8).

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Fig. 12. A lion looks back at a rhinoceros. Detail from section of gilded silver ewer (1583) by Juan de Arfe (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City).

this animal—“born in the Orient”—is fierce and covered in plates that are so thick and tough that steel weapons could not penetrate or injure it.107 Arfe depicts Abada as a peaceful animal. She is not fighting the elephant. Images and stock descriptions of the rhino throughout the sixteenth century show rhinos and elephants at war with each other. Arfe also does not depict Hawa’i as a war animal. Arfe depicts the elephant with the mounted box, suggesting its previous role as a war animal, now converted it into a peaceful captive.108 Arfe’s elephant and rhino walk side by side peacefully, and lions and bulls celebrate Philip II as Scipio Africanus who supposedly has fully realized the Roman notion of pax universalis. Arfe did not borrow the image of the elephant as war machine, nor did he associate it with the Turk. Instead, he turned to its image as halcyon of peace under the wings of Philip II. In this sense, Arfe borrowed from the iconographic tradition that associated the elephant with peace, such as one city’s elephant that welcomed Philip II. In contrast with Lisbon, 107 “Es el rinoceronte, animal fiero / Cuerpo grande y de conchas guarnecido / Tan recias que resisten al acero / De fuerte que no puede ser herido / Un cuerno en la nariz ancho y somero / Con que ofende y también es defendido / Nada y corre veloz y sueltamente / Y nace este animal en el oriente” (Arfe 1773, 205) 108 In the tapestry cycle, the elephant is a battle animal fighting alongside Scipio and his Roman forces, which attack Hannibal’s (247–183 BCE) army, fighting from the box-like perches atop elephants.

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which used the elephant icon to symbolize the Grand Turk, the Puerta de Guadalajara at the entrance of Alcalá de Henares built a structure that celebrated Philip II’s entrance into the city with an image of an elephant among sheep, symbolizing the peace that King Philip II supposedly brought to the empire (Pizarro Gómez 1999, 140). The icon of the war elephant turned peaceful was a borrowed motif from Alciato’s emblem book. Under the entry pax in his book of emblems, Alciato depicted an elephant leading a triumphal carriage. Alciato describes the elephant as follows: “even the beast recognizes the nations reconciled on every side, and rejecting the weapons of war, it performs the duties of peace.”109 Spanish scholar Sebastián de Covarrubias, who included six emblems dedicated to the elephant in his book on emblems and one of the longest entries in his dictionary to the word “elephant,” also copied Alciato’s emblem, writing: “Alciato himself made an elephant the symbol of peace.”110 Arfe, then, used the icon of the elephant as a symbol of peace on his ewer, a material object that connected the elephant to Philip II’s imperial glory. The rhino on the ewer, like the elephant, was also a symbol of peace. In contrast to Dürer, who added fanciful armor embellishment, Arfe’s rhinoceros on the Scipio Africanus ewer is an image with measured proportions, an authentic and astonishingly lifelike representation of an Indian rhinoceros. T.H. Clarke notes that no rhino image from the sixteenth or seventeenth century matches the authenticity of Arfe’s image. According to Clarke, it took more than a century and a half for any artist to accurately represent an Indian rhino—that is, when the French artist Jean-Batiste Oudry painted a portrait of Clara the rhinoceros in 1749 (1986, 34). The depiction of the animals, especially the rhinoceros, on Arfe’s ewer are, in their proportion and accuracy, one of the great goldsmith achievements of the sixteenth-century. J. F. Hayward, a specialist who has examined hundreds of ewers from this period, describes Arfe’s ewer and basin as the “the most richly decorated” and “superbly wrought” (Hayward 1976, 369). Hayward writes that they are “the finest of all the sixteenth-century ewers and basins, irrespective of country of origin” (Hayward 1976, 193). Despite the artistic accomplishment, the humanist logic that Arfe employs in the representation of animals is troubling. Arfe conceives of animal individuals as moving machines that serve a Habsburg imperial propaganda message of supposed planetary peace. Arfe did not represent the material 109 “Vel fera cognoscit concordes undique gentes, / Proiectisque armis munia pacis obit” (Alciato 1556, 133). 110 “El mismo Alciato puso por símbolo de paz un elefante” (Covarrubias 1998, 499).

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conditions of the elephant and rhino in Madrid, but carefully measured their size through rational calculation—their physical form made them imperfect beasts that contrasted to the perfection of the human male. He discards their Indian origins and makes them African. The animal procession on Arfe’s ewer is a slogan of universal peace for a monarch who falsely claimed dominion over the planet and contributed to the formation of institutions like zoos. In short, the depiction of animals on Arfe’s ewer aligns with the logic that Philip used when he put the elephant and rhino as spectacle in Madrid. Philip’s proto-zoo, as Randy Malamud describes the modern zoo, could not “facilitate better understanding of or care for animals,” but instead dangerously promoted a belief “that we are entitled to see everything and have the power to control everything” (2017, 398–9).

Conclusion Ever since the Assyrians, potentates collected captive animals in menageries as a symbol of how a city could capture the four corners of the world within its walls. This chapter has pointed out that animal spectacles in early modern Spain are fundamental for the history of collecting captive animals because King Philip II transformed the classic menagerie into a proto-zoo. In keeping Hawa’i and Abada for himself (and not gifting them away), he invented the novel idea of an animal display for a public at large in hospitals that intimately tied the animal spectacle to the growth of commercial theater. Tracing the stories of the spectacle of Spain’s two transoceanic pachyderms has shown how Spain shaped a fleeting imperial moment into a legend of the past, present, and future that constituted one aspect of daily life experience of the public in Madrid, a city for which the King fashioned a self-image of planetary control. The animal spectacle in Madrid led to more zoos that enhanced ecological disaster and an ethically bankrupt treatment of animals. The aesthetic of the elephant and rhino spectacle sought a totalizing imperial aim that would be exploited more fully centuries later in Europe, most especially, in the English Victorian Age.111 By way of conclusion, I would like to underscore that historicizing the zoo, a microcosm of the Anthropocene, can inspire compassion for animal 111 With regard to the zoo in the English Victorian Age, Harriet Ritvo (1987) explains how it reflected imperial networks. Kurt Koenigsberger (2007) likewise shows how the zoo communicated imperial totality.

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sentience, especially for an animal’s sense of territory. For instance, a better understaning of the imperial logic of the proto-zoo stimulates new ways of thinking about animal and human communities. In 1587, medical philosopher Oliva Sabuco (1562–1622) published a dialogue, the Nueva filosofia de la naturaleza del hombre (New Philosophy of Human Nature). I suspect that, aside from the classical and contemporary sources that she mentions, Sabuco’s dialogue was influenced by having seen Hawa’i or having talked to someone that had seen him firsthand. Although she does not mention Hawa’i, Sabuco discusses how elephants respond to complex verbal commands in New Philosophy of Human Nature (Alves 2011, 45–54).112 The experience of seeing live animals can enhance an understanding of how animals communicate. As opposed to the official propaganda found in Arfe’s representation, Sabuco is one example from early modern Spain that heightens sensitivity to animal communication. Scholars are increasingly looking to creativity across disciplines to enhance awareness on how diverse species are entangled in specific cultural systems.113 Two students at Texas Tech University, Yinting Fin from the School of Art and Caleb Lightfoot from the School of Architecture, and I created two images to show Abada’s story, which can heighten sensitivity to an animal’s sense of communication as it relates to territory. The first image we produced, Abada as Madrid (fig. 13), considers the human sense of territory. Sixteenth-century European world maps that include India used the space to serve the need of the imperial center. In the Portuguese Miller Atlas (1519), for instance, two elephants and a rhino were depicted in the region where they lived in the wild, providing a cartographic guide to each animal’s origins and destruction. The image of an animal was placed on a map where it could be found, so that it could be seen, hunted, or brought into captivity. Abada as Madrid follows the model of taking the medium of a historical document—a map of Madrid by Frederic de Witt (1630–1706)—and overlapping it onto an image of Abada. We preserved the sense of the early map of Madrid that shows its streets, appearing almost as tattooed on her body. The image entices the viewer through the words and partial words at the top of the map: “DE MADRID CORTE DELOS REYES CATOLICOS D[E ESPANNA]” (“of Madrid, court of the Catholic Monarchs o[f Spain]”). 112 For elephants and language in the Renaissance, also see Cummings 2004. 113 For a model of interdisciplinarity, see the “Multispecies Salon,” an art exhibit from 2008–10 that involved collaboration between artists and anthropologists interested in multispecies ethnography as described in Kirksey 2014.

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Fig. 13. Abada as Madrid (2018) by Yinting Fin and Caleb Lightfoot.

The second image we produced, Abada and Her Mother with India as Teat, emphasizes Abada’s sense of space. Rejecting Philip’s model for the proto-zoo, Abada is not subsumed within cartographic space, but subsumes cartographic space, making visually manifest the internal cognitive process of mapping. Abada and Her Mother with India as Teat envisions Abada before her capture, as an infant in 1573 in India. It joins the spirit of twenty-first century efforts that recuperate the habitat for elephants and rhinos, such as Kaziranga National Park in the state of Assam, India, encouraging the visualization of the animal in a nurturing environment. She feeds on the plants that coevolved with her.5 Grazing with her mother, the image shows an outline of the Indian subcontinent that forms part of Abada’s mother’s body and evokes her teat. The second image is both humorous and a sign of nurture, shifting the epistemology of mapping away from the human toward the animal, offering a visual alternative to oppressive forms of cartography that have existed since

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Fig. 14. Abada and Her Mother with India as Teat (2018) by Yinting Fin and Caleb Lightfoot.

the period when Abada was first captured and brought to Iberia. As opposed to the space of the proto-zoo as depicted in Abada as Madrid, the mapped space within the body of the animal in Abada and Her Mother with India as Teat emphasizes the cognitive sense of territory that all animals share.

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Parker-Starbuck, Jennifer. 2015. “Animal Pasts and Presents: Taxidermied Time Travelers.” 2015. Performing Animality: Animals in Performance Practices. Eds. Lourdes Orozco and Jennifer Parker-Starbuck. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. 150–67. Pellicer, Casiano. 1804. Tratado histórico sobre el origen y progresos de la comedia y del histrionismo en España, 2 vols. Madrid: Administración del Real Arbitrio de Beneficicencia. Penni, Giovanni Giacomo. 2006. “Forma e natura e costume de lo Rinocerote: text y traducción.” Ed. Ugo Serani. Etiopicas 2: 146–71. Pequignot, A. 2013. “The Rhinoceros (fl. 1770–1793) of King Louis XV and its Horns.” Archives of Natural History 40.2: 213–27 Pérez de Tudela, Almudena. 2012. “Mobiliario en El Escorial en tiempos de Felipe II: una aproximación documental.” El mueble del siglo XVI: mueble para la Edad Moderna. Barcelona: Palacio Real de Pedralbes. 25–40. —— and Annemarie Jordan Gschwend. 2001. “Luxury Goods for Royal Collectors: Exotica, Princely Gifts and Rare Animals Exchanged between the Iberian Courts and Central Europe in the Renaissance (1560-1612).” Exotica: Portugals Entdeckungen im Spiegel fürstlicher Kunst- und Wunderkammern der Renaissance. Eds. Helmut Trnek and Sabine Haag. Mainz: Zabern. 1–127. ——. 2007. “Renaissance Menageries: Exotic Animals and Pets at the Hapsburg Courts in Iberia and Central Europe.” Early Modern Zoology: The Construction of Animals in Science, Literature and the Visual Arts, volume 2. Eds. Karl A.E. Enenkel and Paul J. Smith. Leiden: Brill. 419–47. Pérez Riobó, Andrés. 2015. “La diplomacia del regalo: misiones españolas a Japón (1592-1623).” Revista Iberoamericana de Estudios de Asia Oriental 6: 1–15. Pinto, Fernão Mendes. 1645. Historia Oriental de las Peregrinaciones de Fernán Méndez Pinto. Valencia: Bernardo Nogues. Pizarro Gómez, F. Javier. 1999. Arte y espectáculo en los viajes de Felipe II (1542-1592). Madrid: Ediciones Encuentro. Podgorny, Irina. 2018. “The Elk, the Ass, the Tapir, their Hooves, and the Falling Sickness: A Story of Substitution and Animal Medical Substances.” Journal of Global History 13: 46–68. Poliquin, Rachel. 2012. The Breathless Zoo: Taxidermy and Cultures of Longing. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Quintana, Jerónimo de. 1629. Historia de la Antigüedad, Nobleza, y Grandeza de la Villa de Madrid. Madrid: Imprenta del Reino. Reindl-Kiel, Hedda. 2010. “Dogs, Elephants, Lions and a Rhino on Diplomatic Mission: Animals as Gifts to the Ottoman Court.” Animals and People in the Ottoman Empire. Ed. Suraiya Faroqhi. Istanbul: Eren. 271–85. Rice, Louise. 2017. “Poussin’s Elephant.” Renaissance Quarterly 70: 548–93.

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Ridley, Glynis. 2004. Clara’s Grand Tour: Travels with a Rhinoceros in EighteenthCentury Europe. New York: Atlantic Books. Rikken, Marrigje. 2014. “Exotic Animal Painting by Jan Brueghel the Elder and Roelant Savery.” Zoology in Early Modern Culture: Intersections of Science, Theology, Philology, and Political and Religious Education. Leiden: Brill. 401–33. Ritvo, Harriet. 1987. The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Robbins, Louise E. 2002. Elephant Slaves and Pampered Parrots: Exotic Animals in Eighteenth-Century Paris. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Rookmaaker, L.C. 1973. “Captive Rhinoceroses in Europe from 1500 until 1810.” Bijdragen tot de Dierkunde 43.1: 39–63. ——. 1983. “Histoire du rhinoceros de Versailles (1770-1793).” Revue d’Histoire des Sciences 36.3/4: 307–18. —— et al. 1998. The Rhinoceros in Captivity: A List of 2439 Rhinoceroses Kept from Roman Times to 1994. The Hague: SPB Academic Publishing Rothfels, Nigel. 2002. Savages and Beasts: The Birth of the Modern Zoo. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Rovillé, Guillaume, ed. 1561. Diálogo de las empresas militares y amorosas, compuesto en lengua italiana por el illustre y reverendissimo Señor Paulo Iovio ….Añadimos a esto las empresas heroicas y morales del Señor Gabriel Symeon. Trans. Alonso de Ulloa. Lyon: Guillaume House. Ruano de la Haza, J. M. and John J. Allen. 1994. Los teatro comerciales del siglo XVII y la escenificación de la comedia. Madrid: Castalia. Salvá, Miguel y Pedro Sainz de Baranda, eds. 1845. “Venida del elefante a esta casa y el rinoceronte o vaga que S. M. trujo de Portugal.” Colección de documentos inéditos para la historia de España. Memorias sobre varios sucesos del reinado de Felipe II, con muchas noticias de los principios, progreso y fin del monasterio del Escorial, vol. 7. Madrid: Imprenta de la Viuda de Calero. 368–70. Sande, Duarte de. 2012. Japanese Travellers in Sixteenth-Century Europe: A Dialogue Concerning the Mission of the Japanese Ambassadors to the Roman Curia (1590). Ed. Derek Massarella. Trans. J.F. Morán. Farnham: Ashgate. Sanz, María Jesús. 2006. Juan de Arfe y Villafañe y la custodia de la catedral de Sevilla. Secretariado de Publicaciones de la Universidad de Sevilla y Diputación de Sevilla. Sanz Ayán, Carmen and Bernardo J. García García. 2000. Teatro y comediantes en el Madrid de Felipe II. Madrid: Editorial Complutense. Sa r m iento, Ma r t ín.  c. 1762 . “ Not icias  de u n  cuer no  del  r inocero nte.” Obras del P. F. Martín Sarmiento del Orden de San Benito, vol.  12. 165–513v. Biblioteca Nacional Mss/20374-Mss/20396. Senior, Matthew. 2004. “Animals at Versailles, 1662-1792.” In Fudge, 208–32.

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2.

Fuleco the Armadillo Abstract Chapter 2 provides a biogeography of Fuleco the armadillo, beginning with his birth in South America. Gonzalo Argote de Molina placed Fuleco’s carapace in his collection in Seville and Nicolás Monardes visited Argote’s collection, thereafter publishing a woodcut image of Fuleco (1571 and 1574). Fuleco functioned as a specimen in a modern museum in the sense that Argote, following the model of other Renaissance curiosity cabinets, sought to create a theater of the world. Fuleco was an important collectible because his body was considered an American wonder in which nature fashioned a bard on the skin of an unusual horselike animal. By contrast, Fuleco as specimen symbolically enhanced the value of live horses and armor as collectibles in both Argote and King Philip II’s collection. Keywords: museum history, armor and bards, Fuleco the armadillo (ca. 1559–ca.1569), Philip II of Spain (1527–98), Nicolás Monardes (1493–1588), Gonzalo Argote de Molina (1548–96)

Museum animals are distinct from others because they receive the beautifully severe honor of becoming specimens after biological death. For each taxidermy animal on display in museums, thousands of others hide away in storage facilities. The reconstruction of the lives of individual animals in museums is daunting and often impossible to chart fully. But many animal bodies that survive or once existed in museums deserve biogeographies. Some museum scholars are studying individual animal specimens. The Afterlives of Animals: A Museum Menagerie (Alberti 2011), for instance, examines the individual material lives and afterlives of seven museum animals. Some of them had names, such as Alfred the gorilla. Others had none. One study in The Afterlives of Animals: A Museum Menagerie examines the biogeography of a bird species commonly known as the hen harrier. “The Biogeogeographies of a Hollow-Eyed Harrier” is inspired by a desiccated specimen of a harrier found in the Hunterian Zoological Museum in

Beusterien, J., Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2020 doi 10.5117/9789463720441_ch02

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Edinburgh and retells the fascinating story of the life of the harrier specimen through images of the bird (drawings and photos) and other forms of interdisciplinary research (Patchett, Foster, and Lorimer 2011; Foster and Lorimer 2012). When I reimagine Fuleco as a specimen in Gonzalo Argote’s museum, I see him as hollow-eyed like the hen harrier. For some animals, such as Fuleco the armadillo, only a record of a life as a specimen—rather than the actual specimen—exists. In such a case, the hurdle of reconstructing the animal’s life and the creation of a biogeography is even more formidable. It is highly probable that Fuleco as specimen did not have eyes. Despite the difficulties, the following chapter examines the life of Fuleco, a member of the favorite type of animal specimen in humanist collections across Europe in the sixteenth century. I first provide an overview of armadillos in sixteenth-century America. I then explain how the period of time in which Fuleco was a specimen illuminates the lives of three culturally significant human figures: Gonazlo Argote, Nicolás Monardes, and King Philip II. Fuleco was found in the museum collection in the home in Seville of the soldier-humanist Gonzalo Argote. Nicolás Monardes, humanist and businessman, reproduced Fuleco’s image in Primera y segunda y tercera partes de la Historia medicinal, de las cosas que se traen de nuestras Indias Occidentales (Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies, 1574). Finally, Fuleco as a specimen provided enhanced symbolic value to Philip II’s collection of live horses and armor because the armadillo was as a small version of an armored horse. After Monardes newly minted the word “armadillo,” meaning “little armored horse,” he stimulated a market for armadillo carapaces in collections and the dissemination of armadillo emblems of America. Monardes perpetuated the notion that armadillos were curious bard imitations, arguably Philip II’s most valuable collectible item. The final part of the following chapter examines Fuleco as a specimen in the context of the seventeenth-century Netherlands by briefly examining how Charles de L’Écluse described exotic animals. Argote, Monardes, and Philip II’s encounters with Fuleco contributed to the emerging anthropocentricism behind the display of specimens in natural history museums. Today, those in museum studies—just as those who work in zoos—intimately come in contact with living and dead companions. Each person that carefully handles an animal specimen in a museum partakes in bestowing that animal an afterlife, or confining it again to storage. In the following, I figuratively and carefully take Fuleco out of storage. I provide Fuleco with a lighthearted legacy. The choice of the anachronistic

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name Fuleco is motivated by the fact that scholarly work—a history of an animal specimen from the early modern period—can rigorously incorporate source material for the purpose of raising the awareness of ecological issues, while, at the same time, encouraging creativity and sparking a smile. Scholars in the humanities and sciences do not have to describe animal extinction as if it were a Greek tragedy or the apocalypse. Instead, telling the story of an armadillo with levity can inspire transformational modes of survival over extinction.1

Fuleco’s Life (ca. 1559–ca. 1569) Some species of armadillos, like the nine-banded variety, are expanding their natural habitats. The nine-banded variety is the only variety to have crossed the Rio Grande and has survived urban growth and highway traffic in Texas. Its habitat continues to expand into states as far north as South Carolina. The success of the nine-banded armadillo variety is due in part to every mother having a litter of four genetically identical pups. Until the mid-nineteenth century, the entire range of armadillos in the recent geologic period extended from Argentina to northern Mexico. The border of their northernmost habitat ended at the Rio Grande. Scientists still debate exactly how armadillos arrived to the United States after the 1850s. Some argue they came through Florida by boat while others, more plausibly, suggest that they simply swam across the Rio Grande. Armadillos do not mind water and can cross either by floating (in which case they swallow air to inflate their bodies and create buoyancy) or simply walking along the bottom, holding their breath for five minutes at a time.2 I take creative liberties in the naming of “Fuleco” for the heretofore unnamed armadillo. I also make him a him. Fuleco was the name of the official mascot of the 2014 FIFA World Cup in Brazil. The chapter’s protagonist, Fuleco, was born deep in the ground in a burrow in Brazil, sometime in the mid-sixteenth century. He was of the six-banded variety, one of some twenty armadillo species. Based on observing Fuleco firsthand, in Medicinal History 1 For the role of humor in environmental cultural studies, see Findlen 1990; Beusterien and Callicot 2013; and Beusterien 2019. For the role of humor in ethics and trans-species communities, see Willett 2014. 2 For the arrival of the common nine-banded armadillo in Texas in 1854, see Humphrey 1974. For armadillo expansion in the United States, see Taulman and Robbins 1996. Also see Beusterien 2017.

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of the Things Brought from Our West Indies, Nicolás Monardes standardized the name “armadillo” in Spanish and English. Monardes’s coining of the word “armadillo” was not universally adopted in the Americas. Many nonstandard common names still exist. In Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, and Chile, people call armadillos quirquinchos (from the Quechua kirkinchu) and, in Colombia, they are called cachicamo. In Colombia, one variety is called gurre or herre-herre, a reference to the common hairy armadillo variety and an adaptation of the English “hairy-hairy.” Some Colombians avoid herre-herre, the English lexical contamination, and just call this armadillo variety peludo (“hairy”). Before the Spanish arrived, peoples in Mesoamerica associated the armadillo with success in agriculture. Generally, pre-Columbian Mesoamerica societies connected the armadillo’s fertility with agricultural fertility. In one Yucatan Maya legend, a god sits upon an armadillo, the name of which in Yucatan Maya can also mean a stool or bench. Moreover, in the Yucatan Maya tradition—as well as in the Tzotzil, Mazatec, and Aztec traditions—gourd containers in the shape of armadillos or armadillo carapaces were used for collecting corn when sowing the maize field (Stross 2007). In his widely published account of America, Suma de Geografía (Sum of All Geography, 1518), Martín Fernández de Enciso compares the armadillo to the armored horse and states erroneously that armadillos eat grass like horses. Some Spaniards that arrived to America, however, properly identified the armadillo’s diet. Tomás López Medel (1520–82) was born in Spain (Tendilla, Guadalajara) and lived in Guatemala from 1549 to 1555 as a royally appointed Spanish administrator and tax collector (visitador). He visited the jurisdictions of Salvador, Chiapas, Yucatán, Tabasco, and Honduras. In contrast to Fernández de Enciso’s account of America, López Medel’s was never published. Nonetheless, López Medel closely observed armadillos and correctly writes that they eat “ants and little worms.”3 Armadillos generally forage for a variety of insects and other invertebrates, mostly grub like beetles and insect larvae. López Medel also writes that the “Mexican Indians call the [armadillo] ‘ayotoche’ in their language.”4 “Ayotoche” refers to the Nahua word ayotochtli. The Nahua historian Chimalpahin (1579–1660), who lived and worked at the church of San Antonio Abad in the district of Xoloco, explains the etymology of the Aztec word in his translation and addendum to the account of the armadillo as found in Historia general de las Indias (General 3 4

“su comida es hormigas y gusanillos” (López Medel 1990, 178). “los mexicanos indios en su lengua llaman ayatoche” (López Medel 1990, 178).

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History of the Indies, 1552) by Francisco López de Gómara (1511–66). In the description of the armadillo, Chimalpahin translates López de Gómara’s description of the armadillo as armored horse and adds that “the Indians call it ayotochli, which means ‘gourd rabbit’” (Schroeder et al. 2010, 97). Many peoples in the Americas, both Europeans and indigenous peoples alike, were not interested in armadillos as symbols—they were interested in eating them. In some parts of Spanish America, the armadillo is still known as siete carnes (“seven meats”) because it tastes like a combination of seven different meats. Armadillo is eaten in various places and, in each one, has a different name: jueche in Tabasco, toche in Veracruz, and cozuco in Honduras, El Salvador, Costa Rica, and Nicaragua. If López Medel had come across Fuleco, he would have been somewhat interested in his symbolic value. López Medel interpreted armadillos as nature’s way of telling us we should favor the weak. He writes: it is noteworthy that nature endows such a tiny little and worthless animal with such an armor artifice and harmony [and not put that on an ox or other great animal]. But, of course, everything has a purpose, and with this animal and others like him, let us learn to care for and defend the dim-witted and weak since they cannot care for themselves […] on its own this animal is weak and delicate so it needed all of that protection for its defense.5

López Medel expresses a noble moral about the meaning of armadillos for humanity and writes that the armadillo is peaceful and delicate. But, in the end, he still enjoyed eating them: “they are great to eat and their meat tastes like pork.”6 One Spaniard did not like the taste of the armadillo. José de Acosta (1540–1600), the sixteenth-century Spanish Jesuit missionary and naturalist, who lived in the areas of present-day Peru, Panama, and Mexico, writes in his Historia natural y moral de las indias (Natural and Moral History of the Indies) under the section “Of Game Animals”: “They are small animals that are found in the woods, and are called armadillos because of their natural 5 “Es de notar aquí y de considerar que más artificio y armonía puso naturaleza en producir y componer un animal tan pequeñuelo y sin fruto que no en un buey y en otro mayor; aunque, cierto, todo sirve para nuestro particular enseñamiento, que con éste y otros ejemplos aprendamos a mostrarnos más favorables y defensores de los imbéciles y flacos y que por sí no se pueden defender, que no amparadores de los recios y bravos hacellos más bravos y tiranos contra otros, como naturaleza lo hizo con este animal, que él de sí es flaco y delicado” (López Medel 1990, 178). 6 “Es bueno para comer y sabe la carne de él como de puerco” (López Medel 1990, 178).

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defenses, with many scales that open and shut at will like a cuirass. I have eaten them and do not think them good. A much better meat is that of iguanas” (Acosta 2002, 240).7 Acosta’s opinion about their bad taste was the exception not the rule. Many writers noted the taste of the armadillo. Jean de Léry (1536–1613) describes in Histoire d’un voyage faict en la terre du Brésil (Voyage to Brazil, 1578): “its meat is white and fairly tasty.”8 The anonymous French author of Histoire Naturelle des Indes (The Natural History of the Indies) included drawings of two different types of armadillos. He added to the image what he claimed to be their indigenous names, tatovai and chupa. The author states that tatovai tasted good: “This animal burrows into the ground like rabbits. It lives on roots and is very good food” (Drake Manuscript 1586, 70v–71). Although the author mistakenly states that the armadillo lives off of roots, he, like López Medel, ate armadillo. Regarding the chupa variety, the anonymous French author notes a higher quality meat: “This is an animal that lives underground like a badger. It only feeds on roots and no animal dares attack it since it retracts its head and paws in a ball in it shell similar to that of a tortoise. Its meat is very excellent eating” (67v–68). Since the name chupa is not recorded by other sources in the period to refer to the armadillo, I suspect that the French author heard chupa when people were eating armadillo. Chupar means “to suck” and, when eating an animal, such as a chicken, one sucked the bones and other parts of the animal. Apparently, the author mistakenly misinterpreted chupa, the imperative or command form of the verb. When his fellow companions told him to suck the bones clean, he heard what he thought was the name of the animal, chupa. The armadillo is described as a food source in the work of the Dutch artist, Frans Jansz Post (1612–80), who, like the anonymous French author of The Natural History of the Indies, also drew different types of armadillos. Upon his return to the Netherlands from Brazil, he painted View from Olinda (Rijksmuseum 1662), which includes an image of an armadillo. While in Brazil, Post made two armadillo images with watercolors, gouache, and black ink (ca. 1638–44). He depicted a nine- and six-banded armadillo, both of which he saw in seventeenth-century Brazil. The image of the six-banded armadillo (fig. 15), for which Post uses the Portuguese name tatu peba, probably looks quite similar to how Fuleco would have looked when he had 7 “son unos animalejos pequeños […] yo he comido de ellos: no me pareció cosa de precio. Hará mejor comida es la de iguanas” (J. Acosta 1608). 8 “la chair en este blanche et d’assez bonne saveur” (Léry 1994, 263).

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Fig. 15. Six-banded armadillo (1637–44) by Frans Post (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam).

eyes. Like the anonymous French author, Post declares that he had tasted armadillo, calling the six-banded variety “a kind of armored pig” and adding that it was “good to eat” and “tastes like chicken” (Rijksmuseum 2016). Europeans who went to the Americas feasted on armadillos. They enjoyed its taste, following native practices of hunting and eating the animal. André Thévet (1516–90), Franciscan friar and cosmographer to King Henry II in France, sums up the majority of European attitudes to armadillo meat. After observing the people’s customs and animals in Baía de Guanabara in 1555–6, Thévet writes that armadillos “are hunted with great diligence because they have meat that is the softest that I have tasted in all my life.”9 I estimate that the vast majority of armadillos, perhaps hundreds, were first eaten and then brought back to Europe as specimens in the sixteenth century. Two, however, were brought back alive. One seems to have survived one of the first shipments of American products back to the King of Spain. López de Gómara, who had served as priest for Hernán Cortés, notes that, when Cortés returned from America in 1528 in a show of Roman triumph, he brought King Charles feather shields (see Conclusion) and “a large sum 9 “são caçados com grande diligência, porque têm a carne mais delicada que pensó ter provado em toda a minha vida” (Thévet 2009, 182)

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of feathered and hair blankets, fans, bucklers, plumage, stone mirrors, and the like to give away” (qtd. in Roa de la Carrera 2005, 178). He brought eight acrobats and twelve ballplayers. He also brought former captives from Tenochtitlan’s “House of Animals” (see Chapter 1), which included living human beings—dwarves, albino men and women, and live animals—jaguars, pelicans, an opossum, and an aiotochtli (“armadillo”).10 I have found one other mention of a living armadillo in Europe in the sixteenth century. Jean de Léry refers to an armadillo that survived by “feeding on grains and fruits.”11 The first records of living armadillos in Europe begin to appear with more frequency at the end of the seventeenth century. With the emergence of the modern zoo and the field of zoology, expeditions increasingly sought live specimens. One live armadillo arrived at the end of the seventeenth century in Jan Velten’s zoological garden in the Netherlands (Winters 2017, 19) and another in eighteenth-century Spain (Gómez-Centurión Jiménez 2009, 193).12 The maritime pilot that came into possession of Fuleco had no need to try to keep him alive. Sailors, of course, did go to great lengths to keep animals alive when necessary, as was the case with Abada and Hawa’i. They also kept less valuable cargo alive on the return voyage, because they could earn extra money selling live birds and monkeys as pets at the European port of entry in Lisbon, Seville, Amsterdam, and London. I suspect that Fuleco, a full-grown six-banded armadillo, was hunted, eaten, and sold sometime around 1569 and then shipped to Seville with other commercial merchandise. Most of the ship’s cargo, probably precious metals, commercial cotton, and Brazilwood (Paubrasilia echinata), a wood used for producing red dye in textiles, would have been taxed by the Crown. In contrast, the carapace of Fuleco was not taxed. Sailors often returned from the West Indies with live animals for sale in Europe. Sometimes, they were forced to slaughter those animals for food. When Jean de Léry returned to France from Brazil, his ship was loaded with parrots and monkeys and, after his ship got stuck in the doldrums, he 10 “traía para ver tigres, alcatraces, un aiotochtli, otro tlaquci […] Y para dar, gran suma de mantas de pluma, y pelo. Ventalles, rodelas, plumajes, espejos de piedra, y cosas así” (López de Gómara 1877, 424). 11 “se nourrir de grain et de fruicts” (Léry 1994, 264). 12 Jan Velton also wrote and illustrated Wonders of Nature (ca. 1700). The frontispiece to the manuscript shows an allegorical Mother Nature (a woman similar to the allegorical America) surrounded by animals, including an armadillo and an Indian elephant. Velton includes various armadillo images, including a depiction of Levinus Vincent’s zoological cabinet with a stuffed pangolin and armadillo (Pieters 2001).

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grudgingly allowed his men to eat the animals to ward off starvation (York 2006). Unlike parrots and monkeys, armadillos never became pets, nor was there a market for live armadillos in menageries. Europe had little interest in armadillos as living specimens, but their carapaces were already prized collectible items among elites and humanists in the 1550s, especially after Conrad Gesner described his specimen in 1551. Carapace specimens were sold across Europe. One appears in an engraving of the cabinet of the apothecary Ferrante Imperato (1550–1625) in Naples and in the cabinet of the natural historian Ole Worm (1588–1654) in Copenhangen (Asúa and French 2005). One report from the period notes the carapace of an armadillo for sale at a market in Istanbul (Léry 1994 and George 1985). On his return voyage, the maritime pilot that ate Fuleco could have eaten other American animals. Jean Mocquet (1575–1616) is a probable model for the sailor that sold Fuleco to Argote. When Jean Mocquet returned from South America in 1604, he brought snakes and alligators for food. Mocquet might have also eaten an armadillo as a snack because he returned to Europe with an armadillo carapace that he sold to a private collection (Asúa and French 2005). Fuleco’s flesh would have been removed, keeping the carapace intact. French naturalist Perre Belon (1517–64) describes the process: The reason why this animal is already commonly seen in many cabinets [of curiosities], and why it is transported to such a distant country, is that nature has armored it with a hard shell and large scales after the fashion of a corselet, and also that its flesh can easily be removed from inside [the shell] without losing anything of its original, natural form.13

With these words, Belon repeated the same armadillo description originally found in the 1554 account by the Swiss naturalist Conrad Gesner, who described how the armadillo was “easily transported from distant regions, because nature has armed it with a hard skin” and that the “flesh inside can be easily taken out without any harm to the original shape” (qtd. in Lawrence 2015). After clearing out flesh, organs, and other organic material, the sailor probably would have dried and stuffed Fuleco with straw. On the return voyage across the Carrera de las indias (“American Passage”), after a stop 13 “Ce qui fait qu’on voit ceste beste ja commune en plusiurs cabinets, et estre portée en si loingtain pays, est, que nature l’a armée de dure escorce et larges escailles à la maniere d’un corcelet, et aussi qu’on peut aisement oster sa chair de leans sans rien perdre de sa naifve figure” (qtd. in Léry 1994, 264).

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in the Canary Islands, Fuleco and his sailor arrived in Seville. Fuleco’s carapace, made of bone and tough tissue coating, probably did not decay or decompose for the rest of the century, or even longer. Paula Findlen notes that one five-century-old armadillo carapace from the collection of Ulisse Aldrovandi (1522–1605) still survived in Italy at the time she wrote her study on museums and collecting in early modern Italy (1994, 30).

Fuleco as Specimen (1570–1586) Sixteenth-century museums in Seville had armadillo carapaces. Rodrigo Zamorano (1542–1620), the Piloto Mayor (Chief of Navigation) of the Casa de Contratación, had a museum with animals and shells with natural defenses, including armadillos. A letter sent to Charles L’Écluse notes that each pilot who returned from the Indies had the pleasure of bringing Zamorano “something new or extraordinary and so he has the walls of the doorways of his house full of strange-looking shells, fish, and animals” (qtd. in Martínez Arranz 2011, 8). Like Zamorano, Gonzalo de Argote most likely received Fuleco’s carapace from a maritime pilot in the port of Seville around 1570. Argote then placed Fuleco in the “museum” at his home. Fuleco probably remained in the collection within Argote’s home until 1586, at which point Argote moved to the Canary Islands and got married. Then, Fuleco’s carapace was on display in Seville for about a decade and a half, a period that exceeds what I calculate to be his own biological life (the life expectancy for the six-banded armadillo is around ten years). Argote’s home was on the Calle de Francos in the center of Seville and a short walk from the Cathedral. The Wellcome Institute created a diorama of the study in Argote’s home for the Science Museum in London (1945–60). The diorama had a big window, books, a table for work, a few aquatic animal specimens on the wall, and a great window overlooking the city of Seville. It did not, however, show the paintings of illustrious men, most especially that of Philip II and his wives. It did not show the trophy animal heads that Argote probably hunted while staying at the Pardo Palace, Philip II’s hunting lodge. It did not show Fuleco the armadillo. Finally, it did not show the two most important items in the collection: armor and live horses. In the mold of many sixteenth-century humanists, Argote not only had a private collection, but he also edited and wrote a number of books. Rather than studying and publishing the classics like many fellow humanists, Argote had a special interest in old Spanish texts. His book collection contained a medieval manuscript of El libro de buen amor (Book of Good Love). Argote

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Fig. 16. Portrait of Gonzalo Argote. Libro de descripción de verdaderos retratos ilustres, y memorables varones by Francisco Pacheco (Sevilla: Litografía de Enrique de Utrera, 1870) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla).

also edited and published a sixteenth-century edition of El conde Lucanor (The Count Lucanor). Some of Argote’s publications demonstrate that he worked in collaboration with other humanists. For instance, Juan de Arfe, the most renowned goldsmith and metal craftsman of the period, created seventeen copper engravings for the printing of Argote’s Nobleza de Andalucía (Nobility of

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Andalucía, 1588) (Lacarra 2016). Argote also collaborated with Juan de Arfe in the publication of Libro de la Montería (The Book on Hunting, 1582), for which Arfe designed and etched the thirty-five woodcuts. The collaboration between Argote and Arfe for The Book on Hunting probably began after one of Philip II’s hunting excursions at the Pardo Palace in 1580. In Chapter 1, I noted that Arfe, the voracious master engraver and humanist, designed the Scipio Africanus ewer for Philip II, which expounds a humanistic principal in which the human male claims dominion over the world’s animals. In the Book on Hunting, Argote also celebrates man’s power over the animal world through, in this case, the human use of horses and dogs as tools to kill other animals. The three books included in Book on Hunting primarily focus on quarry in Spain like boars, bears, and deer. Argote also includes bulls as hunted animals in Spain and describes the practice of bullfighting in towns and cities, which he situated as part of a long tradition dating back to the classical period, but which he also emphasized as distinctly Spanish. The end of the book includes chapters on hunting elephants in Africa and Asia and lions in Africa. It also has sections on hunting animals in the Americas. Testifying to the quick adaptation of species originally bred in Spain now found in America, Argote describes hunting wild Spanish cattle in the Caribbean. The Wellcome Institute diorama chose to highlight Argote’s work as a scholar editing old texts and publishing new books to give the impression of a man shut up in a study writing day and night. It did not depict the fact that Argote was, first and foremost, a man of arms. The best surviving image of Argote (fig. 16) is found in the Libro de la descripción de verdaderos retratos de ilustres y memorables varones (Book of the Description of the True Portraits of Famous and Noteworthy Men, 1599) by Francisco Pacheco. In the Book of the Description of the True Portraits of Famous and Noteworthy Men, Pacheco explains that Argote’s collection highlights Argote’s life as a soldier to the King. The collection, according to Pacheco, was a “noble” endeavor, following the “exercise of arms” (qtd. in Cacho Casal 2006, 689). More than the stereotype of a humanist locked away in his study, Argote was a central actor in the construction of Spanish imperialism on multiple levels. The year before he added Fuleco to his museum, he was in charge of the military forces for Andalucía and famously put down the revolt of the moriscos in Granada and the Alpujarras. A decade and a half later, he left Seville for military expeditions on the high seas in the Canary Islands, the crucial stopping point for ships to and from the Americas en route to Seville. Argote protected the Canary Islands from attacks from the Turks from Algiers in 1586 and from Francis Drake in 1595. When in

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the Canary Islands, he also got married, ordered the construction of a church, and died. In the 1570s, while in Seville, Argote was also in charge of the Santa Hermandad (“Holy Brotherhood”), in a role that was essentially the head of police—he was in charge of keeping the peace.14 Argote, in his role of chief of the Holy Brotherhood, would have protected and been a close observer of the unloading of ships at Seville’s docks. The chapter about hunting wild cattle in the Caribbean in his Book on Hunting (“Hunting Wild Cimarron Bulls in the West Indies”), indicates that Argote frequented the docks. He writes: “200,000 bull and cow hides are killed in the hunt and arrive to Seville every year. They are brought by the fleets from the American Passage. The meat of these animals is not processed and there are even more animals wasted than the number of hides.”15 Steven Wagshal describes the scene, stating that hides were “brought back to his city and strewn along the banks of the Guadalquivir” (2018, 137). As with other commodities that arrived to the Seville port, cattle hides were regulated and Argote would have ensured those products made it safely to Seville’s Casa de Contratación. In 1570, Argote purchased Fuleco’s carapace and added it to his growing private collection. Other wealthy men had collections in Seville in the same years that Argote amassed his own.16 Monardes’s use of the term “museum” for Argote’s collection followed the academic Juan de Mal Lara (1524–71), who collaborated with Argote and had established a museum in his home in Seville before Argote. One poem from the period notes that men gathered at the “museum of the illustrious Juan de Mal Lara.”17 Seville humanists used the museum space for inspirational gatherings. As the voice of the muse was reputed to have inspired the classic epic poem, so the objects in the space of the museum inspired intellectual creation. For centuries, dictionaries defined the museum as the place in the humanist’s home where the muses inspire. For John Minsheu, “it is a place dedicated to 14 For a biography of Argote de Molina, see Palma Chaguaceda 1949. 15 “es tan grande el número de los toros y vacas, que esta montería se matan, que vienen a Sevilla cada año en las flotas de las indias de doscientos mil cueros, sin los que en las mismas se gastan, que debe ser mayor número” (Argote de Molina 1582, III: 9r). 16 Artificialia in sixteenth-century European collections included paintings, sculptures, arms, medals, coins, objects from antiquity, scientific instruments, manuscripts and printed books, drawings, prints, sculptures, and paintings. The naturalia included plants and other natural objects of rare or exotic provenance, including minerals, gems, stones, shells, coral, fossils, and animal body parts. Live animals such as dogs, monkeys, birds, and horses were also considered an integral part of many collections. 17 “Museo del ínclito Malara” (qtd. in Montero 1986, 21). The poem was published fifteen years after the death of Mal Lara.

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the muses” and Covarrubias calls it consagrado (“venerated”) to the muses. In the early eighteenth-century Spanish–English dictionary under the entry for museo, John Stevens writes it is “any place dedicated to learning” (Nieto Jiménez and Alvar Ezquerra 2007, VII: 6938). The inclusion of portraits or busts of famous men was an important characteristic of collections of elites and princes, and it was also important for humanist museums. Francisco de Pacheco’s portrait of Argote is included among portraits of other famous men in Book of the Description of the True Portraits of Famous and Noteworthy Men. Each portrait is framed as if it were a work of art. Another book from the period demonstrates that humanists both wrote about and collected images of famous men in their museums. Elogios o vidas breves de los caballeros antiguos y modernos, ilustres en valor de Guerra que están al vivo pintados en el museo de Paolo Iovio (Praises or Short Lives of Historical and Modern Noble Men Shown as Valorous Soldiers that Are Painted Alive in Paolo Giovio’s Museum) by Paolo Giovio was published in Granada in 1568. Paulo Giovio’s “museum,” a collection in Como, Italy, included portraits designed to celebrate each man and his great feats. Each portrait included an honorary eulogy (Cacho Casal 2006, 692). In 1570, roughly the same year that Argote included Fuleco in his collection, Per Afán Enríquez de Ribera (1509–71), the Viceroy of Naples (1558–71), added four Roman statues to the collection in his palatial home in Seville (known popularly as “La Casa de Pilatos,” or the Home of Pontius Pilate). Ribera was heir and nephew to Fadrique Enríquez de Ribera (1496–1539), who had already amassed a collection in the early sixteenth century that included musical instruments, books, gems, maps, tapestries, and “large and small rugs from Turkey.”18 When Ribera brought the four statues dating from Roman times to Seville from Naples, he not only added them to his uncle’s collection, but quite literally modified the interior of his home to accommodate the statues. A sculptor in Italy had cleaned and polished the ancient sculptures and modified them to fit the interior patio of Ribera’s home. The same sculptor also created a series of busts for Ribera’s patio, whose ideological program was to show a direct lineage between the founding of Rome with Romulus to Charles V, Philip II’s father (Lleó Cañal 2017). With these statues, Per Afán Enríquez de Ribera attempted to please Philip II, but his museum would not have done so as much Argote’s. Rather than material from Roman antiquity, Philip II favored archeology from Asturias because it demonstrated a connection to Spain’s Visigoth past (Morán Turina 1992 and 2010; Maroto 2001). Rather than Roman emperors as forebears, 18 “siete alhombras de Turquía entre chicas y grandes” (qtd. in Lleó Cañal 2017, 37).

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Philip II favored iconic dynastic series that favored the Visigoths—indeed, he placed a gallery of Visigoth kings in the Royal Pardo Palace. Argote’s museum also included portraits. The Wellcome Institute diorama did not include the portraits of famous men that were in Argote’s museum. Argote had visited and hunted at the Pardo, and his portraits celebrated Philip II. Indeed, Argote secured permission for using portraits in his museum that were painted by Sánchez Coello, the same painter commissioned by Philip II and whose portraits once hung in the Pardo Palace. The thirty portraits that hung in Argote’s museum included one of Philip II and four portraits of his wives. Other portraits celebrated Philip II by alluding to his victories. Even though the two portraits of the Ottoman sultans, Süleyman I and his father Selim I, were defeated by Philip’s father, their portraits represented Philip’s conquest over the Turks at Lepanto (Cacho Casal 2006).19 Argote’s collection shows similarities to Ribera’s, his contemporary in Seville, by showing off famous men from the past. Argote’s collection, however, diverges from Ribera’s because Argote was not interested in using the museum to celebrate the Habsburgs through recovered Roman antiquities. Argote rightly assumed that Philip II was not as interested in using the collection space to show off a genealogical link to classical Rome. Moreover, Argote, like Philip II, preferred that the collection be a symbolic microcosm of the four continents, a veritable “theater of the world”—a model for collecting increasingly adopted in the sixteenth century (Mochizuki 2018, 1). In this vein, Argote did not look to Italy, but Spain’s new lands in Asia and America for many of his collectibles. When Argote included Fuleco in his collection, he wanted to add an emblem that would give a West Indies flavor to his collection to fulfill its purpose as a theater or a microcosm of the world. Argote’s museum as theater showcased Philip II’s early modern worldview of dominion over the four parts of the world. Other sixteenth-century scholars designed their collections to reflect the ever-expanding sixteenth-century geographic world. Athanasius Kircher (1602–80) described his collection as a “theater of nature and art” (Göttler 2018, 43). The physician Samuel Quiccheberg (1529–67) wrote Inscriptions or Titles of the Most Ample Theater that Houses Exemplary Objects and Exceptional Images of the Entire World, in which “ample theater” was synonymous with his collection (1565; Göttler 2018, 43). 19 The Pardo Palace (in the queen’s tower) also had representations of the animals from the menagerie from the Alcázar. The frescoes of the animal representations were discovered after a restoration of the palace. See Martínez Arranz 2011, 10n.25.

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Aside from “museum,” humanists in Seville also referred to their collections as “theaters.” The humanist Benito Arias Montano (1527–98) called his collection a “theater of art and nature” (qtd. in Göttler 2018, 37). Collectors like Montano conceived collectible objects as actors in a theater that brought to life the four corners of the world. Moreover, those same collectors also described maps as “theaters.” Montano sent his friend and fellow humanist Abraham Ortelius (1527–98), who lived in the Netherlands, a number of items from his collection in Seville in response to Ortelius, who had sent him a copy of the Theater of the World (1570), a book that contained fifty-three bundled maps by different cartographers, and is considered one of the first modern atlases. In order to make his museum a theater of the world, Argote included an armadillo (the only animal mentioned by name by Monardes) and other animals and birds from the West and East Indies. The Wellcome Institute diorama included two fish and a small alligator hanging from Argote’s ceiling just over the window. The Wellcome Institute not only omits the armadillo and exotic birds in the Argote diorama, but also neglected to include the animal heads that were probably quarry and trophies from his hunts at Philip II’s palace at the Pardo. In the Book on Hunting, Argote mentions firsthand observations from the hunting palace: Two leagues from Madrid one will find the Pardo, the Majesty’s leisure home, in the middle of forest next to Manzanares River where the Sierra de Segovia begins and the Jarama River passes among its poplars and willows […] one walks down an outdoor hallway that opens up on a view of that spacious forest filled with all kinds of animals, including boar and deer.20

Although no record exists of what hunting trophies Argote had on display, I suspect that they included at least a boar and a deer because he mentions in detail how to hunt them in his book and mentions that they populated the forests at the Pardo. The Wellcome Institute diorama also did not include the two most valuable collectibles in sixteenth-century Habsburg Spain that were found in Argote’s museum: armor and live horses. Scholars who study curiosity 20 “A dos leguas de Madrid está el Pardo, casa de placer de su Magestad, planta de en medio de un bosque, junto al río Manzanares, que naciendo de la Sierra de Segovia, pasando por este bosque entre verdes álamos y sauces entran el en río […] se pasa un corredor cuya vista descubre aquel espacioso bosque poblado de diversidad de animales, jabalíes, corzo” (Argote de Molina 1582, III: 20v).

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cabinets often ignore the presence of live animals, but ample evidence exists that live animals formed part of the collections, along with stuffed animals and aesthetic objects made out of animal parts. The painting, The Archdukes Albert and Isabella Clara Visiting a Collector’s Cabinet, for instance, shows a large study with artificialia—paintings, sculptures, books, and an astrolabe—as well as naturalia, including flowers in pots as well as cut flowers and live animals, including monkeys and different dogs (a greyhound and a spaniel) (Jordan Gschwend 2016, 115). Although not depicted in the painting, Archduke Albert (1559–1621), sovereign of the Habsburg Netherlands, also had live horses as part of his collections. An image of his white Spanish stallion with its long, curled mane survives in a private collection (Jordan Gschwend 2016, 123). Among the live animals in early modern European collections, horses were among the most prized and, among the horses, Spanish horses were the favorite breed. Throughout the sixteenth century, horses bred in Andalucía regularly arrived to the homes of powerful men in central Europe. Ferdinand of Austria (1503–64) brought horses to Vienna, building stables and employing Spanish aristocrats with equine expertise to maintain the animals. Aside from Don Pedro the elephant, Philip II shipped Spanish horses to Manila as part of a gift to appease the Japanese warlord Toyotomi Hideoyoshi. In Book on Hunting, Argote reaffirms the horse’s role in making the man; that is, the caballero is realized by his caballo (horse). He explains that the only true noble hunting occurs when the hunter is mounted on a horse. Like those that visited Philip II’s armory in Madrid, visitors to Argote’s home were able to observe Philip II’s favorite collectibles, armor and live horses of different razas or breeds. The horse breeds themselves were a sense of Spanish pride. Pacheco describes the razas of horses at Argote’s museum as “elegant and extraordinary horses of fine breeding and different coats” (qtd. in Cacho Casal 2006, 689).21 In 1570, King Philip II visited Argote’s museum—the same year that Fuleco was added to the collection. Francisco Pacheco describes the King’s visit: “Finding himself in Seville in the year 1570, His Majesty was compelled to visit the very renowned cabinet incognito” (qtd. in Cacho Casal 2006, 691). For Argote, imitation was the highest form of flattery. He showed to Philip II, the premier sixteenth-century collector, a replication of Philip’s version of the theater of the world in his own home. Argote showed the King portraits, hunting trophies, live horses, and antique and modern armor. He also showed the King an armadillo. Fuleco—the iconic animal from the 21 “lucidos y extraordinarios caballos, de linda raza, y vario pelo” (Pacheco 1870, n. p.).

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Indies—was a curious and wondrous object of interest to King Philip II, a small armored bard, a natural object that embodied the King’s two favorite collectibles—armor and horses.

The Printed Image of Fuleco as Specimen (1571 and 1574) Fuleco appeared as a printed image in the 1571 and 1574 edition of Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies. Biographers sometimes call Nicolás Monardes (ca. 1512–88) a physician, gardener, or natural historian. But Monardes was, first and foremost, a businessman. Monardes visited Argote’s collection on Francos Street in Seville the same year that Philip II did. In 1565, Monardes had already published an edition about medicinal plants and, due to its success, he published another edition in 1569 in which the publisher printed a woodcut image of Monardes at 57 years old on the frontispiece (fig. 17). Monardes lived on Sierpes Street, a short distance away from Argote, where, like Argote, he also has had a curiosity cabinet that he opened to fellow humanists in Seville, as well as travelers. He began a garden in 1554 with seeds that were brought from the Americas. He grew some of Europe’s first sunflowers. He primarily grew plants that had potential as consumer goods in Europe, especially in medicine, such as tobacco for toothaches. Always the enterprising man, he tried to harvest cochineal, a small scaled insect that lives on American cacti and was used for the creation of the highly valuable carmine dye. Aside from his botanical interests, Monardes was also interested in bezoar stones for medicinal purposes. Whereas Argote was a humanist with soldierly interests, Monardes was a humanist with economic ones. An entrepreneur in the early modern mercantile economy with America, Monardes imported precious metals, spices, and other medicines from America (Bauer 2014). In turn, his mercantile cargo to the Americas were slaves. According to one estimate, 154,376 people leaving Africa were forced onto ships between 1551 and 1600 (Burnard 2011, 91). In one shipment in 1560, the mercantile company to which Monardes belonged sent African men, women, and children to the mines in Veraguaa, Panamá, for profits in gold. In another shipment in 1564, he sent 300 slaves from Cabo Verde. For this shipment, the registered name that was branded on the slaves was the letter “M” for Monardes (Pardo Tomás 2002, 99–100). The publication of Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies was a veritable sixteenth-century publishing success story. After a

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Fig. 17. Portrait of Nicolás Monardes at 57 years old (1569). Frontispiece of Historia medicinal, de las cosas que se traen de nuestras Indias Occidentales as reprinted in Estudio histórico de la vida y escritos del sabio médico, botanico, y escritor del siglo XVI by Joaquín Olmedilla y Puig (Hijos de M.G. Hernández: Madrid 1897) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla).

print run in 1565 and 1569, Monardes expanded the book. In the 1571 edition, Monardes included a new attached text entitled Diálogo del hierro y sus grandezas y excelencias (Dialogue about Iron, Its Greatness and Excellence), demonstrating a connection between publishing and an interest in marketing metal as a consumer good in Europe. The updated 1571 edition reflected

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the wish that Monardes had to communicate the value of American products in Europe. The 1571 edition of Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies also added a new chapter, “Del armadillo” (“Concerning the Armadillo”), not found in the 1565 and 1569 editions. Garcia d’Orta, who had been to India, published Colóquios dos simples e drogas da India (Colloquies of the Remedies and Drugs from India, 1563), which included a treatise about the elephant; this provided Monardes a model for including a description of an animal in a treatise on plants (Pardo Tomás 2015). Whereas Orta provided a literary model for including iconic fauna in a book on flora, Albrecht Dürer’s pictorial example provided Monardes the reason for choosing an image of Fuleco the armadillo as specimen. Dürer’s Rhinoceros (see fig. 1 in Introduction) had been a touchstone for how enterprising businessmen used print culture in early modern Europe. The use of the technology of mass reproduction of the printing press enabled Rhinoceros to circulate relatively easily, making this animal image more accessible than any before it in European history. No single image, let alone an image of an animal, was reproduced as often as Rhinoceros. Copied from Dürer’s own woodcuts, it was sold alone as a broadsheet (with five lines of printed text) and also reproduced in thousands of books. When Monardes observed Fuleco, he did so in the company of Argote and possibly in the company of Philip II. The men actively discussed the objects and animals in the space of Argote’s home, possibly over a meal. Ostensibly inspired by the muses, Argote used the museum in his home for discussing collectibles, following the model of other Spanish humanists in Seville. In their discussions about the collectibles, the men would have realized the power of using the printing press for marketing an image. Aside from the portraits of great men, Paolo Giovio had a picture of Dürer’s Rhinoceros in his own museum and soldier humanists like Argote and market-savvy humanists like Monardes would have been quite familiar with the commercial success of Dürer’s creative use of the printing press for marketing the image of the century’s most popular printed animal. Early in the century, Dürer used creative ingenuity to outsmart his rival and fellow artistic competitor Burgkmair. Both men were active in using the new printing press technology for economic gain. They took advantage of the new market in which more and more people could buy printed books, broadsheets, and globes. When news of Europe’s first rhinoceros arrived in Lisbon in 1517, Dürer and Burgkmaier made woodblock prints of rhinos based on a drawing brought by a fellow businessman. Each’s rhino image was added to their portfolio of marketed images of the Indies as a new appealing visual exotic space. Burgkmair’s Rhinoceros (see fig. 6 in Chapter 1) had a

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miserably short life. One printer borrowed the Burgkmair rhino to mark a point on a globe, but it then it disappeared from circulation. Pervading print and material culture across Europe, Dürer’s Rhinoceros won the war of images against Burgkmaier’s. Rhinoceros helped Dürer establish himself as the sixteenth-century authority of the true-to-life animal image. He adopted an ad vivum approach to animal depiction: “life in nature manifests the truth […]Therefore, observe it diligently, go by it and do not depart from nature arbitrarily, imagining to find the better by thyself, for thou wouldst be misled” (qtd. in Smith 2012, 92). Dürer paid hyperreal minute attention to detail and initiated a veritable genre of animal portraiture. He sketched a male and female lion (1521), a stork (1517; Musée Luxee), and an owl (1508; Albertina). He captured the texture of a wing of a blue-bellied roller and the carapace of a crab. Dürer’s contemporaries considered his depiction of the hare (1502) to be a hallmark of exquisite naturalism. After observing animals at the gardens at Warande, which belonged to the Dukes of Brabant, he drew a delicate watercolor of the palace landscape, with lions, an ibex, a lynx, and a baboon (whose weight and size he duly notes, 1521). After these animal drawings, he heard of a stranded whale to the north, and he left Brussels to observe it. Although his trip was futile (he did not see the whale), he, while in Zeeland, drew and captured the expression of a walrus (1521; London; the British Museum). When he added a coat of armor to his rhino, he added a supposedly lifelike animal to the oeuvre of animal images that sixteenth-century culture had verified as authoritative. Wealthy elites collected Dürer’s animal images and, with Rhinoceros, he ingeniously took entrepreneurial advantage of his authority to propagate a fake image of a rhino with a skin of armor garniture. In the text that accompanies Rhinoceros, Dürer explains that it is a true-to-form drawing of an animal from the Indies. Rhinoceros received further authoritative confirmation as an authentic animal when Conrad Gesner published Rhinoceros as part of his monumental History of Animals (Historia Animalium, 1551–8), in which he certified the veracity of the image by turning to a credible eyewitness. Gesner notes that Justinianus, Corsican bishop who was also an authority on all things oriental, confirmed to him that Rhinoceros was a true likeness (Leitch 2017, 247). Monardes could have picked any number of the extraordinary animals from America, but chose an armadillo for the animal image in Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies. As he received no report of a rhino from the West Indies, Monardes chose the animal that best approximated it or, at least, the one that he could convince others

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best approximated it. When Monardes published the updated 1571 edition, he provided an account from bishop Juan de Simancas (?–1570) to provide credibility for the armadillo description. Simancas arrived to Seville from Cartagena in 1569, after serving nine years as Bishop of the Indies (Garzón Marthá 2018). He was sick and died in 1570, shortly after he met Monardes. Simancas, who was familiar with Monardes’s 1564 edition of Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies, provided new information about the Indies. He told Monardes that he commonly saw armadillos in the bishopric in the Indies. Monardes writes: “the noble bishop verified to me that he had seen [the armadillo] many times in that faraway, hidden place of the world.”22 Simancas also told Monardes that armadillos in Brazil were called encubertados and that it was amazing to think they could exist in such a hidden, faraway place. Like Gesner in History of Animals, Monardes included a bishop’s eyewitness account in the new edition of Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies to provide credibility to the description of the armadillo. Monardes also doctors up the armadillo description—not by tailoring an image but through prose. Monardes placed the chapter “Concerning the Armadillo,” immediately following the chapter “Dragon Blood.” Dragon’s blood, a red resin obtained from various plants, particularly fruit plants, was a consumer good that Monardes wanted to see marketed in Spain and Europe (Bauer 2014). The image of the armadillo immediately follows the image included in “Dragon Blood,” which literally shows a small dragon inside the fruit. The chapter, “Concerning the Armadillo,” not only describes an armadillo, but other water animals.23 Within “Concerning the Armadillo,” Monardes included a description of an enormous fish called a shark and an alligator that could swallow an Indian. Monardes’s description of the armadillo alongside the shark and alligator thereby invokes the notion of a threatening aquatic beast. The same woodcut image of Fuleco was used in the 1571 and the 1574 editions of Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies (f ig. 18). In 1571, the year after Monardes and the King visited Argote, Monardes published the first version of Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies with a woodcut armadillo based on his own armadillo sketch that he made when he visited Argote’s museum (Pardo 22 “y el señor Obispo me certificó haberlo visto muchas veces con grande admiración que tal es ella ver que hay tal virtud en tan oculta parte” (Monardes 1574, 18). 23 Monardes followed Oviedo, who originally decided to classify the armadillo as a water animal (Myers 2007, 232).

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Fig. 18. The Printed Image of Fuleco as Specimen. Historia medicinal, de las cosas que se traen de nuestras Indias Occidentales (1574) by Nicolás Monardes as reprinted in Estudio histórico de la vida y escritos del sabio médico, botanico, y escritor del siglo XVI by Joaquín Olmedilla y Puig (Hijos de M.G. Hernández: Madrid 1897) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla).

Tomás 2006, 94). Monardes refers to the original image that he drew: “This animal I have copied from another real one that is in Gonzalo Argote de Molina’s museum.”24 The woodcutter who set the block for the image for the 1571 edition tried, the best he could, to follow Monardes’s original drawing. Even though the image shows only five bands, the 1571 and 1574 images 24 “Este animal saqué de otro natural, que está en el museo de Gonzalo de Molina” (Monardes 1574, 81). Also see Cacho Casal 2006, 690.

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approximate the six-banded variety, or the Euphractus sexinctus, a species common in Brazil today. With the woodcut image, Monardes used a book about plants to disseminate an image of an armored beast as icon of America. Monardes was interested in the medicinal potential of the armadillo, writing that the armadillo tail was ground into powder to make pills for curing earaches: “[the armadillo] has the virtue of a single bone for its tail. This is taken to make a fine powder that is made into little pills the size of the head of a thin pin. When the earaches, this is put inside of it and it wonderfully alleviates it.”25 Traditional sixteenth-century medicine in Mexico does not include the armadillo as a folk remedy. A Latin translation of an Aztec medicine manual (1552) by Juan Badiano (1484–1560) mentions plants and a number of animals, such as rabbit, coyote, scorpion, opossum, ocelot, frog, and mole, but no mention is made of the armadillo for cures.26 In turn, in Brazil, people used (and still do) the six-banded armadillo for medicine. In a study on the current status of the trade of medicinal animals in Brazil, the authors found that the tail (as well as the legs, fat, urine, and skin) of the Euphractus sexcinctus were sold in nine cities across Brazil (Ferreira, et al 2013, 854). In contrast to the successful marketing of exotic animal products like rhino horns in sixteenth-century Europe, the primary impact of the Fuleco image in the book, however, was symbolic, not material. The images of Fuleco in 1571 and 1574 only appeared in those two editions. Even though later editions include Monardes’s statement—“this animal I have copied from another real one”—that was no longer true with the printing of the 1580 edition. The printers of the 1580 edition opted for a slicker, more saleable armadillo image. The same block print image for the 1580 edition can be found in subsequent printings, including in an Italian translation from 1582. The majority of armadillo images printed in the 1580s and 1590s were based on two standard model drawings of a three- and nine-banded specimen (fig. 19) by an unknown artist found in an album originally put together by Lambert Lombard (1505–66) for King Charles V. The two armadillo images in this album, Libro de diversos animals, aves, peces y reptiles (A Book of Diverse Animals, Birds, and Reptiles, 1562) (Egmond and Mason 1994), were shared and copied across Europe by printers and painters, such as 25 “Tiene la virtud solo en el hueso de la cola, el cual hecho polvos sutiles, y tomando dellos tanto como una cabeza de alfiler gordo, hecho una pelotica: y metiéndolo en el oído, habiendo darlo en el, lo quita maravillosamente” (Monardes 1574, 18). 26 For a complete list of animals in Juan Badiano, see Martín del Campo 1991.

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Fig. 19. Two armadillos (ca. 1560). Artist unknown (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam).

Joris Hoefnagel (1542–1601), who used the three-banded specimen for the Four Elements (Rikken 2012). The publisher of the 1580 edition of Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies also used a copy of the three-banded armadillo from A Book of Diverse Animals, Birds, and Reptiles and he discarded the woodcut of Fuleco that had been used for the 1571 and 1574 editions. The original woodcut of Fuleco as six-banded armadillo was lost after 1580. Subsequent editions of Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies used the new image of the three-banded armadillo specimen. Most surely, the six-banded Fuleco would have been highly disappointed if he had discovered that the image of his species had been replaced by one from another species.

The Resurrection of Fuleco as Equine Caricature of America The depiction of Fuleco as iconic emblem of the Indies in Monardes impacted the creation of the use of an armored animal as emblem of America. A few artists used Dürer’s Rhinoceros to symbolize America. One image shows Rhinoceros on a lead plaque (ca. 1580–90) with traces of gold that contains a woman, symbolizing America, holding a bow and club in ostrich feathers

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(Mason 2001, 80). Another artist used Dürer’s Rhinoceros as part of an allegory of an American scene—America sits on a tree stump with a headdress and loincloth, flanked by a parrot (Clarke 1986, 148). As mentioned in Chapter 1, visual depictions of Rhinoceros impacted how people experienced the spectacle of Abada in Madrid. Rhinoceros also impacted how some authors experienced the armadillo. In The Discovery of the Large, Rich and Bewtiful Empyre of Guiana (1596), Sir Walter Raleigh (1552–1618) assumed that, because it had armor, the armadillo must be like a rhinoceros. The Discovery of the Large, Rich and Bewtiful Empyre of Guiana provides an account of Raleigh’s expedition to South America. In his description of the gifts brought to him by the King of Aromata, he describes “a beast called by the Spaniards Armadilla” (qtd. Nicholl 1997, 178). Showing he had read Monardes, Raleigh explains that a little powder from the beast “put into the ear cureth deafness” and that it “seemeth to be all barred over with small plates somewhat like to a Renocero” (qtd. Nicholl 1997, 178). Armor was the distinguishing feature of the rhino and armadillo until the early eighteenth century. In A New Spanish and English Dictionary (1726), John Stevens (ca. 1662–1726) nearly conflated the two animals. Stevens describes the armadillo as “a beast in the West Indies cover’d all over with shells, or scales, like armour, whence it has its name” (qtd. in Nieto Jiménez and Alvar Ezquerra 2007, II: 1027). Under the word abada, Stevens provides the following: “a beast in the East Indies of a great bulk cover’d with a sort of shells or scales, like armor; and proof against any weapon” (qtd. in Nieto Jiménez and Alvar Ezquerra 2007, I: 7). Although one is a great beast from the East and the other from the West, both the armadillo and rhinoceros, according to Stevens, are covered “with shells, or scales, like armor.” By the late sixteenth century, many scholars and artists chose the armadillo as the iconic animal species to represent America. They corrected Gesner, who erroneously suggested armadillos might come from other places, like Africa. André Thévet, for instance, wrote that one would not find any examples of the armadillo species in either Africa or Asia (2009, 182). Monardes was largely responsible for the creation of the armadillo as American emblem. Monardes made the armadillo a horselike creature naturally encased in armor that was awe-inspiring, dragon-like, and associated with enormous sharks and menacing, man-eating alligators. Following Monardes, the armadillo’s link to the West Indies or America became firmly entrenched in European visual imaginary. Artists depicted images of the armadillo in the posture of a horse. Copying the nine-banded armadillo from A Book of Diverse Animals, Birds, and Reptiles, they chose a more dragon-like image. Most famously, the Flemish Mannerist Maarten

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Fig. 20. America (ca. 1589). Designed by the Flemish artist Maarten de Vos and engraved by Adriaen Collaert (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City).

de Vos (1532–1603) used the nine-banded armadillo from A Book of Diverse Animals, Birds, and Reptiles for an allegory of America (fig. 20). Adrian Collaert (ca. 1550–1618), in turn, took De Vos’s image and engraved it for publication. In America, an allegorical figure of America sits sidesaddle with only her genitals covered, wearing a feathered headdress and carrying a bow and arrow. Attesting to its popularity, De Vos’s America was found engraved on collectible objects that circulated throughout Europe. America was reproduced in books, maps, and on material objects, including pottery stove tiles, silver tankards, and platters. It was inscribed on tiles on a house in East Germany (Honour 1976, 89). Maps from the period often had armadillos to mark spaces in America and versions of De Vos’s America were later found on maps to indicate America, such as the sixteenth-century world map by Claes Janszoon Visscher (1587–1652).27 Other versions of the De Vos image could 27 For an armadillo on Diogo Ribeiro and Descelier’s maps, see George 1969, 63–4. For the De Vos image on Visscher’s world map, see Mignolo 1995 and 2005.

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be found in books of emblems. For two editions of Iconologia (Rome, 1604 and Amsterdam, 1644) by Cesare Ripa (ca. 1560–ca. 1622), printers used a copy of De Vos’s America (Whitehead and Boeseman 1989, 90–94). A copy of America can also be found on the cover of the Dutch edition of States, Empires, and Principalities of the World (1621) by Pierre d’Avity (1573–1635). De Vos’s America inspired other artists such as Stefano della Bella (1610–64), to depict the armadillo as a horse—again accompanied by a woman—and as an emblem of America (fig. 21). In Bella’s Amerique, the woman does not carry arms, but sits in a dress, a beaded necklace, and headdress on a Roman-like chariot. Bella, at the height of his Parisian fame, portrayed the harnessed pair of armadillos pulling the chariot on a playing card designed to teach the young Louis XIV (1638–1715, r. 1643–1715) geography and history. Bella reworked the De Vos iconography, but the armadillos in Amerique still perform the function of horses. Bella’s and De Vos’s allegorical images of the armadillo as horse were visual demonstrations of how Europe represented itself as domesticating the American space. The allegory of America either rides or is pulled in a chariot by an armadillo. The armadillo is domesticated like a horse. Both images were also literally incorporated into the visual landscape of the European home. De Vos’s America was cast on all sorts of domestic material objects and Bella’s Amerique was copied on other decks of playing cards sold throughout France. A copy of Bella’s Amerique also appeared on a massive silver dish made in Augsburg (Honour 1976, 89). Demonstrating the wide range of the use of steel from armor to everyday objects in the home, instead of making a bard, seventeenth-century blacksmiths in Augsburg cast Bella’s Amerique on a silver dish. As America and Amerique were found on material objects in the private space of the home, so too the armadillo became an important image in paintings of curiosity cabinets as symbol of America. The painting America by Jan van Kessel (1626–79) shows fifteen framed animals that encircle a cluttered curiosity cabinet. All of the animals in the painting are supposedly unique to America. Showing off its status as a chief collectable exemplary of America, the armadillo is the topmost, centerpiece animal in the collection (Bleichmar 2012, 157). The armadillo as allegory of America was not just found in the private space of the home, but also as spectacle in the urban landscape. By the 1590s, most artists used Dürer’s Rhinoceros as a standard iconographic image to represent the East Indies and, in contrast, used the armadillo as a standard iconographic image of the West Indies. The engraver Pieter van der Borcht designed a royal victory arch for Antwerp in 1593. The ephemeral structure

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Fig. 21. Amerique (1644). King of clubs playing card from “Game of Geography” by Stefano della Bella (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City).

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celebrated the spectacle of Archduke Ernst of Austria as Governor of the Spanish Netherlands. In Borcht’s version of the “four parts of the world” dominated by the Iberian Empire, he depicted four allegorical women riding exotic animals. The female figure of Brazil, representing the West Indies or America, rides an armadillo and India, representing the East Indies or Asia, rides a rhinoceros. Aside from the East and the West, Borcht divides Africa into two parts. A female figure riding a lion represents Maghreb and one riding an elephant represents Ethiopia (Lach 1970, 192). In contrast to the transitory Borcht sculpture, another armadillo as allegory of America was sculpted into the cityscape of Rome. The most spectacular resurrection of Monardes’s evocation of the armadillo as water animal can be seen in the Fountain with Four Rivers (1651) by Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598–1680). Commissioned by Pope Innocent X, Fountain with Four Rivers—a sculptural masterpiece of Europe’s mapping of the world—has an allegorical schema that shows an armadillo as an alligator-type water creature at the base of the corner of the fountain that represents the American continent (fig. 23). Simon Schama writes how the sculpture functions as spectacle: For the fountain of the Four Rivers is a masterpiece in the same way that Bernini’s other great works of sacred theater, like the Cornaro Chapel or the braccia of St. Peter’s, are masterpieces: in demanding the suspension of the beholder’s disbelief, the surrender to a vision of the world in which profound cosmic mysteries are given visible, sensuous expression. And it is also the place where all the currents of river mythology, Eastern and Western, Egyptian and Roman, pagan and Christian, flowed toward one great sacred stream. (1995, 292–3)

Representing the Río de la Plata, Bernini’s armadillo, at the base of the Fountain with Four Rivers, is an armored godlike figure with two human arms that spills forth coins to represent America’s riches. Fuleco, once a six-banded armadillo, a relatively small animal typically measuring about 18 inches long and weighing 10 pounds, took on a role as one of the four icons in Bernini’s theatrical vision of the planet. The lowly museum specimen in Argote’s collection was transformed into a massive sea creature whose body contained a continent. The placement of an armadillo in the center of the iconic city of the Christian West constituted a form of American domestication in which the iconic animal is integrated as spectacle, not in the home, but as a permanent sculpture that forms part of the plaza the cityscape of Rome. In the early modern period, Europeans

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Fig. 22. Armadillo as America (Río de la Plata). Detail of Fountain with Four Rivers (1651) by Gian Lorenzo Bernini (photo by Jonathan Rome).

depicted the Americas as evil, in the sense that Satan left an imprint on American fauna (Cañizares Esquerra 2006, 155). Monardes’s association of the armadillo as a demonic animal took on sculptural shape in Bernini’s Fountain. The simple specimen in Argote’s home, thereby, shaped a notion that America’s iconic animal was an aquatic and demonizing beast, all the while serving to market a scientific treatise on the medicinal quality of America’s plants.

Did Fuleco as Specimen Influence How Philip II Valued Armor and Horses? After observing Fuleco in Argote’s home, Monardes diligently drew an image that was then set to a woodcut for the 1571 and 1574 editions of his book on plants. How did King Philip II observe Fuleco in Argote’s home? In 1570, the same year that Argote acquired Fuleco and Monardes visited, King Philip II made the one and only visit that he took to Seville in his lifetime. Fighting on behalf of Philip II, Argote had put down the morisco rebellion in the Alpujarras in 1569, and Philip II was holding court in Córdoba to celebrate.

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At this time, Philip received an invitation to visit the city of Seville from Francisco Duarte Cerón (ca. 1550–1616), the head negotiating officer of the Casa de la Contratación, who acted as city representative under the auspices of cathedral. The King accepted Duarte Cerón’s invitation. On May 1, 1570 Philip II arrived in Seville in a show of triumph and fanfare, as the humanist Juan de Mal Lara and others have described the event (Mal Lara 1992). During this time, Philip II was amassing every relic (human remains) and categorically significant natural and artificial object in the center of Spain in his own collection or theater of the world. What sort of interest would Philip II had in observing Fuleco as specimen? No historical record describes the King’s reaction to Fuleco, but he was interested in his kingdom’s fauna. Philip II placed great value on portraits of many sorts of animals. He was an avid collector of animal images and the artistic model for the image of the animals was influenced by Dürer’s ad vivum style. Although it has been lost, the inventory from El Escorial monastery indicates that Philip II commissioned a rhino portrait—possibly based on Dürer’s Rhinoceros or even Abada—that hung in his private quarters (Pérez de Tudela and Jordan Gschwend 2007, 443n. 86). Philip ordered the creation of an image of a sea turtle, which records indicate was caught in fishermen’s nets in the Basque Country. Following Dürer’s watercolor Wing of a European Roller (ca. 1512), a study of a bird’s wing removed from its body, Philip II added an American inflection with his own version of a bird wing, the oil Wing of a Green Amazon Parrot (ca. 1566), probably executed by an anonymous Flemish painter active in his court (Jordan Gschwend 2010, 53). Philip II also had at least two images of armadillos in the collection in the Escorial. One is now lost and the other survives. Philip had received an armadillo image from Francisco de Hernández (1514–87). Philip had ordered Hernández on a seven-year comprehensive scientific expedition to the New World from 1570 to 1577 to gain knowledge primarily about American plant life. In the massive album, Novae Hispaniae Thesaurus (The Natural History of New Spain), Hernández included an armadillo image and sent it to Spain from Mexico in 1576.28 The Hernández armadillo is now lost because the album was destroyed in a fire. The second armadillo image in Philip’s collection is found in the Pomar codex (today, at the University of Valencia) (Bleichmar 2017). Philip II had ordered that the plants and the few animals originally drawn during the expedition be copied from the Hernández album. Philip’s chief gardener 28 For a history of the publication of Hernández’s work in the seventeenth century, see Freedberg 2002, 450n.22.

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and professor of medicine, Jaime Honorato Pomar (ca. 1550–1606), copied the images and created the Pomar codex. Pomar did not copy all of the images directly from Hernández. The image of the armadillo is an embellished version of the armadillo that originated from Gesner’s book on animals (1551–7). Gesner’s image was like the three- and nine-banded armadillo from Lombard’s album in that it was used as a model and was copied by printers and artists throughout the early modern era. Inspired by Dürer’s Rhinoceros, Pomar slightly altered the image of the armadillo in Gesner’s original by adding rivets in the belly, evoking the cult to armor by suggesting the armadillo had been naturally fitted with armor lames. Aside from at least two armadillo images, Philip II had at least one armadillo carapace in his collection. One document records that Philip II purchased “a carapace of an animal they call an ‘armadillo’ all covered in shells.”29 The armadillo in his collection formed part of the naturalia collectibles, but also exhibited the characteristics of his most prized artificialia. In terms of artificialia, Philip II had objects that showed off naturalia, such as an ornate silver base specially crafted for a rhino horn. In the case of the silver base, the artifice was crafted for the natural object. But the armadillo carapace did not have any material or artificial additions because it was considered, as scientific authorities like Monardes confirmed, an animal that naturally had armor. Even though no written document describes how Philip II valued the armadillo in Argote’s collection, we do know that he placed the highest value on horses and armor. He valued living horses over and above all collectible naturalia, whether they be plants or animals, and he valued armor over and above all collectible artificialia. In 1553, Philip II erected a building that served as the Royal Stables and Royal Armory next to his royal palace, the Alcázar. Philip’s last will and testament testified to the importance of the contents in the Royal Armory and Stables. Attesting to how much he esteemed the living horses in the Royal Stables, Philip bequeathed horse trappings and saddles to all future Spanish Crowns, stating that they could not be sold or separated by future inheritors (Godoy 1991). If Philip II could have defied mortality, his living purebreds would have been bequeathed with their trappings and saddles to the patrimonio nacional (“legacy collection”). In the same codicil that willed horse trappings to future generations, Philip II also expressly ordered that the armor in his collection never be sold. After his death, much of Philip’s collection, like his priceless paintings, 29 “pellejo de animal que llaman armadillo, cubierto todo de conchas” (qtd. in Morán Turina and Checa Cremades 1985, 107).

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tapestries, animals, and animal paintings, were dispersed to help pay Crown debts. Abada’s bones, for instance, were sent to Rudolf. The contents found in the Royal Armory and Stables by the Madrid palace—horses and their trappings, as well as his armor—however, remained entities inalienable from the Spanish Crown and became Spain’s patrimonio nacional. Armor is made out of steel, generally processed into strips and shaped. To make armor, iron is first smelted in a bloomery to create steel bars. The bars are hammered out, cut into a flattened plate, and then fitted. Armor has to fit perfectly, with no gaps in the overlapping parts, and also has to be comfortable so movement can be fluid. All flaws are corrected with repeated filing and hammering to reach a perfect fit. The best steel is put under the fire for a long duration so that its colors change and it appears blackish-blue. The dark blue steel is then engraved and embossed with rich damascened decoration, which consists of gild areas with strips of beaten gold or silver leaf (Schroth 2004, 123–5). Just as Philip wanted his massive collection to be a theater of the world, so he wanted to create the planet’s most impressive form of live theater through royal pageants. He was the central image of the pageant, fashioning a self-image in armor riding on a horse. Philip II used a prize horse as a prop and dark blue steel armor as a costume for the starring role as planetary monarch. Wearing a special suit of armor was the physical sign of having been crowned King as imperial heir to Charles V. Philip II accompanied his father for nearly a year (July 1550–May 1551) to Augsburg, the neighboring city to Nuremberg and also a major armor production center. Charles V brought his son Philip to Augsburg for the meeting of the Imperial Diet, which addressed imperial succession, the fundamentally important decision that determined Philip’s legacy. For the meeting, Charles ordered a specially constructed coat of armor since it was propitious for Philip’s leading role in taking over the Crown and for his naming as the new Habsburg monarch (Godoy 1991, 156). When Philip II put on armor for a pageant, he put on a costume in which he dressed as protagonist in a show of imperial power over the entire planet. For spectacles in the age of Philip, art historian Victor I. Stoichita writes: “armor is the agent image par excellance. It is an image in movement, an inhabited statue, a full emptiness and an empty fullness” (Stoichita 2016, 236). The fullness that Stoichita describes can be characterized through how Philip augmented his own skin. On one hand, he was a man underneath with penetrable skin, but, on the other, armor made him superhuman. Philip II was a superman or ironman. As Stoichita writes, armor was a new “second skin” (Stoichita 2012)—Phillip II artificially augmented his skin as physically impenetrable against human weapons and metaphorically impenetrable against heresy.

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Fig. 23. Philip II in Parade Armor (ca. 1570) by Alonso Sánchez Coello (Glasgow Museum of Art).

Philip’s armor costume was not just any set of armor, but it was dark blue and had the special mark of the Golden Fleece. Philip II’s parade armor has an engraving of the pendant of the Golden Fleece depicted on the metallic lame in the center of the chest, just above the heart. Indeed, Coello’s official portrait of Philip II (fig. 23) depicts two Golden Fleeces: One is engraved on the parade armor and the other is the actual Golden Fleece pendant that Philip II wore and which rests upon the surface of the armor. The Golden Fleece pendant is literally a flayed ram’s skin representing royal power, evoking Jason, the classical hero, who recovers the Fleece. The Golden Fleece also evokes the Empire’s control over Merino wool—a product from the sheep that provided Spain the wealth for imperial expansion.

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Philip II played the role of a new Hercules for the planet. When Philip wore his costume of armor, he symbolically wore the skin of the Nemean lion, whose legendary hide Hercules wore to make his skin impenetrable. Philip II’s parade armor, as well as other sets of his armor, has lion heads embossed on the elbow and knee joints. In another set of armor in Philip’s collection that originally belonged to his father, the entire surface of the parade shield is an embossed and resplendent lion’s head. The mane on the shield consists of two circling superimposed layers of curly lion locks. The lion shield is part of a complete set with accompanying helmet. The helmet is shaped in the form of a human head with lips, a mustache, beard, and sideburns embossed on the lower-face defense or buffe. The upper part of the helmet contains flowing locks of curly hair just like the flowing locks of the lion’s mane. The embossed images on the shield and helmet dialogue with each other, making its bearer a man-lion, evoking Hercules who wore the lion skin for protection. Philip II’s parade costume was not fully complete unless he was riding a horse and unless that horse also had on an armor costume—a bard or horse armor.30 Gaspar Sensi y Baldachi (1794–1880) sketched an image in which he imagined the monarch riding a horse wearing the Tournament Armor of Charles V (fig. 24). Sensi y Baldach’s image is an example of how Philip II looked when he rode in full parade armor in a pageant. Philip II bought his father’s armor collection and the actual bard depicted in Tournament Armor of Charles V (1520) existed in Philip II’s collection (and can still be seen today in the Royal Armory). The bard includes a lion in a removable boss in the shape of a lion’s head placed on both sides of the horse’s chest defense or peytral. Moreover, it includes ram horn ear plates that jut out of the horse’s head defense or chanfron (Godoy 1991, 118). In pageants, Philip II rode a horse, and both were dressed in armor. The composite of man and horse was an inhabited statue in movement, an image of artifice and nature constructed to instill wonder for the performance of power. Armor designers artistically transformed the monarch as monster hybrid when they fabricated the armor. Sometimes they engraved images of centaurs or even Dürer’s Rhinoceros on armor garniture. The Duke of Medici had an image of Dürer’s Rhinoceros engraved on the peytral—the breast 30 Horse armor or bards could only be purchased by the most elite of elites. Bards fascinated curators of the first museums in the nineteenth century. In the course of writing this book, I examined fifteenth- and sixteenth-century horse armor with articulated lames in displays at the Detroit Institute of Arts, Cleveland Museum of Art, Art Institute of Chicago, Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, Alcázar de Colón in Santo Domingo, Alcázar in Segovia, and the Royal Armory in Madrid.

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Fig. 24. Tournament Armor of Charles V. Armeria real, ou Collection des principales pièces de la galerie d’armes anciennes de Madrid, 2 vols. and supplement (1839), by Achille Jubinal and Gaspard Sensi (Paris: Bureau des Anciennes Tapisseries Historiées) (Armería Real, Madrid, Copyright Patrimonio Nacional).

plate—of his famous racing horse (Chapter 1). Evoking a rhinoceros or unicorn, other nobles had horns sticking out of the headplate of horse garniture.31 31 Crispijn van de Passe the Elder (ca. 1564–1637) depicted a horse with a horn in the head garniture in Equestrian Portrait of Maurits, Prince of Orange (1600).

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Philip II in armor, as agent image, transformed himself into a monster hybrid, evoking the ram through the Golden Fleece pendant, the lion through the Herculean lion skin, and the centaur because his body fused with that of the horse. Philip II’s parade armor contains an engraving of the Golden Fleece and embossed lions and his horse’s armor often contained more embossed lions and other animal body parts. Another bard in Philip’s collection included images of a lion and a water beast. Horse Armor of Maximilian I includes engravings of the various trials of Hercules, including Hercules breaking the Nemean lion’s jaw (in the lower and upper registers on the crupper). The artist depicts the Nemean lion twice: Hercules defeats the animal while wearing its skin. The artist also evokes the transformation of the horse into a hybrid sea beast by engraving two marine centaurs on the saddle garniture and making a tail piece in the form of a dolphin that juts out of the piece that fits over the horse’s hind quarters (Godoy 1991, 132).32 What would Philip II, a man who so valued horses and armor, have thought about Fuleco as specimen in Argote’s museum? Might he have thought that the armadillo was also a hybrid sea creature who had armor? Oviedo had first classified the armadillo as a sea creature and Monardes also suggested that the armadillo might be an animal that lived in the sea by including a description of sharks and alligators in the chapter “Concerning the Armadillo.” If Philip II had visited the museum with Monardes, he may have experienced a groundbreaking moment in the history of armadillo nomenclature. Monardes was the first person to coin the word ‘armadillo.’ The first appearance of “armadillo” in the Spanish lexicon is when Monardes writes, in Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies, that Fuleco is “completely covered in little shells down to his feet like an armored horse. For that reason, they call him an ‘armadillo.’”33 “Armadillo” quickly entered the English lexicon. John Frampton translated this passage to English in 1577 by describing the animal in Argote’s collection as “like a horse is covered with armor, whereby he is called the Armadillo, that is to say a beast armed” (Monardes 1925, 151). Frampton also translated 32 Aside from its appearance on Philip’s bard, dolphins appear as part of spectacles for Philip II. His royal archer, Cock, describes a float in one royal procession with “a silver dolphin full of f ire inside that spat out the flames when it passed in front of his majesty” (“un dolphin plateado lleno de fuego de dentro, y hacía su efecto viniendo delante de su Magestad”) (Cock 1879, 28). 33 “Está todo encubertado con chicas, hasta los pies, como un caballo, que está encubertado de armas: por do le llaman, el armadillo” (Monardes 1574, 81).

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Monardes’s report from Bishop Simancas about the armadillos living in Brazil that were called encubertados: “There be of these beasts in the India of Portugal, they be called armed beasts for that they are as I have said armed with scales and shells” (Monardes 1925, 151–2). In actuality, an armadillo’s armor does not provide much defense. A jaguar, ocelot, or even a dog can bite through an armadillo shell—a better armadillo defense is jumping. When startled or cornered, the armadillo will jump straight up, as much as three feet into the air or more. Jumping in the air can prove lifesaving by startling, scaring, or even breaking the jaw of a predator (Stross 2007). Monardes was not concerned with such facts from the natural world when he evoked the armadillo as bard in Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies. Monardes performed literary taxidermy when he described Fuleco. “Taxidermy,” from the Greek, means “the arrangement of skin.” With Rhinoceros, Dürer had previously arranged the rhino’s skin with steel armor garniture in an image. Monardes also printed an image, but he persuaded—in contrast to Dürer—through literary taxidermy, that is, he arranged the meaning of the armadillo through prose. He newly minted the name “armadillo” and disseminated a supposed scientific truth about an equine beast naturally encased in armor. When he called Fuleco “a little armored horse,” Monardes repeated the extremely appealing armadillo descriptions from three previous Spanish authorities: Enciso, Oviedo, and Gómara. Navigator and geographer Martín Fernández de Enciso (1470–1528), led a gold-searching expedition along the coast of Venezuela from 1510 to 1513. In Sum of All Geography, Enciso described the odd features of this strange new animal: “It is covered with a shell from ears to tail, so that it looks like an armored horse” (qtd. in Asúa and French 2005, 18).34 Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, a contemporary of Enciso and one of the most influential writers to describe America and its naturalia, returned to Europe in 1523 after serving in the Indies. The monarch Charles V asked Oviedo to write a history and description of the territory, so Oviedo produced the landmark Sumario de la natural historia de las Indias (Summary of the Natural History of the Indies, Toledo, 1526). Like Enciso, Oviedo described the most spectacular animal in the Indies as identical to a bard. In Summary of the Natural History of the Indies, Oviedo writes the following: “Its physical appearance and shape reminds one of a caparisoned horse […] from which the tail, feet, neck and ears protrude in the right place” (qtd. in Capanna 34 “está todo cubierto de una concha; desde las orejas fasta a la cola, que parece caballo encubertado” (Fernández de Enciso 1948, 224).

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2009, 43).35 Oviedo concludes: “If these animals had been seen where the first caparisoned horses originated, one would conclude that the sight of these animals had given the idea to create armor for war horses” (qtd. in Capanna 2009, 43).36 Oviedo brought back armadillo carapaces, writing that he took to Spain some shells of armored horses (Gerbi 1985, 390n.39). The nature of the American animal that Oviedo describes is that it has never been previously described in authoritative sources on animals. Oviedo describes the armadillo in this manner: “Armadillos look very strange. They look new and different from the animals so far described or seen in Spain or other parts” (qtd. in Capanna 2009, 43).37 In coining the neologism “armadillo,” aside from the influence of Enciso and Oviedo, Monardes slightly amended the description found in López de Gómara’s General History of the Indies (1552). Gómara compares the armadillo to a variety of animals and emphasizes its connection to the caparisoned horse: “it is covered with armored scales […] and they seem a lot like those on an armored horse […] it is in the end neither more than nor less than a horse and because of that the Spanish call it the ‘horse with armor.’”38 Gómara uses the two most popular words in Spanish to describe the animal before Monardes coins “armadillo.” Gómara called it a horse that is encubertado or armado, words that describe the Spanish armored horse guard and regally armored horses. Monardes took armado, as found in Gómara’s description, and added the diminutive suffix “-illo.” Monardes also followed Gómara description of the armadillo as a hybrid beast. Gómara wrote that “the little armored horse” was “in size like a little pig. Its snout also looks like a little pig. It has a long, thick tail like a lizard and it lives inside the earth like a mole.”39 In contrast to the monarch’s body augmented into a centaur-like spectacle of a composite lion-ram hybrid, the armadillo was inherently small and similar to a mole, lizard, and little pig. 35 “[…] y a ninguno se pueden comparar sino a los caballos encubertados…salen las piernas e la cola, e en su lugar sale la cabeza y el pescuezo” (Fernández de Oviedo 1853, 411). 36 “si aqueste animal se hubiera visto donde los primeros caballos encubertados hubieron origen, sino que de la vista de estos animales se había aprendido la forma de las cubiertas para los caballos de armas” (Fernández de Oviedo 1853, 412). 37 “Los encubertados son animales mucho de ver y muy extraños a la vista de los cristianos y muy diferentes de todos los que se han visto en otras partes del mundo” (Fernández de Oviedo 1853, 411). 38 “está cubierto de conchas […] y que parecen mucho cubiertas de caballo […] Es, en fin, ni mas ni menos que caballo encubertado y por eso lo llaman los españoles el encubertado o el armado” (López de Gómara 1877, 312). Also see Podgorny 2012. 39 “es del tamaño de un lechón, y en el hocico parece a él, tiene una cola larga, y gruesa, como de lagarto, habita la tierra, como topo” (Monardes 1574, 81).

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During his only visit to Seville, Philip II made a special visit to Argote’s museum. Philip II chose to visit Argote’s house upon the recommendation of one of his trusted advisors—the Master of the King’s Horse, an important imperial post. He no doubt wanted to see the trophy heads from the hunt at the Pardo Palace and the portraits that celebrated his reign. The purebred live horses, as well as the armor, were also of noteworthy appeal for the King. What did Philip think of the armadillo specimen? With respect to those originally found in his own collections, one of the armadillo images was destroyed by fire; the other image is no longer in the Escorial; and no record exists as to what happened to the armadillo carapace. But when he visited Argote’s museum, Philip II, perhaps, would have been bemusedly interested in Fuleco, who Monardes described as combining horselike and armor qualities. The shiny armor and purebred horses in Argote’s museum were a foil to the noticeably puny Fuleco, an example of how material culture in the sixteenth century perpetuated American belittlement. While visiting Argote’s museum, Philip may have also thought of the first image that Seville used to receive him as victorious monarch when he arrived to the city—a victorious Hercules wearing the Nemean lion skin and stepping on a dragon (Mal Lara 1992, 97). Holding the eyeless carapace of Fuleco in his hands, he may have thought of how the existence of the animal carapace confirmed his command over the Indies and nature’s chain of being. The skin and armor of the armadillo, a symbol of the Indies, assured Philip of the supremacy of Spanish horses and armor. Fuleco as armor spectacle validated Philip II as the planet’s Hercules, a truly powerful monster, the one that wore the most splendorous armor with truly impenetrable skin.

The L’Écluse Animal Specimen When Philip II wore parade armor and rode a prize horse adorned with a bard, he became the protagonist of the most splendorous spectacle of sixteenth-century pageantry. Fuleco, an imperfect image of the armored horse, was also a spectacle. He was not a wonderfully grand and monstrous human, but a small and monstrous animal specimen. Despite his small size, Fuleco as specimen in Argote’s museum sparked a new type of interest in animals as museum specimens. Argote’s museum in Seville contained an animal that the English translation of Monardes calls an “armed beast.” The dissemination of Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies not only brought commercial

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success to Monardes, but also achieved the goal of providing commercial value to an easily portable and profitable American animal. Was the armadillo an armored beast or like a shark or a man-eating alligator? Future collectors would have to purchase the carapace to find out. One collector from the period noted upon receiving a new object: “I experience more pleasure than if he had given me cash” (qtd. Findlen 2002, 300). Monardes, through description, and Argote, through collection, gave the armadillo specimen cultural currency by translating its body into a pleasure-giving collectible commodity. Nicolás Monardes, first and foremost a businessman, made Fuleco into a specimen with the hopes of improving his economic status. He, like Dürer, took advantage of new economic networks and the printing press to establish his own emblematic animal from the Indies. In turn, Argote was first and foremost a man of arms, and his inclusion of Fuleco’s specimen in his collection served to show off his noble reputation. Argote’s museum in Seville, as well as sixteenth-century Spain more generally, is an especially important arena for studying the history of science like the development of the modern museum. Maria M. Portuondo notes that early modern Spain’s scientific enterprise encompassed both natural philosophy and scientific practice. Portuondo explains: Spain’s scientif ic enterprise wrestled with fundamentally the same philosophical concerns that drive the development of science elsewhere in Europe, but, by having tested the bounds of empiricism early on and having identified its shortcoming, sought—perhaps longer than most— a cohesive and comprehensive natural philosophy through which to interpret the natural world. (2017, 195)

Argote’s museum, for instance, is a historical example of how scientific enterprise shifted away from the Church and ancient sources in the interpretation of the significance of animals. Argote used his home in lieu of the church by displaying the animal specimen. Formerly, examples of animal specimens could be found in churches throughout sixteenth-century Spain. A bear claw was posted on the door of the church in Navacepeda de Tormes. Álvaro de Bazán (1526–88), Marquess of Santa Cruz and commander-in-chief of the Spanish naval forces in the Mediterranean under Philip II, acquired a crocodile from the Nile and placed the desiccated specimen in the church Nuestra Señora de la Asunción in Viso in the province of Ciudad Real. Another crocodile hung in the cathedral in Seville. Argote observed the crocodile and a giraffe jawbone, which hung

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next to the crocodile: “[an animal] called a giraffe whose jaw can be seen in the principal church in Seville in the Crocodile Nave.”40 By including the armadillo, which Monardes described in the same chapter as man-eating crocodiles, Argote used the space of a private home for a specimen, contributing to the creation of an emerging secularized space for natural specimens. 41 The Church connected animal specimens to religious doctrine through innumerable sculptures and painted images of saints stepping on or defeating animals in the form of threatening demons. Physical animal specimens from the natural world served a similar purpose, symbolizing how the Church defeated its allegorical enemies like heresy. The crocodile in Seville’s cathedral, for instance, represented the Church’s conquest of the Moors. Fuleco as specimen in Argote’s museum, in turn, represented a moment of transition. The specimen connected to the interests of two humanists rather than to religious doctrine. The space of the museum in the private collection became the theater of the world, replacing the church in sowing truths about the animal body. Monardes, by writing about Fuleco in a book about plants, took advantage of its unique American origin. He did not recur to animal descriptions from religious or classic authorities like Pliny. Monardes thereby significantly contributed to a generation of natural historians who defined animal specimens based on firsthand observation. In short, the description of the Seville armadillo specimen was affected by a humanist-soldier and a humanist-businessman who reflected Spain’s economic and military interests. Most directly, Argote’s museum influenced the creation of a new zoological category, the “exotic” animal, as described by Charles L’Écluse. The seventeenth-century natural historian and botanist Charles L’Écluse wrote Exoticorum libri decem (Ten Books of Exotica, 1605), an account of plant and animal specimens that symbolically replaced Spanish interests with those of the Dutch. In the growing global economic port center of Amsterdam, L’Écluse, 40 “uno llamado jirafa, cuyo freno se ve en la iglesia mayor de Sevilla, en la Nave del Lagarto” (Argote 1582, III: 10). The giraffe jaw to which Argote refers was from a live giraffe that was originally a gift from the Kutuz, the Mamluk Sultan of Egypt (1259–60) to Alphonso the Wise (1221–84). Aside from a live giraffe, Alphonso received an elephant, a camel, a zebra, an ostrich, an Egyptian ibis, and a flamingo. A beautiful image of the giraffe and the other animals that Alphonso received appear in miniature in the manuscript of the Cantigas de Santa María (Songs of Holy Mary, 13th century) (Keller 1972 and Wagschal 2018, 35–36). 41 In the sixteenth century, wealthy elites, like Argote, included animal specimens in their homes, rather than donating them for display in churches. The Duchesse Eleonora de Medici (1519–62) in the Palazzo Vecchio in Italy had a stuffed crocodile suspended from the ceiling next to an elephant’s jawbone, fish skeletons, and the skull of a “monstrous” calf (Groom 2019, 209).

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a new European authority of the most important observable specimens, translated Nicolás Monardes’s work into Latin in 1575 and updated the Monardes translation in 1605, which he included as part of Ten Books of Exotica. Considered by scholars to be one of Europe’s first botanical treatises, Ten Books of Exotica is also a virtual museum of exotic animal specimens. Many animals that L’Écluse describes as exotic were also found in sixteenthcentury museums such as Argote’s. L’Écluse dedicates Book V of Ten Books of Exotica to animals and begins with a description of an enormous bat. Dürer had painted two different bats with outstretched wings (1522; Ashmolean Museum) and Philip II had an image of a bat (ca. 1560), by Ludgar Tom Ring the Younger (1522–84), hanging in his private sleeping quarters in his residence at the Escorial. 42 L’Écluse’s choice of the bat as exotic evoked the religious iconographic tradition just as Dürer’s Rhinoceros and Monardes’s Fuleco image evoked the tradition of the dragon. The bat—including in Dürer’s own work—had long been linked to demons, darkness, and hell. But L’Écluse wrote in the prose of a dispassionate scientist. The description of the bat begins with the word “massive” (ingens) and an image that shows off the bat’s prominent penis. L’Écluse bought the bat specimen when he was in Amsterdam in 1603. It had been preserved in the market for five years, since it originally arrived as a shipment from Batavi, the capital of the Dutch East Indies in 1598. The bat, a Malaysian flying fox or Mauritian fruit bat, was from one of the islands around New Guinea that L’Écluse describes as uninhabited. He coined a species name verpertilio ingens (“massive bat”). L’Écluse describes it size, teeth, body, and color, and emphasizes its non-European origins; L’Écluse writes that the bat was “absolutely different from ours in size and color” (L’Écluse 1605, 5:94). The catalogue of exotic animals in L’Écluse also includes bird specimens. L’Écluse describes a dried hummingbird that he witnessed in the curiosity collection of his colleague Jacob Plateau in Tournai (located in present-day Belgium). He describes the hummingbird’s origin from Brazil and, as with the bat, he includes a woodcut image of a hummingbird. Like Monardes, L’Écluse refers to a religious authority by reporting a firsthand account of the hummingbird from a Jesuit that lived in Brazil. Monardes does not name which birds where in Argote’s museum, just that it contained “many types of animals and birds and other curious things brought from the East and West Indies.”43 L’Écluse’s description of the hum42 I am the first to identify the painter of Philip II’s bat portrait. 43 “Muchos generos de animales y aves, y otras cosas curiosas, traídos asi de la India Oriental, como Occidental” (Monardes 1574, 17).

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mingbird suggests that Argote probably had a hummingbird among the unnamed bird specimens in his museum. L’Écluse also describes a bird of paradise; it is almost certain that Argote also had a bird of paradise specimen in his museum. Primarily found in Papua New Guinea, there are some forty-two species of this bird, and hunters in Papua New Guinea rendered these birds by removing their legs and disemboweling them (Lawrence 2014). The altered bodies of birds of paradise as specimens reached Spain as early as 1522. Tomé Pires (1465–1540) visited the Aru Islands between 1512 and 1515 and his Suma Oriental (Account of the East, from the Red Sea to China, written in Malacca and India in 1512-1515) was published in abridged form in Venice in 1557. In this publication, he describes: “birds which they bring over dead, called birds of paradise, and they say they come from heaven and that they do not know how they are bred” (qtd. in George 1980, 83). While in New Spain, Francisco de Hernández handled legless specimens of the bird that arrived via the Manila trading route. Hernández provided Philip II an image of the bird (also found in the Pomar codex) and writes “that they absolutely lack legs.”44 In Seville in 1565, Mal Lara described a specimen of a bird of paradise that he examined firsthand. He writes that the birds are born without legs and refers to a bird of paradise that Gessner had in his Nuremberg collection, which he charged people a fee to see. Mal Lara, a contemporary of Argote also had a museum and had a bird of paradise specimen. Mal Lara stimulated the legendary European fascination with birds of paradise by explaining that they supposedly lived in heaven, as described in Islam: “they say that this bird is born in paradise—the one described by Mohammed—as is told by the Moors from those islands.”45 L’Écluse includes an armadillo in his exotic animal catalogue. L’Écluse describes the armadillo and includes its image, under the heading “armadillo or tatou” (L’Écluse 1605). Tatú is the common name for armadillo in Uruguay and Argentina, as well as in Paraguay and Bolivia. This became the standard name in French for the animal. L’Écluse based his observations on three armadillo images that Plateau had drawn and sent to him (Mason 2007). L’Écluse followed Monardes by describing the armadillo through firsthand observation of its armor, particularly the number of lames that it contained. He borrowed from the lexicon of armor in which lames are narrow, movable 44 “desprovistas absolutamente de los pies mismos” (López Piñero 1991, 40). 45 “dicen que esta ave nace en el Paraíso, el de Mahoma, según la relación que de los moros de aquellas islas se toma” (Mal Lara 2015, 1663).

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strips of plate used to provide articulation in the full suit of armor. L’Écluse argues that three species of armadillo exist, basing the conclusion on “animals classified with breastplates” (qtd. in de Asúa and French 2005, 167). Argote’s sixteenth century museum and its animal specimens, most especially Fuleco, form an important trajectory for L’Écluse and in scientific practices associated with modern museums. A standard eighteenth-century German lexicon states that museums were connected to the muses—they contained art and most properly were a building in which scholars lived, dined, and studied together (Ziolkowski 1990, 313). As Argote and Monardes (and perhaps Philip II) discussed the meaning of the armadillo as specimen, so too did L’Écluse and Plateau. The act of counting lames in L’Écluse was innovative for faunal taxonomy because, instead of only typecasting from previous classical zoological descriptions of old-world fauna or Church doctrine, naturalists created a specimen for display in one’s home and defined animal categories through first hand observation. The observer was supposed to better understand the armadillo through the self-evident visual experience of its most striking feature, armor. Different unnamed armadillo specimens appeared in early humanist collections like those of Argote in Spain, as well as others like that of Conrad Gessner and Ulisse Aldrovandi. As many of those collections converted into early natural history museums, those unnamed armadillos stayed. When Gresham College London first opened in 1666, the museum was the result of the Royal Society’s conversion of Robert Hubert’s private cabinet, a curio collection that contained armadillos. The catalogue in the museum describes three armadillo specimens: a great shelled hedgehog, a pigheaded armadillo, and a weasel-headed armadillo (Asúa and French 2005, 219-220). Fuleco’s carapace in Argote’s private collections played a crucial role, along with objects, plants, and other animals considered unique to America, in igniting an intellectual discussion about animal taxonomy and the emerging institution of the natural history museum. By defining it based on its self-evident features, the armadillo played a role in a growing discipline of zoological visualization based on empiricism, shaping the epistemology of modern taxonomy. The armadillo in the frontispiece of the groundbreaking Experiments on the Generation of Insects (1668) by Francesco Redi (1626–97) represents America and scientific observation. The man in the frontispiece represents the New World, holding an armadillo under his arm, with the goddess Minerva pointing her finger at a microscope and some natural history drawings. The Redi frontispiece uses the image of the armadillo to herald Europe’s experience with the New World and to signal the dispassionate visualization of self-evident features of an era of experimental procedure

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based on systematizing empirical observation (Findlen 1994, 194–8 and de Asúa and French 2005, 212). The armadillo was not only a part of emerging natural history, but museum collections in general. It did not lose its appeal as a showcase item in later collections. In Still-life with Rarities by Jan van der Heyden (1637–1712), which is now in Budapest, all the objects are artificial, including two globes, two books, a painting, Chinese silk, a Chinese ceramic bowl, and oriental weapons (Sutton 2007, 208). The artificial and exotic objects in Still-life with Rarities are examples of extracted nature crafted into artifice. But, the one and only naturalia specimen is an animal and it is an armadillo carapace that hangs from the ceiling. Armadillos, especially Fuleco, sparked an interest in collectible specimens. By the eighteenth century, animal specimens had become part of museum institutional culture. The Spanish Crown, for instance, sent bureaucrats throughout the Empire and made over 335 shipments of natural specimens to Madrid over the course of seven decades (De Vos 2009). Armadillos also played a role in sparking a European narrative about American faunal degeneration and subordination. Scientific ideas of climate from the period created a notion that American animals were inferior, which was used to make an argument that American people were bound as politically subordinate to Europeans (Wey Gómez 2008, 341). Developing sixteenthcentury climate theory, the highly influential French naturalist Georges Buffon (1707–88) categorically defined fauna from the Americas as radically inferior because it suffered from degeneration vis-à-vis old-world varieties. Monardes inherently belittled the iconic American animal with the simple suffix -illo. Later, of course, in the nineteenth century, armadillos were not all small—at that time, naturalists began to excavate and study the bones of giant armadillos (glyptodon), confounding Buffon’s claims about the inferiority of new-world fauna.

Conclusion Scholars are increasingly considering how viewing subjects culturally constructed animal objects on display in museums (Thorsen, Rader, and Dodd 2013). The sixteenth century began the Age of the Specimen, and Fuleco the armadillo was one of the greats of the Age. His body as specimen celebrated the Spanish domination of America and provided the Habsburg monarch Philip II’s collection heightened legitimacy through its association with armor and horses.

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Monardes gave Fuleco armor and creatively turned him into a preposterously small version of a horselike animal. Fuleco was both small—a puny horse—and monstrous—naturally fitted with armor. These categories were sometimes juxtaposed for comic effect, such as in the “smallest monstrous mouse” from A Midsummer Night’s Dream (c.1595) by William Shakespeare (1564-1616). Just as Cervantes’s readers would have comically recognized Don Quixote’s golden helmet as not truly an example of shining armor, but simply a barber’s basin, so too Europeans would have perceived Fuleco’s armor as misplaced. He was not a noble armed European breed that augmented the king’s body, but a diminutive animal. Indeed, Cervantes begins Don Quixote by joking about Philip II’s penchant for the armoire.46 The epitome of Philip’s masculine pride were his horses and massive armoire (cabinet), the Royal Armory where he kept costly and spectacular armor. In radical contrast, Cervantes describes the corner of the old knight’s room: “some armor that had belonged to his great-grandfathers and, stained with rust and covered with mildew, had spent many long years stored and forgotten in a corner” (Cervantes 2003, 22). 47 Ursula Heise, in the first chapter of her book on culture and extinction, suggests that comedy emphasizes modes of survival over extinction and, in so doing, opens up different cognitive and emotional attachments to the “lives of other humans as well as nonhuman species” (2016, 14). The comedy in Fuleco’s story should not be overlooked. Finely crafted armor was the zenith of Philip’s artificialia, the maximum expression of sixteenth-century human ingenuity and craftsmanship, which comically contrasted with Fuleco, a horselike hybrid with armor and the zenith of American naturalia. I have taken Fuleco out of museum storage. While filled with failures and limitations, the reconstruction of his life has been filled with laughter and regeneration. Some species of armadillo, like the nine-banded variety that became the state mammal of Texas in 1995, defy the Anthropocene’s fifth extinction. James Michener underscores armadillo defiance: “An armadillo is not one whit more beautiful or mysterious than a butterfly or a pine cone, but it’s more fun. And what gave him the warmest satisfaction: All the other sizable animals of the world seem to be having their living areas reduced. Only the armadillo is stubbornly enlarging his” (2002, 928). 46 Signif icantly, the word armoire (armario, or guardarropa in Spanish) means “cabinet,” demonstrating that the etymology of the cabinet, or “the place for storing objects,” has, at its roots, the storing of one’s arms and armor. For a description of the Pilatos, another Seville collection from the early sixteenth century, that was called guardarropa, see Lleó Cañal 2017. 47 “unas armas que habían sido de sus bisabuelos, que tomadas de orín y llenas de moho, luengos siglos había que estaban puestas y olvidadas en un rincón” (Cervantes 1992, 37).

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Fig. 25. The Monkey Painter (1660) by David Teniers the Younger (Copyright Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado).

In conclusion, the invention of a fanciful name for an armadillo invites the consideration a specimen’s former sentience. Fuleco was not a dead shell observed by men in Seville, but an animal who once had eyes. The Monkey Painter (f ig. 25) by David Teniers (1610–90) can be interpreted as inspiring future art projects that take animal sentience as a point of departure. Ostensibly, The Monkey Painter satirizes the human-based visual experience. Two monkeys are surrounded by the typical objects found in the early modern museum—a collection of paintings, sculptures, and other objects. They observe and take part in the creation of a new aesthetic object. One monkey, nobly dressed with a feather hat, intently observes the other monkey in the act of painting. Belonging to the genre of singerie or “monkey trick” paintings, The Monkey Painter mocks the humanist museum tradition by portraying nobles and its early visitors as animals. But, does the painting only use the animal as a prop for the human? That is, should the painting only be interpreted as Teniers calling the bad human artist or humanist a “monkey”? I suggest that we may use the painting to pose questions that not only look to the past, but to Deleuze and Guatarri’s assertion that art begins with the animal. How can the artist and the animal collaborate and see each other’s eyes as powerful, individual, and inspiring?

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Jordan Gschwend, Annemarie. 2010. The Story of Süleyman: Celebrity Elephants and Other Exotica in Renaissance Portugal. Zurich: Pachyderm. ——. 2016. “Animals Fit for Emperors: Hans Khevenhuller and Habsburg Menageries in Vienna and Prague.” En la corte del rey de España: Liber Amicorum en homenaje a Carlos Gómez-Centurión Jiménez (1958-2011). Eds. Rafael Valladares Ramírez, Feliciano Barrios, and Juan Antonio Sánchez Belén. Madrid: Polifemo. 109–26. Keller, John Esten. 1972. “The Depiction of Exotic Animals in Cantiga XXIX of the Cantigas de Santa María.” Studies in Honor of Tatiana Fotitch. Washington, D.C.: Catholic University Press. 247–53. Lacarra, María Jesús. 2016. La literatura medieval hispánica en la imprenta (1475-1600). Valencia: Universitat de València. Lach, D. F. 1970. Asia in the Making of Europe, Volume II: A Century of Wonder. Book 1. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lawrence, Natalie. 2014. “Disembodied Birds: Crafting the Dodo and the Birds of Paradise in L’Écluse’s Exoticorum libri decem.” Commodity Histories. Accessed December 29, 2019. http://www.commodityhistories.org/research/ disembodied-birds. ——. 2015. “Exotic Origins: The Emblematic Biogeographies of Early Modern Scaly Mammals.” Itinerario 39: 17–43. L’Écluse (Clusius), Charles. 1605. Exoticorum Libri Decem. A nt wer p: Plantin-Raphelengius. Leitch, Stephanie. 2017. “Dürer’s Rhinoceros Underway: The Epistemology of the Copy in Early Modern Print.” The Primacy of the Image in North European Art: Essays in Honor of Larry Silver. Eds. Debra Taylor Cashion, Henry Luttikhuizen, and Ashley D. West. Leiden: Brill. 241–55. Léry, Jean de. 1994. Histoire d’un voyage faict en la terre du Brésil (1578). Ed. Frank Lestringant. Paris: Librairie Générale Française. Lleó Cañal, Vicente. 2017. La casa de Pilatos: Biografía de un palacio sevillano. Seville: University of Seville. López de Gómara, Francisco. 1877. Biblioteca de autores españoles, v.22. Ed. Bonaventura Carlos Aribau. Madrid: Rivadeneyra. López Medel, Tomás. 1990. De los tres elementos: Tratado sobre la naturaleza y el hombre del nuevo mundo. Ed. Berta Ares Queija. Madrid: Alianza. López Piñero, José María. 1991. El códice Pomar (ca.1590), el interés de Felipe II por la historia natural y la expedición Hernández a América. Valencia: University of Valencia. Mal Lara, Juan de. 1992. Recibimiento que hizo la muy noble y muy leal ciudad de Sevilla a la C.R.M. del Rey D. Felipe N.S. Con una breve descripción de la ciudad y su tierra. Ed. Manuel Bernal Rodríguez. Seville: University of Seville.

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3.

Jarama the Bull and Maghreb the Lion Abstract Chapter 3 provides a biogeography of Maghreb the lion and Jarama the bull. The collection of poems in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great describes a day of animal spectacle, focusing on the staged combat between Jarama and Maghreb. The poems celebrate the bull as classical hero and Philip IV as imperial hunter. After Jarama killed Maghreb, the poets in the collection depict the fighting bull as Spain’s own species and as the only wild animal in the world that was still to be dominated. They describe Philip IV’s final execution of the bull before the public as the spectacle’s glorious climax. The group of poets in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great represent the imperial literary elite who sought to forge collective identities of Europe and Spain, as well as in terms of race. Keywords: history of the bullf ight, staged animal combats, Maghreb the lion (ca. 1621–1631), Jarama the bull (ca. 1626–31), Philip IV of Spain (1605–65), Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, 1632)

Performance practice should never make animals the exclusive object of the human gaze. Instead, sites of animal performance need to be ones of bodily experimentation in which animals and humans are simultaneously both performers and audience members. Human singers, for instance, listen to whales and then alter their song and, at the same time, whales listen to the humans and alter theirs. In an essay in Performing Animality: Animals in Performance Practices (2015), Laura Cull Ó Maoilearca points to the possibility of spontaneous, emotive, and transformational mutual human-animal interaction.1 Interspecies collaboration as a performance model helps humans develop strategies for solving future environmental problems by becoming sensitive to nonhuman 1

Also see Cull Ó Maoilearca 2012.

Beusterien, J., Transoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2020 doi 10.5117/9789463720441_ch03

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animals as companions, who, even before humans existed, adapted to the arrival of other living organisms and environmental disruption. As in the last two chapters, the first half of the following chapter examines the lives of its two protagonists: Jarama, the bull, born on the banks of a river about thirty-six miles south of Madrid with other bulls bred for fighting, and Maghreb, the lion, born in a cave in the Atlas Mountains in northern Africa. Both animals were transported to Madrid and, as described in Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, 1632) by José Pellicer de Ossau y Tovar (1602–79), they fought each other and died in a staged animal combat in 1631. After providing context for the life and death of each animal, the second half of the chapter argues that Pellicer’s description of the staged animal combat established the centrality of the bull and marginality of the lion in Spanish spectacle. Aside from providing a material and cultural description of the life and journey of Jarama and Maghreb, the chapter examines each animal’s cultural afterlife. Bulls were not part of traditional commercial plays, nor were they typically represented in material culture in early modern Spain. But, as the publication of The Amphitheater of Philip the Great attests, the bull had become the star performer of an officially sanctioned staged animal combat. Poets in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great described the bull as the only wild animal left in the world for the monarch to dominate and established the bull’s body as central to ideas of nation and race. The corral was the common name in early modern Spain for a theater. Bruce Burningham examines how the emergence of commercial theater or corral in Spain took away the gaze of actors who had previously interacted with their publics in a spontaneous way. Burningham laments the loss of an intimate dialogue between the actor and spectator as a result of the commodif ied packaged performance that put an end to the unbridled performative impulse and, in turn, the transformative power of theater (2007, 169–70). Burningham uses the notion of corral to make a metaphorical argument: Just as the taming and domestication of the animal took place in the animal corral, so too did a taming or domestication of its actors stifle the transformative power of the theater or the corral (2007, 169–70). The following chapter takes Burningham’s description of the corral literally. The lives of Jarama the bull and Maghreb the lion as described in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great show how theatrical spectacle corralled animals and disregarded the possibility of mutual human-animal interaction. I call attention to the destructive practice of making animal performers for the human gaze so as to conceptualize an end to the figurative and material corralling of animals in performance. The chapter historicizes the

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staged animal combat that celebrated the human gaze over the animal to discredit the cultural logic of similar performance practices. It concludes by mentioning the interpretation of a graphic novel version of the play El retablo de las maravillas (The Marvelous Puppet Show, 1615) by Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616) as a way to stimulate reciprocal animal-human performance models.

Jarama the Bull (ca. 1626–1631) Authors have given Spanish bulls names for different purposes. Fernando the bull is a popular character in children’s literature and film. Caramelo the bull was a symbol of Spanish national pride in the nineteenth century. The bull described in the following pages had no name. I have chosen the name Jarama to refer to the Jarama River, because the most famous bulls in early modern Spain were said to get their ferociousness from drinking the water and grazing from the grasses along the Jarama’s banks. I also call the bull Jarama in bittersweet mockery of the way that he is described as performer and protagonist in the staged animal combat described in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great. The etymology of town names around Madrid reflects the region’s deep connection to cattle breeding: Boalo etymologically connects to the bovine; Becerril refers to a young calf; Buitrago has an ox in its coat of arms and is an old form of the word buey (“ox”); and, finally, Torote, from the word toro (“bull”), is both a small river tributary and a town. The act of controlling bulls in displays of courage and ingenuity is one of Europe’s oldest spectacles, as evidenced in archeological finds of the Minoan culture in Bronze Age Crete, most especially at the palace compound of Cnossos (Shelton 2014). Even though the popularity of the bull spectacle existed for thousands of years across locations in Europe, the Habsburgs officially sanctioned the Jarama River region as the planet’s most important site for bull breeding. The Jarama River flows north to south, passing east of Madrid. It is the main waterway in the area of Madrid, forming the tributary Manzanares that flows through Madrid, connecting with the Tagus River in Aranjuez. Charles I began to breed wild bulls along the Jarama River near Aranjuez and, by the end of the sixteenth century, the fields around Aranjuez were the designated breeding ground for Spain’s bulls. One source from 1602 describes the region of Aranjuez at the confluence of the Jarama and Tagus Rivers and specifies the age and type of 500 cattle that were bred as part of the royal herd of fighting bulls (López Izquierdo 1975).

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Jarama the bull was born along the banks of the Jarama River around 1626. He lived close to his mother for about eight to nine months. After about a year, breeders would have placed him in an area along the river reserved for males. Shortly thereafter, at the age of about 16 months, Jarama reached full sexual maturity. Living with the group of males, Jarama soon became the mandón, that is, the chief bull that kept the other bulls in line. Fully grown and at the height of his physical power, breeders captured Jarama, who had spent his first five years of life in relative peace grazing along the banks of the river and eating its grasses. To capture Jarama alive, they would have used lassos and special horses similar to the way modern-day rodeo performers take down and rope calves. Images of the capture of Spanish f ighting bulls began to circulate in Europe after Cosimo I de Medici (1519–74) employed Jan van der Straet (Stradanus) (1523–1605) to make a series of representations in the form of tapestries depicting hunting, fowling, and f ishing for the adornment of rooms in the Palace of Peggio-a-Cajano (from 1553 to 1571). In Antwerp, the publisher Philip Galle—the f irst and only man to circulate Abada’s image in printed form—published forty-three of Straet’s images. Galle employed the engraver Jan Cooaert (1566–1628) to copy and create copper engravings of hunting scenes based on the Medici tapestries that Stradanus had designed. Galle originally published forty-four images with short Latin descriptions in Venationes Ferarum, Auium, Piscium: Pugnae bestiariorum: & mutuae bestiarum (Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes, n.d.). Galle later added more images, increasing the total number of images in Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes to sixty-one. Galle’s book had numerous printings in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and widely circulated throughout Europe. One artist, Antonio Tempesta (1555–1630), copied one of the most popular images from Galle’s Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes. Tempesta circulated the image independently as a printed broadsheet. It shows the hunting of a bull on horseback with a lasso in a scene that shows how Jarama may have been captured. In the countryside around Lubbock, Texas, there are many roads called “FM,” originally farm-to-market roads. In early modern Spain, men walked cattle by foot, including unruly bulls, along a vía pecunaria (“cattle-to-market road”). Economic historian Antonio Luis López Martínez (2002; 2006) notes that toros bravos (“bulls bred for fighting”) were regularly moved to Pamplona from as far away as Salamanca and Zamora in the early modern period. Even more suppliers transported fighting bulls to Madrid. The transport of Jarama from Aranjuez to Madrid would have been a relatively short distance (36

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miles). Early modern Madrid had upwards of forty suppliers. Records for festivities in Madrid in the seventeenth century record five fighting bull suppliers from Toledo (60 miles) and eleven from Ciudad Real (100 miles) (López Martínez 2002, 245). In 1631, Jarama was captured and brought to Madrid. He would have been brought along an established supply route on a cattle-to-market road for toros bravos following the century-old practice known as the encierro. The encierro is a typical feast day custom in towns across central Spain, most famously Pamplona. A group of men on horses and on foot lead a small herd of fighting bulls to an enclosed area—the encierro—in the center of town. Most town feast days only celebrate the last leg of the encierro, that is, the arrival of the herd of bulls to town. One town, however, Cuéllar, in Segovia, still celebrates the complete encierro, in which men typically lead the bulls from the breeding ranch for four miles along a designated farm-to-market route to the center of town. Although different places across Europe bred and watched wild bull spectacles for centuries, by 1513, Spain had a distinct reputation in Europe as having its own toro bravo. If he were still living when Jarama was born, the foremost sixteenth-century authority on breeding, the humanist Gabriel Alonso de Herrera (1470–1539), would have been vehemently critical of the way in which Jarama was bred.2 Herrera published Obra de Agricultura (Treatise on Agriculture, 1513, 1524, and 1584) in the early sixteenth century. The immensely popular book on breeding was published in twenty-eight editions in Spain through the nineteenth century.3 Aside from agricultural advice, Herrera discusses animal husbandry and describes the best ways to breed and care for cattle. For instance, he describes the proper procedure for castration for good oxen. Oxen, or castrated bulls, were the primary source of draught power for plowing from ancient times until the nineteenth century. Although bulls, in contrast to oxen, roamed free and uncastrated, they also, like oxen, needed good husbandry. Herrera described how to control young bulls, how to choose the best shape and size of bull for breeding, and when and how they should be allowed to mate. Gabriel Alonso de Herrera attacks bovine husbandry practices for breeding toros bravos. He praises Italy, France, and “even” Aragón over Spain because they do not breed toros bravos. Herrera complains that he cannot 2 For more anti-bullfighting attitudes from Lope de Vega’s plays, see Martínez Novillo 1998. 3 One English translation underscores how Herrera gave practical advice for the contemporary practice of sustainable farming (2006).

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understand how an animal can be killed for the sake of killing. He asks, “what pleasure could be gained in watching such a spectacle’ and ‘what enjoyment is there in killing?”4 He concludes: “In our Spain they kill bulls with dangerous pleasure, piercing them with spears and rejones as if these animals were evil doers when they are blameless. And the most atrocious wrong is that the act celebrates the feast day of a saint.”5 Despite protests from Herrera, anti-bullfighting ideas remained on the margins and the corrida became a royally sanctioned event for Habsburg royalty in sixteenth-century Spain. As Herrera writes, corridas formed part of Spanish religious spectacle. Towns primarily celebrated corridas in honor of saints on religious holidays. During Charles V’s rule, Valladolid regularly celebrated bull-fighting feasts on Corpus Christi and on saint days, including those celebrating Saint John and Saint James or Santiago. The only variant among the different celebrations was the number of bulls killed during the day’s feast, which was between four and nineteen during the course of the sixteenth century (Bennassar 1989). Philip II (scholars debate how great a great fan he was) inherited the corrida as a popular animal spectacle from his father. Enrique Cock (ca. 1540–98), Philip II’s chief archer, describes how, at one corrida in Valladolid, a bull ran off through the crowd and that he and Philip’s other archers shot down the animal. then the bullfights began which is not worth comment. One bull, however, came out after the juego de cañas (“game of canes”) adorned with trappings and fireworks sticking out of its body. After they burned out, the bull became so unruly that it killed some people. It ran around until evening. When His Majesty decided to retire, he ordered that the archers kill the bull. We chased it, but it escaped running by us four or six times. Finally, it arrived to our barracks where we had encamped. At this point, it ran between all of us and we were able to finish it off.6 4 “a saber que placer se puede haber de matar” (Herrera 1513, 160; Herrera 1524, 153; Herrera 1584, 176). 5 “en nuestra España matan los toros con peligroso placer, echando las lanças y garrochas como si fuesen malhechores no teniendo culpa. Y lo que es mayor error hacerse en honor de santos y en sus fiestas” (Herrera 1513, 160; Herrera 1524, 153; Herrera 1584, 176). 6 “comenzaron los toros, que fueron de poca importancia, hasta uno que salió después del juego de caña, todo enalbardado, lleno de cohetes, el cual, en acabando el fuego, fue tan bravo que mató alguna gente, y corrió tanto que vino anochecer, de suerte que queriendo retirarse Su Majestad, hubo de mandar a los dos guardas de albarderos que los matasen. Los cuales andando tras él, por cuatro o seis veces salió y pasó por entre ello, y al fin llegó al cuartel, donde estaba nuestra guarda de archeros, y cogiendo en medio de todos, fue allí muerto” (Cock 1879, 29).

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Cock’s description indicates that Philip II enjoyed the spectacle during the day—including the bull running through the crowds and killing people—until the evening arrived and he grew tired. Philip II valued the bull spectacle so much that he disregarded the Pope’s desire to end it. When the Papacy issued an injunction to excommunicate nobles who were bullfighters and, in 1572, forbade clergy to attend bullfights on holy days, Philip did not heed the edict. In fact, he wrote to the Pope to have the decision reversed (Defourneaux 1970, 133). Under Philip II’s successor, Philip III, the use of the fighting bull in royally sanctioned spectacles expanded. During the years 1599 to 1614, Philip III’s court visited Alcalá, Burgos, Cuenca, Gumiel, Guadalajara, Lerma, Madrid, Melgar, Palencia, Salamanca, Segovia, and Valladolid. In all of these places, the towns celebrated the King’s visit with a corrida. When King Philip III arrived to a city or locale, townspeople sometimes organized parades, dances, plays, and even the occasional animal fight. But the spectacle of the bullfight was a constant. The highlight of each royal visit was a corrida. The case of Alcalá was typical: They were there two days, they held a corrida, and then, with the bull spectacle finished, the Court departed (Cabrera 1997, 438). Under Philip III, the bullfight became a regular part of Madrid’s culture of spectacle. Regarding the allure of the event, one contemporary notes: “And though these fetes are usually fairly commonplace, and in Madrid there are three or four each year, there is not a man in the town who would not pawn his furniture rather than miss one because he lacked the entrance fee” (qtd. in Defourneaux 1970, 134). Francisco Santos (1617–98) writes in Día y noche de Madrid (Madrid at Day and Night, 1663) how the Plaza Mayor overflowed with people: “so many people come in the morning to watch them bring in the bulls that there is not any open space. Four or six bulls are fought and when the feast finishes the crowded people watching from the stands climb over each other and cover the Plaza.”7 After the toreador quitted the Plaza Mayor, common folk would come out and strike dying bulls with cutlasses, and kill and butcher the animals. As in Roman times, the end result provided commoners a rare opportunity to supplement their grain-based diet with meat. A French visitor from the period described this moment in disparaging terms: As soon as it begins to totter or to stand only on three legs, the wretched bull is hacked to pieces by cuts from short swords called cuchilladas. This 7 “Viene por la mañana tanta gente al encierro de los toros que no queda lugar que no se ocupe. Córrense cuatro o seis delos y acábase la fiesta, y la gente que ocupaba los tablados se apea para cubrir la plaza” (Santos 2010, 671).

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is where the common people reveal their lust for blood; for one can see that they do not consider themselves good mother’s sons unless they plunge their knives into the blood of the bull. (qtd. in Defourneaux 1970, 135)

The French author makes incendiary comments about Spanish bloodlust and reveals more about his own lack of knowledge about the provenance of meat. The author is unfamiliar with animal butchery, a practice common in cities and towns across early modern Europe. Animals, even exotic ones, were butchered and eaten well into the modern period. When Chunee the elephant died in England in the nineteenth century, hundreds came to “pay their respects” until the stench of his rotting cadaver chased them away. It took nine butchers twelve hours to flay the hide before Chunee was dissected by surgeons—one of whom ate the flesh (Grigson 2016, 212). The Jarama region supplied the bulls for the new capital and they became symbolically associated with Spain. In the sixteenth century, Spanish authors shaped an emerging national character by celebrating Madrid as urban center. They contrasted Madrid with the wild region of the neighboring Jarama River region. Authors promoted the legendary origins of Madrid and, in so doing, highlighted the importance of the Jarama region in the popular mindset as a wild region in contrast to the concomitant urban space of Madrid. Lope de Vega wrote three plays that celebrated Madrid’s patron saint, Isidro, and Lope stated that Isidro’s wife was from Jarama. Isidro’s wife walked on top of the raging Jarama River like Jesus by putting down her shawl and crossing before she reached Madrid (Mayo 2008, 82). Authors of fiction throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries described the banks of the Jarama River as creating Spain’s most ferocious bulls. The picaresque novel La vida y hechos de Estebanillo González (Life and Deeds of Estebanillo Gonzalez, 1646), plays like Marta la piadosa (Marta the Pious) by Tirso de Molina (1584–1648), and Don Quixote mention the commonplace that no bull in all the land could match the fury and wild nature of a bull bred in Jarama.8 Jarama the bull came from a stock of fighting bulls who were bred to be wild. Garry Marvin’s contemporary description of breeding fighting Spanish bulls is also true for early modern Spain. Marvin describes how wildness is part of the bull’s domesticity: “What is more complex in breeding fighting bulls is that breeders are not seeking docility and manageability. Here the 8 Full quotes from each work are as follows: “los bravos conocidos que se criaban en las riberas de Jarama” from La vida y hechos de Estebanillo González; “Los toros de Jarama eran tenidos por los más bravos” from Marta la piadosa; and “no hay toros que valgan, aunque sean de los más bravos que cría Jarama en sus riberas” from Don Quijote, Part II.58.

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desire is for these animals to be imbued with a certain temperament of wildness that will be expressed when they are in the plaza” (Marvin 2015, 43). Jarama bulls were bred for ferocity in staged animal combats as early as the fifteenth century. One fifteenth-century nobleman, who collected wolves, tigers, and lions, organized a special animal fight with a palisade on his grounds that featured a fight between a lion and bull from the Jarama region (López Rinconada 1999, 286). Popular poetry from the early modern period provides a window on what people expected a bull from the Jarama river region to look like and how they expected him to behave. The nineteenth-century scholar Agustín Durán included the anonymous poem “Zulema” in his edited collection of romances, poems from the Spanish ballad tradition. Durán writes that “Zulema” was of unsurpassed poetic composition of beauty and perfection (“Zulema” 1851, 78). “Zulema” describes a celebrated bull from Jarama let loose in the plaza with a wild and ferocious demeanor An angry and prideful glare A wide nose, a short neck An offensive horn, and black skin.9

Jarama the bull’s reputation preceded him before he was released in Philip IV’s amphitheater and fought Maghreb the lion. For a hundred years before he appeared as a protagonist in Pellicer’s The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, the most famous seventeenth-century Spanish bull, with a prideful glare, had been bred as having a short neck, a wide snout, and black skin.

Maghreb the Lion (ca. 1621–1631) The Arabic al-magrib translates to “west” or the “place where the sun sets” and it is also the name for Morocco (Naylor 2009, 253 n. 3). Referred to as the “Barbary Coast” and the “Land of Atlas,” the Maghreb today is the northern region of Africa that includes the modern states of Morocco, as well as Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, and Mauritania. It also includes disputed territory in the Western Sahara and the cities of Melilla and Ceuta, controlled by Spain and claimed by Morocco. In early modern Europe, Maghrebis, or the Muslim Berbers, were known as moros (“Moors”). 9 “aspecto bravo y feroz / vista enojosa y soberbia / ancha nariz, corto cuello / cuerno ofensible, piel negra” (“Zulema” 1851, 78).

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Pellicer describes a lion in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great who died as a performer. Just as Jarama is the region where Jarama the bull was born, so my choice of the name Maghreb is to evoke the region where he was born. Maghreb the lion’s life began away from the rest of the lions in his mother’s pride in a place far from human settlements in the Atlas Mountains. He most likely had one or two siblings. His mother reared him and his cub siblings hidden away in a lair in a cave for about eight weeks. Often, she had to leave the litter unprotected when she went to hunt. At about two years, Maghreb was independent from his mother and lucky to have survived into adulthood. Some estimates suggest that 80% of lions die before reaching adulthood due to starvation, predators, and infanticide (when male lions take over a pride of lionesses). Not only was Maghreb lucky to have survived into adulthood, but his entire species is lucky to have survived, although only in captivity. Those who have seen lions in animal documentaries in the wild have never seen Maghreb’s species. In 1925, the last visual record of a living Barbary, or Altas lion, in the wild was taken when Marcelin Flandrin flew overhead on the Casablanca–Dakar route (Black et al. 2013). Barbary lions survived in the deserts and mountains of northern Africa, ranging from Morocco to Egypt, until their nineteenth-century decimation in the wild. After surviving human hunters for centuries, the nineteenth-century extraction by hunters for circuses and public zoos in Europe and North America in the 1800 and 1900s ended the last “big-maned Barbary” lions found in the wild (Barnett et al. 2008). No Barbary lion survives in the wild in the twenty-first century because they were hunted to extinction. Some specimens, though, were saved when the Sultan moved them to Royal Palace in Rabat in 1899. Today, the only living Barbary lions are in captivity in the Rabat Zoo in Temara, Morocco (Black et al. 2013). As of 2019, the Maghreb region had a human population of over 100 million and perhaps ninety Barbary lions living in captivity. Morphological and genetic differences separate the Barbary lion (as well as the Indian) from the sub-Saharan species. The Barbary is the largest living lion subspecies. Male human potentates in Eurasia admired the Barbary lion’s size and dark mane for over a millennium. Thousands of Barbary lions were killed for Roman emperors in the Coliseum by gladiators and in animal fights. Thousands more were captured in the medieval and early modern period for Ottoman menageries in Cairo and Istanbul and for Christian elites in Europe, especially for Florence, a city that collected wild lions starting in the thirteenth century to represent its pride and independence as city-state (Groom 2019).

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The Habsburgs also kept Barbary lions. Philip II, upon assuming the Spanish throne in 1556, named a lion-keeper for his father’s collection in Ghent (Loisel 1915: I, 227–8). Philip also named Archduke Albert and Archduchess Isabella, the Spanish governors of the Southern Netherlands, to take over the Ghent lion menagerie (Faber Kolb 2005; Logan and Plomp 2004, 168). Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640), as court painter, witnessed the lions in the Ghent menagerie and painted Daniel in the Den of Lions (1609, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.), one of the best studies of live Barbary lions from the early modern period. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Istanbul had a healthy stock of lions, often used in staged combats, kept at the Imperial Lion House (Ben-Ami 2017, 19). Ottoman potentates regularly borrowed from their reserves to supply Barbary lions to European potentates. The Medici family was Europe’s most famous Barbary lion collectors. In 1569, when Cosimo I de Medici was awarded the title of Grand Duke of Tuscany by Pope Pius V (1504–72), he received a lion as part of a diplomatic gift package from a captain of Algiers, which also included a monkey, an ostrich, a black Arabian stallion, a brown mare, and a leopard (Groom 2019, 48). In 1637, Mehmed Pasha Saqizli (r. 1632–49) sent an envoy and gifts from Tripoli to the Grand Duke Ferndinado II (1610–70), which included another lion, along with ostriches, leopards, civet cats, and horses (Groom 2019, 49). Barbary lions were used as diplomatic pawns among the Medici family and the Habsburgs. For instance, the Spaniard Juan Alonso Pimentel de Herrera (ca. 1550–1621), governor of the Duchy of Milan (r. 1572–3), asked Cosimo I de Medici for a young lion to mate with his lioness. In a gesture that showed Medici power and the willingness to establish ties, Cosimo eagerly responded to Pimentel’s request but did not comply (Groom 2019). Even though some early modern Europeans, like Pimentel de Herrera, tried to mate Barbary lions in captivity, the overwhelming majority arrived as gifts from diplomatic missions or as captured booty from North Africa. Juan de Austria (1545–78) had a live lion, captured as booty from a North African campaign. The lion supposedly accompanied him wherever he went. Argote writes in Libro de la Montería (The Book on Hunting, 1582): “the lion of the unconquerable lord Don Juan, called Austria, was so tame that it lived with him and slept in his bedroom. The lion was taken from the Tunis castle when the lord Don Juan entered there. We all know about [his lion].”10 10 “el león del invictísimo el señor Don Juan, llamado Austria, tan manso, que residía y dormía en su aposento qu fue hallado dentro del alcazaba de Túnez cuando el señor Don Juan entró en ella, todos le conocimos” (Argote de Molina 1582, III: 10v).

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Lions were sent to the Habsburgs to show friendship in diplomacy, but Ottoman rulers also sent lions to Habsburg enemies to leverage power against them. In 1533, in a display of power, Khair-ed-Din (1475–1546), the famed Red Beard, sent a messenger with an African lion and a group of French captives in chains to Puy-en-Velay (Baghdiatz McCabe 2008, 38). Upon the arrival of the captive lion and humans to Puy-en-Velay, Khair-ed-Din ordered the release of all in a show of power. Khair-ed-Din’s diplomatic intention was to strengthen an alliance with the French in hopes of curbing Charles V’s power. Throughout the early modern period, live animals were part of diplomatic gift packages, and Maghreb the lion was a diplomatic gift like Abada the rhinoceros and Hawa’i the elephant. The ambassadorial envoy that sent Maghreb, however, was not from the Mughal Empire, but the Ottoman Empire. An appointed Ottoman governor in the north of Africa probably sent Maghreb the lion to Philip IV. Maghreb the lion was most likely caught by a local Berber tribe in the Atlas Mountains and sold to an elite working for an Ottoman governor in North Africa. I suspect that Maghreb was caught using a method employed by Berber hunters since classical times. Pliny says that horsemen chased the animals into a purpose-built pit. Once trapped, hunters would lower down a compact cage baited with meat. The lion would jump in willingly and the cage would be closed and lifted out of the pit. Because of its centuries-long contact with Islam and the north of Africa, Spain had a thriving network for extracting lions. Elites across the Iberian Peninsula in the medieval period possessed Barbary lions, most famously Henry IV, who kept six lions in the Alcázar in Segovia. Attesting to their regular arrival to Europe in the sixteenth century, Argote, in addition to Juan of Austria’s lion, describes a catalogue of Spanish elites who kept captive lions and mentions that “everyone” has seen lions enter the port in Lisbon: “we have always seen lions arrive to Lisbon.”11 Around 1630, Maghreb the lion would have been put in an Ottoman vessel and shipped to Seville or Cadiz as part of the ambassadorial envoy. Despite the bitter enmity between the Ottomans and Habsburgs, diplomacy continued in the early modern period. One ambassador from north Africa, for instance, lived in the Puerto of Santa María in southern Spain in 1609–10 when seeking diplomatic help from Philip III (Zhiri 2016). Moreover, Spain was forced to fight and negotiate with the Turks constantly. Despite major defeats of Turkish forces like at Lepanto, Ottoman fleets continued military 11 “en Lisbona, hemos visto siempre leones” (Argote de Molina 1582, III: 10v).

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and economic operations in the western Mediterranean in the seventeenth century, as well as expanding well out into the Atlantic Ocean, as far as Madeira and the west coasts of England, Denmark, and Sweden. Maghreb the lion probably had a special handler and, during transportation by boat, may have been tied up around the haunches like the lion in the image on the sixteenth-century Tournai tapestry, Arrival of Vasco da Gama to Calicut or Cochin (discussed in Chapter 1). The shipment of Maghreb to Spain was relatively uneventful compared to the other transoceanic felines. Four jaguars were sent as gifts to King Philip IV from the Viceroy of Peru in 1635. Philip IV surely would have been excited to receive these animals, as he could add them to his collection of lions and other animals in his newly opened lion patio in the Buen Retiro. Like the journey of Hawa’i and Abada, the journey experienced by the four jaguars from America was perilous. They had multiple stops along the way and often waited weeks at a time in the ports along the way from Veracruz to Spain. The return trip from Veracruz in America to Cadiz in Spain included stops in La Habana and the Azores Islands (Gómez-Centurión Jiménez 2011, 64). Live animals often had to wait in port for weeks because of fleet delays in leaving the Indies. Gómez-Centurión Jiménez estimates that the average time spent at sea was around four months. The four jaguars had at least six port stops before arriving to Cadiz. One of the four jaguars died during the journey. Upon arriving to dry land, forty-eight black slaves carried the surviving three jaguars in cages on their shoulders to Madrid (Gómez-Centurión Jiménez 2011, 64). Philip, nonetheless, ensured them a good supply of food and water. For the journey from Cadiz to Madrid, he supplied thirty pigs and thirty fanegas of corn, and he added a supplement of three more pigs and a ram at one stop along the way. A container of 500 liters of water for each animal was also transported. In contrast to the jaguars, Maghreb had a relatively short sea journey. Ottoman rulers regularly transferred the animals to the menageries of their own potentates across much larger distances to Cairo and Istanbul. They also made regular Barbary lion tributes to other European elites across distances much farther than Spain (Groom 2019, 256). When brought from southern Spain to Madrid, it is most likely that Maghreb was taken on a route that avoided passing through populated regions and towns. A document from the eighteenth century indicates that a live lion was taken to Madrid through a route that bypassed towns in order to avoid curious onlookers (Gómez-Centurión Jiménez 2011, 69). A lion-tamer was also probably assigned to Maghreb in Orán to handle him from Africa to Madrid. In the play Lo fingido verdadero (Acting is

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Believing, 1607–8), Lope de Vega provides one common name for a liontamer from the period: “the handlers that control lions are leontocomos.”12 In Don Quixote, the lion-tamer is called a leonero. The lion episode in Don Quixote, although fictional, provides a description of how Maghreb may have been transported over land to Madrid. In Part II of Don Quixote, Don Quixote and Sancho observe a wagon in the distance pulled by mules and adorned with waving royal banners. The banners were a sign that the contents of the wagon belonged to the King. When the wagon draws close, the man driving the wagon tells Quixote: “inside are two fierce lions that the General of Orán is sending to court as a present for His Majesty” (Cervantes 2003, 560).13 Cervantes’s Don Quixote f ictionalizes an authentic lion transport that occurred in the sixteenth century. The Ottoman ruler Süleyman gave Philip II four lions with gold leashes and collars engraved with the Habsburg coat of arms (Pérez de Tudela and Jordan Gschwend 2007, 434; Amezúa y Mayo 1949). Süleyman, who handled a steady supply of Barbary lions from North Africa to Istanbul, also ordered Barbary lions sent directly to Philip II. In this case, he sent lions that left from the port city of Orán; the Spanish governor of Orán, Martín Alfonso de Córdoba y Velasco (1520–1604), would have been in charge of sending them to Philip II. Like the lion gifts to Philip II that Cervantes f ictionalizes in the episode with Quixote and Sancho, Maghreb was likely an Ottoman gift for Philip IV. Prior to the reference to the lion transported to the king in Don Quixote, Argote, in The Book on Hunting, disseminated two Barbary lion stereotypes: the European monarch was its hunter and the lion was man-eating. One of the lionesses that Philip II received as a gift from the governor from Orán escaped from her pen in the Alcázar in Madrid, and Argote describes how the dogs that belonged to Philip II’s wife Isabel de Valois hunted and killed the lioness: having penetrated the thicket, the hunting party, most especially a mass of bloodhounds, closed in on the lioness […] [three Spanish greyhounds] grabbed her from the front by the ears. The dogs were then helped by all the others and took the bleeding lion down on all sides. Because they had badly injured the lioness’s back, it stopped its ferocious attack, and 12 “leontocomos son […] los maestros que gobiernan los leones” (Lope de Vega 1986, 68). 13 “lo que va en él son dos bravos leones enjaulados, que el general de Orán envía a la corte, presentados a su Majestad” (Cervantes 1992, 678).

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Fig. 26. “About Lion Hunting” (1582) by Juan de Arfe. Argote de Molina’s Libro de la Montería (Chapter 30, page 10r) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla).

gave itself up to the dogs. The hunters then moved in with their spears and killed the animal.14

Steven Wagschal argues that literature from early modern Spain depicts animals as having greater cognitive capacity when they are described as either captive or domestic. The description of the lioness in Argote is a good case in point. The dog that captures him is given a name, Lionel, and is described as a thinking tool in the human hunt. In turn, the lioness has neither a mind nor a name, but is simply endowed with the stereotypical trait of ferocity (Wagschal 2018, 170). Argote’s The Book on Hunting includes the chapter “De la montería de leones” (“On Lion Hunting”). Argote describes the lion as a man-eater. He includes a woodcut created by Juan de Arfe to show a ferocious lion in action (fig. 26). Argote writes that, when Philip II sent Don Juan de Austria to hand over Tunisia to his Spanish ally Muley, a lion jumped on the back of a Moor on horseback who was part of the retinue, ripping him to shreds 14 “allegándose los monteros a la zarza, y el primero que agarró en ella fue un lebrel […] agarrado dela o delante y por las orejas, fueron ayudados de los demás haciendo presa en ella por muchas partes; y como la leona estuviese desangrada de la herida del espada, perdida mucha de su furia, se acabó de rendir a los lebreles. Y a este tiempo los monteros la acometieron con los venablos y la mataron” (Argote de Molina 1582, III: 10v).

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in the area of his hips and tearing open his horse (61). Arfe probably used the image from Galle’s Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes that depicts the same scene of the Barbary lion eating the Moor. Aside from Galle, Arfe’s image may have impacted future representations of the Barbary lion as a man-eating beast in visual culture, most especially Peter Paul Rubens’s A Lion Hunt (National Gallery, London, ca. 1614–5). The Quixote lion episode jokingly pokes fun at the value that elites placed upon the Barbary’s large size, ferocity, and association with the African wild. Quixote asks the man driving the cart if the lions that he is escorting are big. The lion-keeper responds that they are “so big … that no lions bigger, or even as big, have ever been brought over from Africa to Spain; I’m the lion keeper and I’ve brought over other lions, but none like these” (Cervantes 2003, 560).15 Cide Hamete Benegeli, the fictional Arabic author of the Don Quixote, interrupts the conversation to tell the reader that the author of “this true history” originally set the scene for the reader in this way: “you stand waiting and anticipating the two most savage lions ever born in the African jungle” (Cervantes 2003, 563).16 Quixote wants to engage the lion in combat like a gladiator, but the lion simply turns it back and refuses to leave the cage. Historic cases of lions that refuse to fight can be found across the early modern world. Elites, like the Medici family and the Habsburgs used lions in staged animal combats. In 1459, the Medicis organized a staged animal combat in the Piazza della Signoria in Florence for an international delegation that discussed funding a papal crusade against the Turks. In the spectacle, lions were pitted against bulls, as well as goats, cows, boars, wolves, foxes, and a calf. The fight did not go as planned because the lions refused to attack (Groom 2019, 136). Elites in the land of the Turks also staged animal combats and, in one combat in Istanbul in 1582, the lion, described as the most ferocious and dreadful to have ever entered into combat, refused to perform and instead returned to the lion house (Ben-Ami 2017, 19). In Don Quixote, the male lion—this time fictional—shows an unwillingness to fight, like his historic counterparts in Italy and Turkey. Cervantes builds up the reader’s anticipation when the lion cage is open right in front of Don Quixote: The first thing the lion did was to turn around in the cage where he had been lying and unsheathe his claws and stretch his entire body; then 15 “tan grandes […] que no han pasado mayores, ni tan grandes, de África a España jamás; y yo soy el leonero, y he pasado otros; pero como éstos, ninguno” (Cervantes 1992, 678). 16 “estás aguardando y atendiendo los dos más fieros leones que jamás criaron las africanas selvas” (Cervantes 1992, 681).

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he opened his mouth, and yawned very slowly, and extended a tongue almost two spans long, and cleaned the dust from his eyes and washed his face; when this was finished, he put his head out of the cage and looked all around with eyes like coals, a sight and a vision that could frighten temerity itself. (Cervantes 2003, 563)17

After looking in both directions, the lion “showed his hindquarters to Don Quixote, and with great placidity and calm went back inside the cage” (Cervantes 2003, 563).18 Choosing the name Maghreb for a lion that was never given a proper name is not reductive anthropocentrism. The Cervantine lion, like Maghreb and the other four animals that I study in this book, made choices with intentional agency. Similarly, Cervantes’s Don Quixote mocks how elites and humanists like Argote depicted the lion as man-eating, ferocious, and as an object deserving to be hunted. Cervantes depicts the lion as sentient. The lion looked at his combatant and refused to fight. Instead, the lion turned and showed his ass to Don Quixote. The description of the lion in Don Quixote anticipates pictorial treatments of lions that appear centuries later, such as that of Théodore Géricault, whose Head of a Lioness in the early nineteenth century challenges the humancentered generic boundaries of portraiture by depicting the particularity of a lion as perceptive and communicative subject (Hornstein 2019).19 In his assessment of the lion episode in Cervantes, Wagschal points out that the lion that faces Don Quixote possesses rich “mental processes of reflection, intention, and emotion” (2018, 210). Wagshal concludes that, in contrast to the description of the mindless lion in Argote, Cervantes demonstrates, through subtle, constructive anthropomorphism, the complexity of the lion’s mind.

17 “Lo primero que hizo fue revolverse en la jaula, donde venía echado, y tender la garra, y desperezarse todo; abrió luego la boca y bostezó muy despacio, y con casi dos palmos de lengua que sacó fuera se despolvoreó los ojos y se lavó el rostro; hecho esto, sacó la cabeza fuera de la jaula y miró a todas partes con los ojos hechos brasas, vista y ademán para poner espanto a la misma temeridad” (Cervantes 1992, 681–2). 18 “volvió las espaldas y enseñó sus traseras partes a don Quijote, y con gran flema y remanso se volvió a echar en la jaula” (Cervantes 1992, 682). 19 Also compare the Cervantes lion with the treatment that the press gave two lions in a staged combat in nineteenth-century England in Warwick. Each of the combat lions had a name and, in their fight against dogs, each demonstrated a different attitude. Wallace the lion ferociously attacked the dogs and Nero the lion ignored them, to his detriment. See Cowie 2017.

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The Makeshift Theater On October 16, 1631, Jarama the bull killed Maghreb the lion. King Philip IV subsequently killed Jarama before a live audience. Pellicer’s title, The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, and his description of the staged animal combat give the impression that the event took place in a great Roman-type coliseum. Pellicer evoked Rome because of the fame of its animal combat events. In a single event in Rome, thousands of animals were systematically slaughtered before the public.20 The emperor sometimes actively participated as model of the hunter in the animal spectacle. The emperor Commodus fashioned himself as a second Hercules, like Habsburg rulers did centuries later, and is recorded as having killed prize animals in the games, including ostriches, bears, hippopotamuses, elephants, lions, a tiger, a giraffe, and a rhinoceros (Shelton 2014). Spanish Habsburg monarchs aspired to follow the Roman precedent. Philip III made himself the human protagonist in animal spectacles. Luis Cabrera de Córdoba not only wrote a history of Philip II, but also of Philip III. In one spectacle in Valladolid in 1603, Cabrera writes that Philip III shot a bull as part of the bullfighting ceremony: “last week they held a bullfight in the Plaza behind the Palace. The fiercest of all the bulls was spared for the following day at which time the King from his window fired four shots from a harquebus and with the last he hit the animal squarely in the forehead and felled it.”21 Cabrera writes that, for another spectacle held in Valladolid in 1607, Philip III set a lion on a bull: Before leaving Valladolid, His Majesty wanted to fight a lion with a bull. They enclosed both animals in the Plaza behind the Palace that was fenced with scaffolding. The lion was young and became afraid. In its 20 Jo-Ann Shelton also notes that, in 107 CE, the emperor Trajan celebrated his military victory in Dacia with a 120-day-long spectacle during which 11,000 animals were killed. Suetonius reports that, on one day alone, 5,000 large animals died in the course of the spectacles staged in the Colosseum. The majority were common domestic animals while others were captured wild animals from the region around Rome. In fact, even though many scholars focus on the exotic animals in discussing the Roman games, the most common animals included in the animal spectacle in Roman times were pigs and cattle, which included bulls. In smaller towns, the mainstay of animal spectacles were the animals that were not yet driven into extinction like bears and wild herbivores (Shelton 2014, 469). 21 “y la semana pasada hubo toros en la plazuela que se ha hecho tras de Palacio, y se guardó uno por ser el más bravo para el día siguiente que le corrieron allí mesmo, y el Rey desde la ventana le tiró cuatro arcabuzazos, y con el postrero le derribó con haberle acertado en la frente” (Cabrera 1997, 184).

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first approach the bull threw the lion up in the air and afterwards he kept running away although men would prod him with a pike. Nothing would make him approach the bull.22

Philip III then shot his long bow at the bull: “all three arrows from His Majesty’s long bow aimed at the bull hit their mark.”23 At the end of the staged animal combat in Madrid on October 16, 1631, Philip IV followed his father’s precedent and shot Jarama. As evidence of his fascination with the Roman games, he placed the massive Perspectival View of a Roman Amphitheater (ca. 1638) in his newly constructed Buen Retiro Palace. Perspectival View of a Roman Amphitheater forms part of a cycle of paintings of ancient Rome that Philip IV commissioned for the new Buen Retiro palace. Viviano Codazzi (ca. 1606–1670) painted the architecture of the Roman amphitheater, and Domenico Gargiulo (ca. 1610–ca. 1675) painted the animals and other figures. This painting (in the Museo del Prado today) depicts hundreds of people observing a series of animal fights simultaneously taking place inside a Roman amphitheater, including a man fighting a bear, an elephant tossing another elephant, and a bull butting a barrel. In hyperbolic fashion, in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, Pellicer nods to classical tradition by stating that “Rome had never seen the likes of such a contest.”24 Pellicer uses the Roman imperial model to celebrate Philip IV’s epic imperial moment. The frontispiece of The Amphitheater of Philip the Great also conjures up classical Greek tradition. In the extended title, Pellicer calls the event an “agonic feast.” The Greek word agon suggests competition, particularly in warfare and hunting, and Pellicer suggests that Philip IV, when he killed Jarama, became a classical hero and the star of the show. Philip IV was extremely interested in attending grand spectacles. Philip IV went to jousts, games of canes, staged naval battles, and plays. In 1622, Philip IV, an aspiring playwright, wanted to build a larger theater in the ­A lcázar palace (to replace a small-scale one in the second floor of the Treasury). The city of Madrid rejected his plan for a new corral in the palace because it would have hurt the revenue stream for city hospitals: Plays “would 22 “el día antes que su majestad partiese de Valladolid, quiso ver pelear el león con un toro. Encerráronlos en la plazuela detrás de Palacio, que estaba cercada de tablas. El león es muy nuevo y luego se acobardó, y a la primera suerte le volteó el toro, con lo cual siempre anduvo huyendo, y aunque le picaban con un garrochón nada aprovechó para que acometiese al toro” (Cabrera 1997, 308). 23 “Su Majestad tiró tres jaras con una ballesta al toro y todas le acertaron” (Cabrera 1997, 308). 24 “Jámas vio Roma mayor ni más lucido concurso” (Pellicer 1632, 7)

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not be able to generate the 60,000 annual ducats to the hospitals.”25 Philip IV responded and ordered that a theater for plays be built in the Buen Retiro Park. The city ordered that the theater, like previous ones, provide revenue for the city’s hospitals: “Plays are now premiering in the theater built in the Buen Retiro. Money should be collected for the producers as well as a portion of proceeds for the hospitals following the model of Cruz and Príncipe.”26 The Buen Retiro gardens, if they had been completed in 1631, could have served as a place for staged animal combat with Jarama the bull. Originally known as the Gallinero (Chicken Coop) because it contained caged exotic birds, the lands of the Buen Retiro were shortly thereafter converted into a royal palace and gardens, with horse stables, a corral for cattle, a field for hunting rabbits, a large pond, and the new theater. Philip IV also ordered the construction of a new viewing area for staged animal combats in the Buen Retiro. In 1633, he opened the Patio de la Leonera (Lion Patio), which was used for nearly a century. In the Lion Patio, Philip IV, for instance, staged fights between a bull and a lion (1633), a bear and hunting dogs (1633); a bull, bear, and lion (1636); and lions, tigers, and bears (for the baptism of Princess María Teresa in 1638). Lion and dog fights were organized in the Buen Retiro Palace as late as 1720 for the Prince of Asturias (Gómez-Centurión Jiménez 2011, 85). One source describes how the animals and staged combats in the patio delighted the Prince Balthasar Carlos (1629–46): there is a beautiful Lion Patio following the Florence model, although it is not as big. Here the animals do not fight but are kept separate from each other. When the gates of their cages are opened, though, the beasts are forced to fight each other. Iron balusters topped by railing lines the top of the patio for viewing. The Lion Patio holds three lions, a tiger, a bear, and some wolves, all in their respective caves […]. The King and Queen regularly visit since it greatly pleases the Prince.27 25 “los daños que la villa tendría con la instalación del nuevo corral de comedias, pues no podría dar a los hospitales los 60.000 anuales que les da” (Libro de acuerdos del ayuntamiento de Madrid, qtd. in Albrecht 2001, 63). 26 “Hase empezado a representar en el teatro de las comedias que se ha fabricado dentro [del Buen Retiro] y concurre la gente en la misma forma que a los de la Cruz y el Príncipe; cobrándose para los Hospitales, y autores de la Farsa” (qtd. Albrecht 2001, 64–65). 27 “[…] hay una Hermosa leonera fabricada al modo de la de Florencia, aunque no es tan grande, advertidos que aquella por serlo no pelean los animales porque están muy apartado los unos de los otros, y en abriendo en esta las puertas se ven las fieras forzadas a pelear. Tiene por la parte de arriba las vistas con su barandilla de balaustres de hierro. Hay en ella tres leones, un tigre, un oso y algunos lobos, metidos todos en sus cuevas […]. Van sus Majestades de ordinario a esta recreación y le gusta mucho el Príncipe” (qtd. in Gómez-Centurión Jiménez 2011, 84).

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When Philip IV held what Pellicer celebrated in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, he had no great amphitheater because the Lion Patio had not yet been completed. Philip IV’s favorite advisor, Gaspar de Guzmán, the Count Duke of Olivares (1587–1645), was instrumental in shaping Philip IV’s notion of the importance of the animal spectacle. Olivares kept Philip IV entertained as the palace and gardens in the Buen Retiro were constructed. The staged animal combat in 1631 was one such entertainment event for the King, and the Duke of Olivares was inspired by his father’s experience with the Medici family in Florence from the previous century. Olivares’s father, Don Enrique de Guzmán y Ribera (1540–1607), served as Philip II’s ambassador to Rome (1582–92) and, during this time, also visited the Grand Duke Ferdinando I of Medici. Ferdinando built an amphitheater in Florence and, when the Count Duke was only a one year old, his father attended a staged animal combat of bears, bulls, and lions in the recently completed amphitheater in Florence (Groom 2019, 145). Philip IV would have loved to have had Jarama and Maghreb fight in a massive Roman Coliseum before innumerable spectators on October 16, 1631. He wanted to celebrate his son Crown Prince Balthasar Carlos’s second birthday. In contrast to the massive space depicted in works like Perspectival View of a Roman Amphitheater, all Philip IV had was an open-air arena in the Parque (Park) near the Manzanares River down from the Alcázar Palace. He ordered the construction of a makeshift theater because it was the best available place for the spectacle. According to Pellicer, the logical place for the staged combat would have been the Plaza Mayor, Philip IV’s favorite space for presenting spectacles for the public at-large. The Plaza Mayor was designed to show off regal power through spectacle, with public religious ceremonies, theatrical battles against the Moors, and bullfights. The entire area of the Plaza Mayor was fully equipped to transform into a theatrical stage for bullfights. It had regularly converted into a bullring beginning with his father, Philip III. One contemporary describes how high society of Madrid and guilds had special balconies in velvet and damask with their coats of arms in the Plaza Mayor in Madrid. The King’s balcony was decorated in gold and covered by a canopy. The queen and children sat by the King’s side for the event, and another spacious balcony was reserved for the ladies of the court. A typical bull event included fanfare and pomp. The spectacle began with the men who fought wearing short capes, swords and daggers, and hats with plumes of many colors. These men saluted the King or the local dignitary. The general public crowded on temporary scaffoldings and, like theater in the corrales, paid a fee.

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If he could have, Philip IV would have ordered balconies and scaffolding set up in the Plaza Mayor. The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, however, reports that back-to-back disasters had taken place in the Plaza Mayor just a few days before the scheduled animal combat and made it an unfeasible option. During a bullfight in celebration of Saint Claudius the Martyr in the Plaza Mayor, a fire broke out that destroyed the façades of the surrounding buildings. Despite damages, on the very next day, a mock battle between Moors and Christians was performed in a game of canes for the feast day celebration of Saint Louis of France (1214–70). Pandemonium broke out during the game of canes and a great many people died (Pellicer 1632, 4–5). With conditions impossible at the Plaza Mayor, Philip IV and the Count Duke of Olivares decided on a new venue for the Prince’s birthday celebration. The temporary structure was constructed in the “Park,” the open space between the Alcázar and the banks of the Manzanares River. Like the bull spectacles in the Plaza Mayor, the amphitheater included the upper echelons of Madrid society, residents of Madrid, and visitors. Pellicer writes: “the novel idea for the event roused foreign visitors and native-born spectators to unite and satisfy their curiosity.”28 The physical space of The Amphitheater of Philip the Great was no great Roman amphitheater or coliseum. The improvised viewing area in the “Park” was at the location of the present-day Campo de Moro, extending along the shore of the Manzanares through the Campo de la Tela (Atenas Park) until the Segovia Bridge (an area of about 22 hectares). King Philip IV ordered a space closed off and bleachers set up for the event in a similar way that bullfights were typically set up in the Plaza Mayor. This forest-rich area was a favorite place for walks along the river, and city dwellers would have accessed the spectacle from open public walkways near the river. Philip IV and distinguished members of the Royal Court arrived to the amphitheater from a historic walkway that Charles V had constructed the previous century. In order to open up the northern façade of the Alcázar palace to the forest area that went down to the river, Charles had created a two-story open-air walkway. King Philip IV and his retinue would have walked down to see the staged animal combat from the Alcázar through the walkway in a forest that some writers said still contained the legendary ravens that Charles V had brought down from the Netherlands (Guerra Esetena 2014). In the century before Philip IV used the Parque for the staged animal combat, the space between the Alcázar Palace and the Manzanares in 28 “La novedad de la fiesta llamó la curiosidad y convocó así forasteros como naturales” (Pellicer 1632, 5).

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Madrid was often converted into a temporary performance space for other spectacles. As early as 1495, the Duke of Britain’s ambassadors watched a theatrical performance in a makeshift theater on the terrain between the Alcázar and the Manzanares River. The makeshift theater for the performance—which included actors, costumes, and sets—had “a cloth draped over wooden stakes with doors.”29 During the course of the sixteenth century, courtly entertainment such as jousts and bullfights were held in the same area, and it became known as the “finca de la Tela” (the terrain of the Cloth), a name that evokes the curtains used in spectacles. Four years before Philip IV constructed the arena for the fight between Jarama and Maghreb, Cosme Lotti (1571–1643), the landscape designer and scenographer, had used the wooded space near the Manzanares for the performance of the opera La selva sin amor (The Forest without Love, 1627), a collaborative work by Lope de Vega and Filippo Piccinini. Lope de Vega writes that Lotti converted the space itself into an outdoor stage: “artificial light flooded the area, although no one could see the three hundred torches that created that artificial day […] the forest grove bordering the Manzanares was transformed into a stage [for the opera].”30 Lope de Vega later attended the staged animal combat held near the Manzanares in 1631. Although a radically different form of entertainment than the refined style of the opera, Lope also considered the staged animal combat as theater. Philip IV modeled the event after similar events held in Italy the previous century. The sixteenth-century Medicis held massive animal massacres in staged events in public squares. For one event to celebrate the feast of Saint John in Florence in 1513, sets were constructed, including dens for the animals and a fountain for drinking. A wooden turtle and a porcupine automaton were made with wheels so that men hidden inside could use lances to prod animals unwilling to fight (Groom 2019, 137). Attesting to the impact of the Medici model, men were covered up in wooden shell casings in Philip IV’s Madrid spectacle in 1631. Pellicer describes them in the same way as they had been described in the Florence spectacle: Men were “covered up with an artificial wooden turtle that moved on wheels.”31 The men in the wooden casings stood among the animals and egged them on to fight, like the picador in the modern-day bullfight. With respect 29 “una tela barreada en derredor, de madera con sus puertas” (qtd. in García Ferrero 2018, 105). 30 “Todo con luz artificial, sin que se viese ninguna, siendo más de trescientas las que formaban aquel fingido día […] Transformóse en selva, que represenataba el soto del Manzanares” (qtd. in García Ferrero 2018, 107). 31 “Unos hombres cubiertos de una artificiosa tortuga de madera que movían ciertas ruedas iban dentro para instigar los animales con picarles a que se embistiesen” (Pellicer 1632, 6).

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to the order of events, the Madrid spectacle found another precedent from Medici Florence. In 1566, Cosimo I held a staged animal spectacle in which several huntsmen with dogs emerged from an artificial wood set up inside the arena and they proceeded to slaughter wild animals, beginning with the small ones, including rabbits, hares, roebuck, foxes, porcupines, badgers, stags, bears, and a wild boar. For the final and most noble act of the animal “play,” a bull and lion were urged to fight each other. Two men inside the wooden vehicles—one in the shape of a turtle and the other a monstrous mask—incited the animals into action. Like in the fictional Quixote episode, in this 1566 staged animal combat, the lion refused to fight. The hunters—in the mode of the classic Roman venationes who were simultaneously actors and killers—finished the Medici show by killing both the lion and the bull. Aside from Jarama and Maghreb, many other animals died before the public in Madrid on October 16, 1631. The public may have been given the opportunity to process and consume the meat of the massacred animals, following the model of other spectacles of hunts. During the reign of Philip II, commoners actively played a role as hunters in live animal performances. Enrique Cock, Philip II’s archer, described the royal pageant in Valladolid that preceded the bull spectacle. Cock stated that he observed a float with hunters dressed in green holding onto a silver handrail. The float had wolves, foxes, rabbits, hares, and other animals, and, when it passed by Philip II, the animals were set free.32 Although Cock does not describe the following scene, one can only imagine how the spectators pursued the fleeing animals in the hopes of a meal of fresh meat. The best visual representation of the makeshift theater described in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great can be seen in the Vista del Alcázar Real y entorno del Puente de Segovia (The View of the Royal Alcázar and the Environs of the Segovia Bridge, ca. 1670), an anonymous painting found in the Soumaya Musem in Mexico City. The painting shows an afternoon corrida event held between the Alcázar and Manzanares Rivers. Spectators sit on scaffolding set up along the slope leading down from the bridge and La Cuesta de Vega, the street that leads up into the city. People also watch the corrida from the bridge and on the banks of the river; others even stand in the middle of the river. A tarp may have been put around posts and an arena would have been set up, probably similar to the one used for the simulacrum of the hunt 32 “vestidos de verde con pasamanos de plata, traían en su carro lobos, zorros, conejos, liebres y otras suertes de animales, y estando delante de Su Majestad, dejaron ir muchos dellos” (Cock 1879, 28).

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depicted in Velazquez’s Philip IV Hunting Wild Boar. It is, however, certain that Philip IV would have had a prominent seat at the event. Two editions of Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes show different images of a Barbary lion in staged combat. The same lion woodcut is copied for both images: A lion on hind legs attacks wolves, a bear, and a bull. The 1585 edition shows how the audience may have observed the staged animal combat in the Florence amphitheater. Nobles observe the event in an interior patio through viewing windows (Groom 2019). The other lion image, from a 1634 edition of Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes (found in the British Museum and Metropolitan Museum of Art), shows the identical lion on hind legs as in the 1585 edition, now attacking an elephant and a dog. Although the 1634 image is intended to depict Alexander the Great (356–323 BCE) and his famous dog, its depiction of Alexander on a raised throne around the other spectators is likely a closer approximation to how Philip IV viewed the staged animal combat as described in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great.

Arfe and Argote Establish the Spanish Primacy of the Bull Despite his desire to celebrate his son’s second birthday in a great “amphitheater,” a place of grandeur with pomp and great fanfare from classical times, Philip IV was not able to hold the event in the Plaza Mayor, nor in the Buen Retiro, which was still under construction. In Culture of the Baroque: Analysis of a Historical Structure, José Antonio Maravall explains that Spanish spectacle was “destined not for reflection but to disseminate ideals that were intended as collective ideals” (Maravall 1986, 234). Maravall argues that spectacles in Spain served the monarch’s desire to establish a collective consciousness that supported society’s traditional hierarchy. Pellicer’s publication, The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, a collection of poetry by a wide range of members of the Royal Court who celebrated the primacy of Philip IV, confirms Maravall’s thesis. The King killed Jarama in an act that showed the primacy of the bull and, in turn, Philip IV’s power as the Empire’s foremost hunter. Scholars have not examined how the bull came to supersede the eagle or the lion as visual icon in the Spanish context. The image of the bull as icon took shape in the sixteenth century through the dissemination of images produced by artists outside of Spain. In the sixteenth century, commissioned artists used lions and eagles to represent the Habsburgs. They did not associate the fighting bull with the Spanish monarch. The first to describe the bull as the consolidation of Spanish identity were the French at an event that seeded the European notion of the corrida as distinctly

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Spanish.33 After Charles V defeated King Frances I of France, Charles brought the French King to Guadalajara as prisoner. In honor of the victory, Íñigo López de Mendoza y Pimentel (1493–1566) held a corrida. The spectacle featured bulls from Jarama: “a brilliant corrida was held in the Santa María plaza in which bulls from Jarama were fought by nobles on horseback.”34 The source calls attention to the eyes of the captive French King Frances I and his entourage: “the spectacle was enjoyed to the utmost by the foreigners.”35 With respect to material culture, only two relatively obscure images survive that portray the conventional sixteenth-century Spanish bullfight. Jacob van Laethem (1470–1528), a Flemish painter, made a number of trips to Spain, most notably accompanying Charles V and his court (Zalama and Domínguez Casas 1995). Based on his experiences in Spain, Laethem depicted a game of canes in Valladolid and a bullfight in Benavente. Jacob van Laethem’s depiction of the bullfighting spectacle for Charles V in Benavente in the northwest region of Spain shows how the corrida was practiced in sixteenth-century Spain. The word corrida, from the Spanish verb correr (“to run”), principally referred to the running of the bulls, but also the actions that took place when men confronted the bull. They dodged the bull, ran at the bull, and ran from the bull. Van Laethem shows men that run away from the bull. One man lies injured under its body and another man pursues the animal on horseback. At least 10 rejones (“metal spears”) are broken and lodged in the bull’s body. The corrida generally began with bulls paraded around the town’s central plaza and then the bulls were released and men on specially trained mounts attacked the bulls. The objective was to ride up close to the bull, pierce it with a rejón, and break off a piece of the rejón, leaving the steel point in the bull’s body. The man then rode away holding the broken piece of the wooden shaft in his hand. The winner of the corrida did not kill the bull, as in modern times. The corrida consisted of a competition to insert the maximum number of rejones. The one who had the most broken rejones lodged in the bull was declared winner. It was a public spectacle of bull mutilation, not death (Defourneaux 1970, 134). Like Jacob van Laethem, the publisher Galle, also Flemish, sought to represent Spanish bullfighting. As mentioned, Galle mass marketed an 33 For the consolidation of identity around the French creation of the Spanish dog or spaniel, see Beusterien 2012. 34 “presenció una brillante corrida de toros jamameños lidiados por caballeros montados, en la plaza de Santa María ricamente adornada” (qtd. in López Rinconada 1999, 286). 35 “espectáculo que agradó en extremo al extranjero” (qtd. in López Rinconada 1999, 286).

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image of Abada and the enormously popular Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes. He was the only sixteenth-century publisher to circulate a printed image of a Spanish bullfight. The image of the Spanish bullfight is one of the many illustrations based on Cooaert’s copper engravings in Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes.36 Galle’s image in Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes shows a bull corralled in a large open plaza with people on the fringes watching. The central image is a bull—impaled with four broken plumed rejones—with its horn in butting position and three dogs attacking it (two at its face and one at its rear). The dogs run around the bull, one pulling on its tail. The caption to the image reads: “the wild bull flares around this way in the open plaza / with anger from its terrifying little horns.”37 As in Jacob van Laethem’s painting, a man lies injured or dead under the bull’s torso. The sword next to his body indicates that he is of aristocratic stock. Another person in the background has been injured and is carried out of the plaza. Another man on horse aims a rejón over the animal’s head and may give it the final death blow through the shoulder blades. Nothing about the bull spectacle as depicted in Galle overtly connected the bull spectacle to the Spanish or to the Habsburgs. As the sixteenth century advanced, however, one important armor designer decided to depict the Spanish fighting bull as indirectly associated with the Habsburg monarch. A representation of a bull is found in a rather obscure place on Philip II’s parade armor. As mentioned in Chapter 2, the lion is the prominent animal featured on Philip II’s parade armor—embossed lion heads are found on the elbow and knee garniture. Although not as visually pronounced, a bull is found in a hunting scene on the shield that accompanies the parade armor. A man on horseback faces off with a Spanish fighting bull. He carries a rejón and pursues a bull with two large dogs wearing gold collars. Desiderius Helmschmid (1513–79), the Augsburg armorer that designed Philip II’s parade armor, uses the bull as a self-reference. The bull butts his head against the man whose shield has the name “Negrol,” a reference to the Negroli family, Helmschmid’s Milanese armor-producing competitors. Helmschmid therefore used the bull scene on the edge of the shield to show that he, not the Milanese, had won Philip II’s commission, and a Spanish fighting bull manifests Helmschmid’s superiority of his craft by winning the bid over his competitor-rival in crafting Philip II’s parade armor. 36 Aside from the image for the copper engraving for Galle’s Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes, Straet also made a sketch and an oil painting of a corrida. 37 “Sic ferus exardet in circo Taurus aperto. / Cum sua terribili petit iritamina cornu” (Venationes Ferarum n.d., n.p.).

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No Spanish artist or writer established the primacy of the bull as icon until the end of the sixteenth century when the humanists Gonzalo de Argote and Juan de Arfe consolidated the iconography of the bull into the Spanish mainstream with the publication of Book on Hunting. Following Helmschmid, Argote and Arfe depicted the corrida as a spectacle uniquely tied to Habsburg Spain. Indeed, Argote and Arfe established the centrality of the image of the bull as Spain for the version of bread and circuses as described in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great. One of the woodcuts that Juan de Arfe created for Argote’s Book on Hunting shows a man facing a bull, another thrown into the air, and dogs attacking the bull (fig. 27). Argote states that bullbaiting was an age-old custom across cultures, but had special significance for Spain. He describes specific Spanish manifestations of bullbaiting, like the boys in the city of Bacca who waited for the bull to arrive and then killed the animal and pulled it into the ring. For Argote, the spectacle of the bull was the most pleasurable spectacular experience for Spaniards: “no other celebration provides as much a peace of mind as the corrida. No one in Spain could experience true pleasure without it because it provides such a variety of possibility.”38 Aside from the engraving for Argote’s Book on Hunting, Juan de Arfe also created his own engraved images of Spanish fighting bulls. Chapter 1 describes how the animal images on Arfe’s ewer served as propaganda for Philip II’s claim of dominion over the planet. Abada the rhinoceros and Hawa’i the elephant form part of Scipio Africanus’s victory procession. Arfe also included three bulls in the procession of wild and exotic animals on the Scipio Africanus ewer. One bull leads the procession, another bull walks in between a female and male lion, and another bull finishes off the procession (see cover image and fig. 12 in Chapter 2). Arfe depicts the world’s ferocious wild beasts, including bulls—representing Spain’s enemies—as walking together side by side in Orphic harmony, led by the Scipio Africanus, who symbolizes Philip II. Arfe’s ewer is designed to sit on top of an accompanying basin.39 In its detail and sheer number of representations, the basin, like the ewer, 38 “es la más apacible f iesta que en España se usa: tanto que sin ella ninguna se tiene por regocijo y con mucha razón por la variedad de acontecimientos que en ella hay” (Argote de Molina 1582, III:9r). 39 The basin, which also belongs to Metropolitan Museum of Art, is not kept with the ewer, nor is it on display. It, like the ewer, was struck with a later Roman mark (crossed keys and lance in an oval). Following Hayward, I attribute the basin, like the ewer, to Juan de Arfe. The biblical and classical scenes on the border of the basin resemble the style and themes from Arfe’s Seville monstrance.

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Fig. 27. “Hunting Bulls in the Arena” (1582) by Juan de Arfe. Argote de Molina’s Libro de la Montería (Chapter 38, page 16v) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla).

magnificently demonstrates the hand of Arfe. The top of the basin upon which the ewer sits includes a series of classical and biblical scenes. The underside of the basin, the bottom side that cannot be seen, depicts Spanish fighting bulls. The circular band around the central boss of the basin depicts a detailed engraved frieze of one bull lying down and another in fighting position. Hunters and dogs populate the scene. A river also flows behind the image of the butting bull. As opposed to the three peaceful bulls in the procession on the ewer, the prominent Spanish fighting bull on the basin raises its front two legs, and a man and two dogs retreat. Arfe created a scene that depicts the wild forest near the Jarama River. In so doing, he raises the bull’s status in the iconography of propaganda for Philip II. Arfe creates a dialogue between the ewer—representing the civilized planet under Philip II—and the underside of the basin—representing the wild and undomesticated part of the world. Arfe’s fighting bull from the Jarama, at the center and heart of Spain, was the only beast who still needed to be controlled and the only wild animal left to defeat. The desire to put animals in a corral underpins emerging notions of nationalism and race in the sixteenth century, the period when Spain crafted itself in an image of dominating a planetary empire. Many critics of the early modern period do not discuss nationalism and race, but the sixteenth-century Spanish depiction of the bull in Argote and Arfe is crucial for understanding the Spanish propaganda of a planetary imperial project

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that served as precedent for future developments in the emerging logic that informed each. Arfe’s basin celebrated the fighting bull from Jarama as the only animal left to conquer and his collaborative project with Argote, Book on Hunting, sowed a message about nationalism and race into social consciousness by celebrating the spectacle of the hunt of the bull as a unique pleasurable experience for the Spanish. By 1631, the Spanish monarchy propagated a powerful marketing campaign in which Jarama was a bull of a truly Spanish essence, connected to the foundational logic of an emerging racial consciousness. A growing body of scholarship has noted the importance of medieval and early modern Spain in the formation of the modern construct of race. 40 For instance, in sixteenth-century Spanish, the human classif icatory term cimarrón appears for the first time, a word that comes from the Spanish attempt to corral wild animals in the Americas. The French author of the Histoire naturelle des Indes (The Natural History of the Indies, Drake Manuscript, ca. 1586), who uses cimarrón for wild dogs, also uses the same word for escaped slaves: “In this port arrive gold and silver from Peru to be traded for merchandise with the Spaniards, gold and Reales being given in exchange for merchandise. They are afraid to have the gold and silver transported […] because of the runaway Negro slaves [simarrones] who steal and plunder everything they find on the road belonging to the Spaniards” (1586, 97v). Argote crucially distinguished the cimarrón from the Spanish fighting bull. In his discussion of cimarrones in The Book on Hunting, Argote perpetuates a notion that they are available for the hunt and need domestication and branding like chattel. Immediately preceding the section “About Hunting Bulls in the Arena,” Argote writes a commentary on hunting in the Americas: “De la montería de los toros cimarrones en las Indias Occidentales” (“About Hunting Cimarrones in the West Indies”). 41 He also includes a Juan de Arfe woodcut that shows men hunting cimarrones (fig. 28). Argote defines cimarrón as “the common word in the Indies for those animals gone wild and that escape to

40 For the fluidity between Spanish notions of animal razas as transferred to racial categories, see Nirenberg 2007 and 2009; Beusterien 2006, 111–122; and Hill 2014. For the fluidity between Spanish notions of plant razas as transferred to racial categories, see Hartigan 2013 and Bleichmar 2012, 169. For the importance of Spain in establishing the construct of whiteness as a social construct that opposed Islam, see Beusterien 2018 and Beusterien 2006, 14. 41 Compare Argote’s description of wild bulls in Spain and the Americas with the variety of cattle that “gloried in their wildness” and connected to race and myths of origin in eighteenth-century England. On Chillingham cattle as ancient Britons and genetic capital, see Ritvo 2010.

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Fig. 28. “About Hunting Cimarrones in the West Indies” (1582) by Juan de Arfe. Argote de Molina’s Libro de la Montería (Chapter 37, page 14r) (Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla).

the wild regions and mountains.”42 As opposed to the author of the Drake Manuscript, who mentions dogs and people, Argote only mentions wild cattle as cimarrones and describes how ships that return to Spain are filled with the hides of cimarrones. Argote’s omission is also an evocation. The word cimarrón is the Spanish conflation of African people with animals, both of which fill the hulls of ships as merchandise, both living and dead.

The Theatrical Centrality of Jarama and Marginality of Maghreb The Amphitheater of Philip the Great is a seventeenth-century collection of poetry that celebrates the events that took place the day Jarama and Maghreb died. The collection of poetry evokes the genre of an epic in which the image depicts Philip IV as Roman champion in animal games and superior hunter of the Spanish bull. Pellicer, the official historian of the Kingdom of Castile and Leon for Philip IV, published the commemorative volume a year after the event took place. The censor who approved the volume was Lope de Vega. The book includes over 100 poems by eighty-five distinguished literati that attended the event. 42 “Es nombre común en la Indias de todos lo animales silvestres los cuales al tiempo que bajan de las montañas y sierras” (Argote de Molina 1582, III: 9r).

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In early modern Spain, an ideological bridge existed between the space of animal performance in commercial theaters and that of staged combats. The corral, or newly constructed commercial theater, was reserved for human actors and the animals that they could control, largely domestic animals. By the time that Philip IV held the staged animal combat described in the makeshift theater, the design of Spain’s commercial theater or corral was established. It had a stage with special trap doors, a dressing room, and spaces for different spectators, including balcony viewing (Ruano de la Haza and Allen 1994; Allen 1998). Live bulls and lions did not appear on the stages designed for traditional plays written by playwrights. Corrales as theaters, though, sometimes recruited domestic animals such as horses, dogs, and birds as performers. Ever since the earliest theater in Spain, audiences saw live animals, such as a live donkey and ox in the classic Nativity scene play. 43 With the construction of permanent stages in the sixteenth century, the presence of domestic animals such as horses, dogs, and birds appeared on Spain’s first commercial stages. Live horses, along with donkeys, were the most common animals in stage performances. Agustín de Rojas Villandrando (1572–1618) describes theater in 1603 as “a show of pomp never seen until then / they brought out horses then / out on stage.”44 J. M. Ruano de la Haza notes that live horses and donkeys were performers in fourteen plays. 45 In one of the earliest corrales in sixteenth-century Seville, a play about King Don Sancho II of Castile and León (1036–72) included a number of live horses (Shergold 1967, 191). When Cervantes published his book of short comic plays in 1614, 43 Aside from Nativity plays, animals appeared in plays prior to the creation of the commercial theaters in Spain. In one case, a ram appears about to be butchered. In Tragedia Josephina (The Josephine Tragedy, ca.1520) by Micael de Carvajal (ca. 1475–1578), a character states: “and so let me bring out the ram / I am holding it here without waiting / because I am going to cut its throat / you’ve already seen how well I’ve done it before / now hold it firmly by this rope” (“trayase luego el cabrón / hele aquí sin dilación / pues yo le degollaré / vistes que bien acerté / tened bien dessa ropeta”) (Carvajal 1965, 52–53). 44 “sacabanse ya caballos / a los teatros, grandes / nunca vista hasta este tiempo” (qtd. in Ruano de la Haza 1994, 492). 45 Horses appear in: Velez de Guevara’s Los hijos de la Barbuda (The Bearded Woman’s Children); Rodrigo de Herrera’s Del cielo viene el buen rey (The Good King Comes from Heaven); Guillén de Castro’s Las mocedades del Cid (The Cid’s Childhood); Agustín de la Granja’s Verdores del Parnaso (The Green Fields of Parnassus); Enríquez de Gómez’s La conquista de México (The Mexican Conquest); Ana Caro’s El conde Partinuplés (Count Partinuples); Tirso de Molina’s La ninfa del cielo and La elección por la virtud (Heavenly Nymph and Choosing Virtue); and Lope de Vega’s Las mujeres sin hombre, La hermosa Ester, El animal de Hungría, Los torneos de Aragón (Women without a Man, Beautiful Esther, The Animal from Hungary, and The Aragonese Tournaments). Donkeys appear in Guillén de Castro’s El mejor esposo (The Best Husband); Tirso’s Choosing Virtue; and Lope’s Pobreza no es villeza (Poverty Is Not Plebeian) (Ruano de la Haza 1994, 504).

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he indicates that, unlike the theater from the previous generation, the public theater of the corrales used horses as performers with relative frequency. In one of Cervantes’s plays, La casa de los celos (The House of Jealousy), a female character enters “on stage riding a palfrey,” and a duenna rides behind her “on a mule draped with a blanket.”46 The design of the commercial theaters—the enclosed patios—generally allowed for the entrance of horses. Horses and donkeys would have walked through the main door—walking right by the groundlings standing around the stage. Horses did not appear on the actual stage, but rode from the door of the corral to the patio, whereupon the actor or actress dismounted and then got up on the stage. A passageway was generally roped or fenced off where the audience could not stand so that animals and actors could pass by from the outside door (Ruano de la Haza 1994, 497–9). Horses and mules could enter and leave through the front door of the corral since the height of the front door of the corral was over three meters, easily allowing a man or woman on horseback to pass through. A character in Calderón’s Judas Macabeo (Judas Maccabeus) enters on horseback into the patio area, throws a lance, and then states “I am going to leave my horse / and then I’ll come back.”47 Luis Vélez de Guevara, the author of the novel that described the assignment of “Don” to elephant handlers, also wrote the play La serrana de la Vera (The Mountain Woman from La Vera), in which he provides a particularly striking horse entrance. Stage directions state: The whinnying of the horses should sound as the company of hunters enters the corral singing […] one man carries a long stick that has the skin of a wolf with its head; another a bear in a similar way and another a wild boar. Gila, la Mountain Woman from la Vera, enters behind them on horseback […]The singing continues until she gets to the stage, whereupon she dismounts. 48

Although less frequent, live dogs also appeared in plays. Live hunting dogs appear in full-length performances such as Lope de Vega’s El marqués de 46 “por el patio sobre un palafrén […] Una dueña sobre una mula con gualdrapa” (qtd. in Larsen 1984) 47 “Yo voy / solo a dejar el caballo, / que luego vuelvo” (qtd. in Ruano de la Haza 1994, 494) 48 “Suenen relinchos de labradores, y vayan entrando por el patio con toda la compañía […] uno con un palo largo y en él metido un pellejo de un lobo con su cabeza, y otro con otro de oso de la misma suerte, y otro con otro de jabalí […] Y luego, detrás, a caballo Gila, la Serrana de la Vera […] y lo que cantan en esto hasta llegar al tablado donde se apea” (qtd. in Ruano de la Haza 1994, 492; Martín 2014, 130).

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Mantua (Marquis from Mantua) and El animal de Hungría (The Animal from Hungary), and Tirso de Molina’s La mujer que manda en casa (The Woman Who Runs the House). Stage directions for Lope’s Los peligros de la ausencia (The Dangers of Absence) indicate that a character disguises himself as a blind man and appears onstage accompanied with either “a boy, or a little dog tied to a leash.”49 Miguel de Cervantes insinuates that dogs were used in popular theater for humorous purposes. In Cervantes’s El coloquio de los perros (The Colloquy of the Dogs), Berganza, the talking dog character, explains that, when he had a master who was a play producer, he had a nonspeaking slapstick role in short comic plays in which he ran around hitting and tripping everyone. Berganza explains that the audience loved his role because he got them to laugh, and that his master profited greatly (Martín 2014, 129). Caged birds also appeared. “Four or six live birds” come out of a fountain in Count Partinuples (El conde Partinuplés) by Ana Caro (1590–1652).50 Stage directions describe live birds in Lope’s Adonis y Venus (Adonis and Venus), which has a set with a painted sky and a cloud that parts. At the point in the play when the cloud parts in half, it exposes an image of Venus with painted Cupids out of which “many little birds fly.”51 Aside from dogs and birds, references from other plays indicate the occasional appearance of live chickens, such as Miguel de Cervantes’s comic play, Pedro de Urdemalas (Pedro, the Great Pretender), in which they appear onstage for comic effect. In Miguel de Cervantes’s La Numancia (The Siege of Numantia), a large ram crowned with olive leaves and flowers is led onstage, with priests pulling it by the horns; a devil figure removes the ram “through the trap door in the middle of the floor.”52 As opposed to domestic animals, animals that were considered to be wild, like bulls and lions, did not form part of theatrical performances on the traditional corral stage. J.M. Ruano de la Haza indicates that, if a lion or bull appeared as part of a play, an actor would instead playact the animal. The most common animal costume was that of the lion, and many troupes had a Barbary lion skin as part of their prop repertoire. Ruano de la Haza discusses ten Spanish plays that include actors that came out onstage dressed as lions. He also notes one list of costumes from a theatrical troupe 49 “disfrazado de ciego con un muchacho o perrillo atado en un cordel” (qtd. in Ruano de la Haza 1994, 508). 50 “salen cuatro o seis pájaros vivos” (qtd. in Ruano de la Haza 1994, 509). 51 “baje del cielo que estará hecho, una nube cerrada y abrase a la mitad con música, saliendo de ella muchos pajarillos” (qtd. in Ruano de la Haza 1994, 509). 52 “el hueco del tablado” (qtd. in Larsen 1984, 64).

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that included a lion costume, as well as a porcupine costume and a tiger costume (Ruano de la Haza 1994, 506). Actors also playacted bulls in Calderón’s La pedidora (The Lady That Asks) and in El toreador don Babilés (Don Babilés the Bullfighter), by Francisco Antonio Bernaldo de Quirós (1675–1710). One bull prop—a bronze automaton shooting out flames—appears in Tirso’s Santa Juana (Saint Joan). The bull prop opens up and reveals an actor playing Saint George. Stage directions state: “Saint George should be inside.”53 Some of the most critically celebrated plays from the period, such as Lope de Vega’s El caballero de Olmedo (The Gentleman from Olmedo), describe offstage bullfighting spectacles. Other plays make references to troupes that would have fabricated props to playact the bull experience, using inventive bull simulacra like a bull’s desiccated head. Vélez de Guevara’s The Mountain Woman from La Vera includes a scene in which the main character lifts up a bull’s head as if it is butting forward. Stage directions state that, after shouts of “watch out for the bull,” Gila appears with “only a bull’s head from in between the curtains that she moves up and down.”54 One character describes Gila’s strength and valor: “she just grabbed / the wild bull by the horns / and now she is putting it down / as if it were a sheep.”55 By institutionalizing a staging of the live bull spectacle in the Plaza Mayor, early modern Spain fashioned two types of theatrical events for a distinctly Spanish audience, one in which actors playacted wild bulls in the corrales and one in which people could watch live bulls. During the same historical period, staged animal combats and theater in England and Turkey, just as in ancient Rome, also served to mobilize communities, especially with regard to emotions and social hierarchy, whether in relation to the king, emperor, or sultan. In England, early modern staged animal combats were performed near commercial theaters. Scholars have underlined the centrality of staged animal combats in the early modern English context by connecting the convergence of blood sports, especially bearbaiting, with the rise of drama (Scott-Warren 2003; Boehrer 2018; Höfele 2011). A similar conflation of theater and staged combat also took place in Istanbul, in the heart of the Ottoman Empire. In 1582, audiences enjoyed a festival with live animals, the same year that Philip II first exhibited Abada 53 “abrese por un costado el toro y este dentro don Jorge” (qtd. in Ruano de la Haza 1994, 510). 54 “Descúbrese agora entre los paños la cabeza del toro solamente, y ella echándole patas arriba” (qtd. in Martín 2014, 134). 55 “Por los cuernos asió ya / al toro feroz, y agora / le rinde como si fuera / una oveja” (qtd. Ruano de la Haza 1994, 510).

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and Hawa’i. The Imperial Book of Festival, a manuscript that describes the royal Ottoman festival, details the events of a staged battle between a lion and a boar. This staged animal combat also included performances by a cat and bears, snake charmers, and a dog named Kitmir—the dog’s story appealed to the sense of wonder at God’s creation because Kitmir was one of the few animals who gained entry to paradise for Muslim believers (Ben-Ami 2017, 25). The Amphitheater of Philip the Great describes the staged animal event that took place in central Madrid near other commercial theaters as if it were the city’s monumental theatrical production. Pellicer opens the poetry anthology with a prologue in which he connects the theatricality of the event with great spectacles from the Roman world. In overstatement and embellishment, the historian Pellicer valued the spectacle as one that bef itted the imperial Roman tradition. Pellicer evokes the Roman Coliseum tradition, stating that the live animal spectacle was a superior form of public entertainment over mere theater, and elevated the Spanish version of the spectacle as surpassing all such spectacles ever held in Rome. Pellicer writes that the staged animal combat not only celebrated the King as imperial power, but also served to “provoke laughter and entertainment.”56 The first poem in the collection is a ditty by Francisco de Quevedo (1580–1645). Quevedo, one of the most accomplished poets of his day, attempted to recreate the humor of the opening acts of animal cruelty. His poem, written the day after the event, employs the biting wit of one of his specialty genres, burlesque poetry. He writes that the public: Saw yesterday the entirety Of Noah’s Arc jumping around And Aesop’s Fables were Seen alive yesterday.57

Quevedo’s poem, written in the meter of a romance, makes crude jokes about the animals that people saw on the day of the event, including a wild cat, a rabbit, a camel, and Jarama the bull. He describes a monkey that was apparently hung to death before the crowd as object of a sardonic and taunting dig. Another joke describes the rooster who, if it had only been 56 “para que sirviesen a la risa y al entretenimiento” (Pellicer 1632, 5). 57 “Vieron ayer juguetona / Toda la arca de Noe / y las fabulas de Hisoppo / Vivas las vieron ayer” (Pellicer 1632, 56).

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aware of its fate, would have gladly turned off its cockiness to be Maghreb’s submissive hen and lay his eggs. Quevedo’s poem starts the collection with a lighthearted tone—a completely alien perspective for present-day readers. The tone of the poems in the collection quickly turns to an earnest celebration of the epic nature of the event—something even more alien to the present-day reader.58 After a short section of romances, the high-style poetry begins with eighty-two serious-minded sonnets. For instance, Antonio Mira de Amescua (1577–1644), the accomplished playwright and king’s chaplain, describes the bloodshed in aesthetic terms—a perspective about the beauty of death that Federico García Lorca (1898–1936) would seize upon centuries later: The battle was but once, Then mourning followed, As the palace became Spanish flowers.59

Amescua’s metaphor of the bloody body of the animals as Spain’s flowers is not, though, a complex trope of agony and beauty in the terms described by Lorca. It, along with the other sonnets, are paeans to Philip IV, the monarch that heroically executed Jarama. The poems based upon the real-life staged animal combat in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great celebrated the Habsburg monarch as dominating the wild animals of the world through the execution of Jarama the bull, supposedly the world’s wildest animal. When Jarama defeated Maghreb, he was crowned champion. The applause from the public appreciated the primacy of the bull’s Spanish origins: Finding no resistance upon all that he looked, Putting all the animals in shock, Making them all frown, and all angered, The bull triumphed over the entire theater, With an applause from the admiring crowd […] The victory revealed the truth that a Spanish bull was born first.60 58 For early forms of disgust and moral repugnance toward staged animal combat in nineteenthcentury England, see Cowie 2017. 59 “batalla fue una vez / otra fue duelo / quedando en el palacio / flores de España” (Pellicer 1632, 80). 60 “Triunfaba el toro del teatro entero, / Sin hallar resistencia en cuanto mira; / Todo horror, todo ceño, todo ira, / Era aplauso del vulgo lisonjero. / Al Júpiter de España verdadero / (Mucho

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The poetic voices in the collection set the origin of the great Spanish fighting bull in the geographical region of Jarama. Pellicer, the editor of the collection, includes two poems of his own that refer to “that monster from Jarama” (Pellicer 1632, 133 and 135). Alonso de Oviedo states the “quick brute” is from Jarama (Pellicer 1632, 113). Quevedo states that the bull received its power from grazing in the Jarama region (Pellicer 1632, 120). Diego de León Pinelo (1608–71), lawyer and administrator in Lima, Perú, describes the animal as “the prodigious bull from Jarama” (Pellicer 1632, 107). Antonio Rodríguez de León Pinelo (ca. 1595–1660), historian and legal administrator (relator) for the Council of the Indies, begins his sonnet by stating the “fields of Jarama gave birth [to him].”61 Antonio González de Rosende, theology professor at the University of Alcalá, writes that “its fury was grazed at Jarama,”62 and Pedro Méndez de Loyola (ca. 1555–1643) calls the animal “the drinker of the Jarama.”63 Pedro de Valenzuela Fajardo, nobleman in the court, writes that the King shot the animal in the nape of the neck and “the nape of your neck gave great honor to Jarama.”64 By calling attention to the bull’s origins, the authors wished to marginalize the symbolic importance of the lion. Gaspar Pimentel y Benavides, the Fourth Marquis de Javalquinto, administrator (mayordomo) and gentleman in Philip IV’s court, composed two infelicitous sonnets. In the first, he writes: “It appeared, making the sounds of clanging metal, / The most ferocious beast that Jarama has ever seen.”65 In the second, he connects the bull’s victory to the defeat of the world’s formerly crowned wild animal from Africa: The amphitheater keeps any measure Of strength and valor from the dishonored And crowned African animal, who witnesses its rival From Jarama parade before the crowd self-satisfied.66

The most significant way in which the poets make Jarama a new Spanish lion is by associating him with the Islamic emblem of the crescent moon. Gaspar testigo para ser mentira) / La vitoria del bruto no le admira, / Pues que español nació supo primero” (Pellicer 1632, 54). 61 “engendraron los campos de Jarama” (Pellicer 1632, 75). 62 “el coraje le pació a Jarama” (Pellicer 1632, 89). 63 “el sorbedor de Jarama” (Pellicer 1632, 154). 64 “honró a Jarama tu cerviz valiente” (Pellicer 1632, 104). 65 “Salió, dando señal metal sonoro / El bruto más feroz que vio Jarama” (Pellicer 1632). 66 “Cuando con deshonor del africano / Coronado animal, que el circo impide / La fuerza y el valor, que el suyo mide, / El rival de Jarama ostenta ufano” (Pellicer 1632, 36).

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de la Fuente (probably the son of Gaspar de la Fuente, royally appointed Spanish administrator and tax collector of the New Kingdom of Galicia) used the crescent moon trope to symbolize the bull: Among the savage animals, you were The valiant focus of attention, oh Amazing crescent moon from Jarama. Out upon the field of the theater, you took away The glorious fame of the king of roaring Africa.67

The crescent shape that appeared on the standards of Ottoman ships was a well-known emblem to Spaniards, who constantly fought battles in the Mediterranean. The Spanish Navy Museum in Madrid holds two Ottoman naval flags (dated 1613). Both are swallow-tailed, one green with a white crescent and the other white with a red crescent (Karyasu and Martins 2006). In The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, Gaspar de la Fuente adapted the crescent moon emblem of the enemy—the Islamic Turks—as the defining feature of the Spanish fighting bull. Gaspar de La Fuente argues that Jarama is the place of origin of the bull, the world’s new king of the beasts. He uses the synecdoche of the crescent moon for the bull, borrowing the poetic trope first introduced by Luis de Góngora (1561–1627). Góngora invented the crescent moon trope at the beginning of the long-form poem Soledades (Solitudes, 1613) in which he uses “crescent moon” to refer to the bull’s horns, a reference to Jupiter, the king of the gods. For Góngora, Jupiter, whose “forehead weapons are the crescent moon,”68 rapes Europa after he transforms into a bull that “grazes on stars in fields of sapphires.”69 The two most important Spanish writers in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great are Luis Vélez de Guevara and Lope de Vega. Vélez de Guevara, who authored over 400 plays, was Philip IV’s official playwright, employed full-time by the Royal Court. Vélez de Guevara, as mentioned, wrote The Mountain Woman from La Vera. Attesting to his acclaim as one of the best poet-playwrights of the period, Vélez de Guevara wrote the starring role of Gila from The Mountain Woman from La Vera for the foremost actress of the day, Jusepa Vaca (1589–1653), who opened the play by riding into the corral on horseback, draped with animal skins fresh from the hunt, 67 “De las fieras escandalo valiente / Fuiste, lunado asombro de Jarama, / Y en arena campal, gloriosa fama / Quitaste al rey de la África rugiente” (Pellicer 1632, 73). 68 “media luna las armas de su frente” (Góngora). 69 “en campos de zafiro pace estrellas” (Góngora).

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seeking revenge on the lover that scorned her. Other plays by Vélez de Guevara were all the rage for over a century. El alba y el sol (The Dawn and the Sun) depicted the reconquest of Spain by King Pelayo (685–737) at the Battle of Covadonga (722) and was performed over 250 times in theaters throughout Spain.70 In the play The Dawn and the Sun, the widely popular Vélez de Guevara associated the crescent moon trope with Islam. The description of Moors in battle is described by one character: “what amazing shields, crescent moons, and flags!”71 Vélez de Guevara attended the staged animal combat in 1631 and repeated the half-moon trope once again in a sonnet in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great. Turning from the crescent moon as metaphor for Moors in battle, Vélez de Guevara creates a Góngora-inspired synecdoche: “Let that crescent-mooned beast […] graze now in fields of sapphire / because it achieved such heights having drunk from Jarama.”72 Like Gaspar de la Fuente, Vélez de Guevara eliminates the beautiful ambiguity of the location of fields of sapphires as described in Góngora’s original by linking the “crescent-mooned beast” to Jarama. He shatters the universality of the image of a bull that “grazes on stars in fields of sapphires” by making the bull’s origin contingent on the Jarama river region. The group of Spanish intellectuals, wealthy elites, and authors in The Amphitheater of Philip the Great form a unified voice of Spanish literary authority that erases the importance of Maghreb the lion by making Jarama the bull a new f igurative lion. They crown Jarama, the bull, as victor over the world’s wild animals, transforming him into the king of the beasts. They do not treat animals as sentient individuals. Instead, they make each animal a synecdochical representations for its place of origin. They describe how Jarama the place, not the animal, defeated Maghreb the place, not the animal. The bull, then, is a Spanish self-image that simultaneously and paradoxically maintains and rejects an essential image of the Islamic enemy and that essentializes an animal as representative of all Spain—and also of all Europe through its association with the myth of Europa. The poets from The Amphitheater of Philip the Great describe Jarama as a lion from Spain and they celebrate his victory over the former king of the 70 George Peale has edited a number of Vélez de Guevara’s plays in recent years, with Juan de la Cuesta-Hispanic Monographs. Also see Peale 1998. 71 “qué de adargas, de medias lunas, de banderas” (Vélez de Guevara 2012). 72 “Ese lunado bruto […] Campanas pazca de zafiro ahora, / Pues tan alta ambición bebió a Jarama” (Pellicer 1632, 64).

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beasts. They confirm the goal of Pellicer’s poetic anthology to transform the bull into the planet’s new animal king. Pellicer describes the final scenes of Jarama’s life as if they were the final moments of battle for a great classical hero: “His Majesty regarded the bravery of that beast, and desirous that the brute that had walked so boldly before his eyes not be denied a prize, he wanted to grant it the maximum favor possible in the same way if it were a creature possessed with reason.”73 King Philip IV, then, in Pellicer’s terms, stood up and ended the life of the dignified enemy in war with a single shot from his harquebus, the grand climax of the spectacle. Pellicer describes the final scene in striking detail, calling attention to the visual image of the final scene as if it were a captured screenshot. He states that all could see Jarama’s bloody death even before the sound of the King’s gun: “the blood of the now disfigured cadaver reddened the Plaza even before the wind sounded with the explosion from the gun powder. The beautiful explosion woke the people’s applause.”74 The event is described in terms of the highest form of dramatic entertainment. One poet describes it as “theater in real life.”75 José de Valdivielso (1565–1638), a playwright and court chaplain, asserts: When the shot reached its mark It found the animal dead Because killing this animal Was no different from loving it. In all of theater No one has ever seen Actors play their parts With such grace And so true.76

For Valdivielso, Jarama the bull was an actor in a special theater; Jarama’s only purpose was to die so as to provide the King an apotheosis. 73 “Miraba su Magestad la valentía de aquella fiera, y deseoso de que [el] bruto que a sus ojos había andado tan intrépido no quedase sin premio, quiso hacerle el mayor favor que pudiera desear a ser capaz de razón” (Pellicer 1632, 6). 74 “la sangre del ya cadáver disforme se vio primero enrojecer la Plaza que oyese el viento el estallido de la pólvora” (Pellicer 1632, 7–8). 75 “teatro real” (Pellicer 1632, 20). 76 “Pues cuando llegó el tiro, le halló muerto / que para ejecutarle, / lo mismo fue quererlo, que matarle. / No se vieron papeles ensayados / en teatro jamás, representados / con tanta dicha, ni con tanto acierto” (Pellicer 1632, 77).

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In this period of Spain’s history, playwrights wrote in verse, and were also known as “poets.” These poets likened the event of Jarama’s death to their own aspirations as successful authors of plays for the stage. Many of the lesser-known playwrights included in the collection tried to pass their plays off as “written by Lope,” Spain’s most celebrated dramatist. In light of his enormous influence, it is especially notable that Lope de Vega read and approved Pellicer’s volume about the animal spectacle for the Inquisition. In his approval of the publication, Lope noted that “no human nor divine objection for any reason” existed that should impede the publication of the book.77 Aside from reading The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, Lope de Vega also employed the trope of the crescent moon in his work. In La Circe (Circe, 1624), a poetic miscellany dedicated to Philip IV’s favorite, the Count Duke of Olivares, Lope portrays the enchantress from Homer’s Odyssey, who converted Odysseus’s sailors into swine. In Lope’s version, Circe converts the sailors into a rhinoceros, elephant, and a bull with “crescent moons on its forehead.”78 Lope used Homer’s epic to praise the power of Philip IV and Olivares by evoking the monarch’s power over a rhinoceros and an elephant, a reference to the spectacle of Abada and Hawa’i. In symbolizing the Spanish Empire’s ability to convert wild animals into domesticated pets, Lope also celebrates Philip IV’s power over a bull by repeating the Góngora-inspired synecdoche of the bull as half crescent moon. Lope read The Amphitheater of Philip the Great and provided a literary assessment of the work. Lope’s words about the event in the context of his colossal stature as Spain’s preeminent playwright provide a stamp of authority to the status of the event as high culture and the best that theater had to offer. The poets, as well as the editor of the book The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, consider the primary action that took place in the arena—the ultimate killing of the victorious Jarama by King Philip IV—to be a theatrical spectacle that surpassed Spain’s dramatic productions performed in the corrales. Lope de Vega summarizes their conclusion in his approval of the manuscript, stating that theater did not get any better than Philip IV’s final death blow: “our Majesty’s action [of killing Jarama] was a theatrical translation of his prowess in the hunt, lifted from the fields and to the amphitheater, a translation from an act in the wilderness to the level of a universal spectacle.”79 77 “No tiene objeción divina ni human en todo su discurso” (Pellicer 1632). 78 “las medias lunas de la frente” (qtd. in De Armas 2016, 5). 79 “Esta acción de su Majestad, que trasladó su singular destreza del campo al anfiteatro, y del monte solo al espectáculo universal” (qtd. in Pellicer 1632, n.p.).

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Conclusion Staged animal combats were ubiquitous in Europe and increasingly widespread and varied in form in the early modern period (Boehrer 2009, 25). Animal combat structures were not only built in Spain in the following centuries, but across Europe. Animals fought before the public well into the eighteenth century. A bullfight with mastiffs was held on Sunday afternoons and public holidays at an amphitheater in Paris, and bulls and lions fought in combat arenas in the Hertz Theatre in Vienna and the Vauxhall in London (Kalof 2007, 116). The Amphitheater of Philip the Great, however, underscores how the seventeenth century characterized the bull as part of the collective consciousness that linked to Spain’s image of itself as ruler over a planetary empire. In contrast to animal combats held across early modern Europe, Pellicer’s The Amphitheater of Philip the Great distinguished the bull as uniquely Spanish by uniting voices from the country’s cultural elite. It thereby set a precedent for future permutations of nationalism in the Spanish collective consciousness, including the inauguration of the Real Maestranza in Seville (1740) and the Plaza in Madrid (1749), the description of the bullfighter as “the essence of a national prototype” in Spanish Self Portraits (1843) by Tomás Rodríguez Rubí (1817–90), and its label as “national sport” under Francisco Franco (1892–1975).80 Chapter 1 showed how the animal spectacle in early modern Spain connects to the growth of commercial theater because the Habsburg King Philip II made a spectacle of an elephant and rhino in two hospitals in Madrid. This chapter has shown that staged animal combats were not part of the corral and commercial theater, but they were nonetheless a fundamental part of early modern Spanish stagecraft. Chapter 1 also showed how Juan de Arfe celebrated the Spanish spectacle of the elephant and rhino and Chapter 2 showed how his humanist colleague Argote celebrated the spectacle of the armadillo, as well as that of armor and live horses. This chapter has shown how both Arfe and Argote also raised the status of the bull spectacle and had profound repercussions on the description of the bull as found in Pellicer and, in turn, on the emergence of the modern bullfight. By way of conclusion, in looking to the future, it is beneficial to examine how early modern Spanish culture provided a model of animal spectacle within the context of the Anthropocene. The seventeenth-century staged 80 “un tipo esencialmente nacional” (in Los españoles pintados por sí mismos as qtd. in Miralles 2016, 260).

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performance of an imperial hunt—the spectacle of the King’s killing of a bull—meant the death of Jarama and a great number of other animals. Today, practices associated with human hunting are the greatest cause of extinction of the world’s large animals. The authors of “Are We Eating the World’s Megafauna to Extinction?,” published in Conservation Letters: A Journal for the Society of Conservation Biology (Ripple et al. 2019), note that, rather than climate change, human hunting for meat consumption and alternative medicines is the biggest immediate threat to elephants, rhinos, and the Earth’s large animals. Animal biogeographies can spark a sense of accountability for the human preservation of species. Some studies that examine the present day, such as Flight Ways: Life and Loss at the Edge of Extinction (2014) by Thomas van Dooren, look to the particularities of real birds on the brink of extinction for accountability for species preservation. Looking to Spain’s early modern period also underscores human accountability in animal preservation. In the twentieth century, people hunted the Barbary lion to near extinction and, in the same period, the population of Spanish wild bulls soared because they were used in modern corridas. Ironically, in a desire to capture the ferocious lion and preserve the trait of ferocity in the Spanish bull for performances, humans nearly eliminated one species and strengthened the population of another. The model of the animal spectacle based on human observation as described in Pellicer, by way of contrast, can inspire productive models of animal and human collaboration. A historical text written in Spanish from seventeenth-century New Mexico, for instance, describes the hunt as a transformational human-animal event that radically contrasts Pellicer’s. The text depicts how the Acoma people hunted a doe that, when alive, was not the object of the hunter’s gaze. The doe sought out and found an Acoma woman. The Acoma woman tells the deceased doe: “We are glad you have come to our home and have not been ashamed of our people” (qtd. in Gutiérrez 1991, 31). Some authors from early modern Spain sought to undermine the complicity between the animal as object of spectacle as associated with the traditional power of the king. The Marvelous Puppet Show by Miguel de Cervantes is a good way to conclude, because it mocks the sense of collectivity that theatrical staged animal combat sought to sow. The Marvelous Puppet Show depicts an entire town as audience members of a play. The play within the play that the town sees, however, is only a figment of its imagination. A man, Chanfalla, tricks the audience into collectively believing the truth of fictional scenes as he describes them to the audience. No one sees anything, but no one admits to seeing nothing because all fear that, in doing so, they might be exposed as not white, either externally or internally (Beusterien 2006).

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Miguel EN Cervantes: El retablo de la maravillas (2015), a graphic novel of The Marvelous Puppet Show written by David Rubín in collaboration with artist Miguelanxo Prado, shows how Cervantes’s play critiques the role of animals as theatrical spectacle in the celebration of the king. The fake play that Chanfalla describes for the town includes a description of a bull. He tells the townspeople that a raging bull before them is about to come close. It is “the same bull that killed the handyman in Salamanca.”81 Chanfalla describes the bull and none of the audience members admits that the bull is not there in front of them. They cower in fright. David Rubín and Miguelanxo Prado use the genre of graphic novel to depict the moment from The Marvelous Puppet Show in which everyone admits to seeing a bull that they cannot see. His graphic novel shows the bull as a shadowy figure emerging from the periphery of the panels that frame each scene of the comic. With the image of the bull, Rubín and Prado break the mechanical limits of the graphic novel space because it breaks out of the frame of the individual panel that contains the images of the “real” people, like Chanfalla, who are depicted in the play (Haney 2019). The real audience member, the character in Cervantes’s play who pretends to see the bull, holds up his hand to stop a bull whose definition are the lines of the frame of the panel of the graphic novel. Rubín and Prado use the drawing of the bull in the periphery of the panel of the graphic novel to underscore how Cervantes critiqued audience members who pretended to see the bull and who participated in the fake spectacle. In so doing, Rubín and Prado show how Cervantes fervently critiqued the refashioning of animal bodies into consumable objects of mass collectivity for the purposes of spectacle. Rubín and Prado disassemble a mode of mass collectivity in visualizing the staged bull spectacle and, in turn, encourages the discovery of new forms of constructive interspecies learning and enjoyment.

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López Rinconada, Miguel Ángel. 1999. “Al margen de la lidia: La lucha de las fieras.” Anales del Instituto de Estudios Madrileños 39: 285–302. Maravall, José Antonio. 1986. Culture of the Baroque: Analysis of a Historical Structure. Trans. Terry Cochran. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Martín, Adrienne. 2014. “Onstage/Offstage: Animals in the Golden Age Comedia.” A Companion to Early Modern Hispanic Theater. Ed. Hilaire Kallendorf. Leiden: Brill. 127–44. Martínez Novillo, Álvaro. 1998. “Fiestas de toros en el teatro de Lope de Vega.” Revista de estudios taurinos 7: 41–68. Marvin, Garry. 2015. “The Art of Fierceness: The Performance of the Spanish Fighting Bull.” In Orozco and Parker-Starbuck, 39–56. Mayo, Arantza. 2008. “‘Quien en virtud emplea su ingenio…:’ Lope de Vega’s Religious Poetry.” A Companion to Lope de Vega. Eds. A. Samson and J. Thacker. Woodbridge: Tamesis. 78–90. Mikhail, Alan. 2014. The Animal in Ottoman Egypt. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Miralles, Xavier Andreu. 2016. El descubrimiento de España. Mito romántico e identidad nacional. Barcelona: Taurus. Naylor, Phillip C. 2009. North Africa: A History from Antiquity to the Present. Austin: University of Texas Press. Nirenberg, David. 2007. “Race and the Middle Ages: The Case of Spain and Its Jews.” Rereading the Black Legend: The Discourses of Religious and Racial Difference in the Renaissance Empires. Eds. Margaret R. Greer, Walter D. Mignolo, and Maureen Quilligan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 71–87. ——. 2009. “Was there Race before Modernity? The Example of ‘Jewish’ Blood in Late Medieval Spain.” The Origins of Racism in the West. Eds. Miriam Eliav-Feldon, Benjamin Isaac, and Joseph Ziegler. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 232–64. Orozco, Lourdes and Jennifer Parker-Starbuck, eds. 2015. Performing Animality: Animals in Performance Practices. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Peale, C. George. 1998. “Luis Vélez de Guevara.” Spanish Dramatists of the Golden Age. Ed. Mary Parker. Westport: Greenwood Press. Pellicer de Ossau y Tovar, José. 1632. Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande. Madrid: Juan González. Pérez de Tudela, Almudena and Annemarie Jordan Gschwend. 2007. “Renaissance Menageries: Exotic Animals and Pets at the Hapsburg Courts in Iberia and Central Europe.” Early Modern Zoology: The Construction of Animals in Science, Literature and the Visual Arts, vol. 2. Eds. Karl A.E. Enenkel and Paul J. Smith. Leiden: Brill. 419–47. Reindl-Kiel, Hedda. 2010. “Dogs, Elephants, Lions, a Ram and a Rhino on Diplomatic Mission.” Animals and People in the Ottoman Empire. Ed. Suraiya Faroqhi. Istanbul: Eren. 271–285.

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Ripple, William J. et al. 2019. “Are We Eating the World’s Megafauna to Extinction.” Conservation Letters: A Journal for the Society of Conservation Biology 12.3 e12627. https://doi.org/10.1111/conl.12627 Ritvo, Harriet. 2010. Noble Cows and Hybrid Zebras: Essays on Animals and History. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Ruano de la Haza, J.M. 1994. “Los animales en escena.” Los teatros comerciales del siglo XVII y la escenificación de la comedia. Eds. J.M. Ruano de la Haza and John J. Allen. Madrid: Castalia. 271–91. —— and John J. Allen. 1994. Los teatro comerciales del siglo XVII y la escenificación de la comedia. Madrid: Castalia. Rubín, David and Miguelanxo Prado. 2015. Miguel EN Cervantes: El retablo de las maravillas. Bilbao: Astiberri and Acción Cultural Española. Santos, Francisco. 2010. Día y Noche de Madrid (1663). Online edition. Lemir 14: 629–796. Scott-Warren, Jason. 2003. “When Theaters Were Bear-Gardens; Or, What’s at Stake in the Comedy of Humors.” Shakespeare Quarterly 54.1: 63–82. Shelton, Jo-Ann. 2014. “Spectacles of Animal Abuse.” The Oxford Handbook of Animals in Classical Thought and Life. Ed. Gordon L. Campbell. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 461–77. Shergold, N. D. 1967. A History of the Spanish Stage: From Medieval Times until the End of the Seventeenth Century. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wagschal, Steven. 2018. Minding Animals in the Old and New Worlds: A Cognitive Historical Analysis. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Vega, Lope de. 1986. Acting is Believing: A Tragicomedy in Three Acts by Lope de Vega (Lo fingido verdadero). Trans. Michael D. McGaha. San Antonio: Trinity University Press. 85–86. Vélez de Guevara, Luis. 2012. El alba y el sol. Alicante: Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de Cervantes. Venationes Ferarum, Auium, Piscium. Pugnae bestiariorum: & mutuae bestiarum. (Hunts of Wild Animals, Birds and Fishes). N.d. Biblioteca Nacional. R/30769. Zalama, Miguel Ángel and Rafael Domínguez Casas. 1995. “Jacob van Laethem, pintor de Felipe ‘el Hermoso’ y Carlos V: precisiones sobre su obra.” Boletín del Seminario de Arte y y Arqueología 61: 345–58. Zhiri, Oumelbanine. 2016. “Mapping the Frontier between Islam and Christendom in a Diplomatic Age: Al-Ghassânî in Spain.” Renaissance Quarterly 69.3: 966–99. “Zulema.” 1851. Romancero general, o Colección de romances castellanos anteriores al siglo XVIII. Ed. Agustín Durán. Madrid: Rivadeniera. 77–78.



Conclusion: Biogeography as a Teaching Tool Abstract The conclusion examines how teachers can use the methodology of biogeography—that is, teachers can guide students by having them name a previously unnamed animal from early modern Spain. For instance, students can name a quetzal whose feathers were used by an Amanteca artisan to craft a shield that Philip II received as a gift and put in his collection in the Royal Armory. The teaching methodology of biogeography—creating names of animals in spectacles of animals in early modern Spain—helps prepare students in the humanities to look beyond the superficial interpretation of images and texts to better understand landscapes of exclusion. Keywords: biogeography in teaching, feather shield (adarga), Amanteca, quetzal, Philip II of Spain (1527–98)

Many animals, especially dogs, were given proper names in early modern Spain. When Gonzalo Argote de Molina describes how Philip II’s court hunted down an escaped lion, he does not give a name for the lion, but describes a Spanish dog who had a French name, Lionel (“Little Lion”). Argote mentions many other proper names for dogs in his book on hunting. In the chapter titled “De la fidelidad de los canes y diferencias de sus nombres” (“Of Dog’s Faithfulness and Their Different Names”), Gonzalo Argote de Molina writes that the dogs from England and Ireland had names whose pronunciation was strange and, when those dogs arrived in Spain, Spanish hunters butchered their names so badly that, although Argote knew their names, he decided not to mention them. Argote does, however, mention the names of Philip II’s well-known hunting dogs, such as Bocanegra and Manchado (a dog name that Cervantes also used for a sheepherding dog in

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Galatea).1 Argote also mentions two other canines: Amadis, who belonged to Lorenzo Suárez de Figueroa (1345–1409), the legendary founder of the Order of Santiago in Seville, and Mahoma (“Mahommed”), the famous dog who earned a salary fighting Moors on behalf of his master Día Sánchez de Carvajal (ca. 1380–ca. 1467).2 In contrast to Argote, who memorialized the names of famous historical dogs, this book has named five animals that were never given proper names. Abada the rhinoceros and Hawa’i the elephant were diplomatic gifts from the Mughal Empire to the Habsburgs. Fuleco the armadillo was captured and became a collectible and specimen in Argote’s curiosity cabinet. Maghreb the lion was a diplomatic gift who ended his life fighting Jarama the bull, who was bred with other fighting bulls near Madrid. Instead of calling the description of each’s life a biography, I call them “biogeographies” in order to call to mind the former habitats of each. Integrating the life story of each animal, especially in the context of a new artificially created habitat in early modern Spain, highlights a central tenet of the Anthropocene, that is, the geological moment in which humanity determines the future impact of the earth system. After providing a history of each animal, each of the chapters in this book has examined the cultural impact of each animal as spectacle in early modern Spain. Abada and Hawa’i were integrated into the architecture of the first permanent modern Spanish stage—the corral or innyard of a hospital. The public had to pay a fee to see each animal and, because they were part of the urban infrastructure of Madrid, Philip II’s newly created imperial capital, their role as spectacle parallels the objective of zoos in European capitals from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Fuleco was a relatively obscure object in Argote’s collection compared to the armor and live horses that also filled his collection. Nonetheless, Fuleco was the most significant animal specimen in the sense that the armadillo’s role as spectacle parallels the objective of animal specimens in museums in European capitals from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Finally, Maghreb and Jarama fought in a staged combat in the center of Madrid that 1 Argote records other names of Philip II’s hunting dogs, including Brabonel, Mohino, Mayortes, Barroso, and Barcino. 2 Amadis is sculpted in alabaster at Suárez de Figueroa’s feet. After a f ire, the alabaster statue was moved to the University of Seville in 1810 (Bernales Ballesteros 2001, 77). Previously, in Argote’s time, the sculpture was located in the Monasterio de Santiago de la Espada in the barrio of Santo Lorenzo in Seville, in the place where the Iglesia de Santa Maria de la Asunción is now located. Argote also notes that the inscription on the collar of his alabaster dog reads “love Amadís” (“con una letra en el argolla que dice: ‘Amad Amadís’”) (Argote 1582).

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contributed to the nationally inflected formation of the modern Spanish bullfight. The decision to imagine a proper name for each animal from spectacle culture is to encourage creativity in scholarship, all the while maintaining rigorous attention to history and close reading of original texts. The methodology in the writing of this book can also serve as a teaching methodology, especially for raising student awareness of the relationship between cultural practices and animal lives. By way of conclusion, I look beyond the five animals studied in this book to offer examples of animal individuals that can be used as points of departure for class projects that focus on the methodology of the biogeography. Secondary and postsecondary instructors looking for engaging exercises and information for their Spanish language, culture, and history students can ask students to create a biogeography to consider what aspects of early modern Spanish culture impacted the environment and animal habitats. One goal of the creative exercise of naming an animal in the biogeography presentation is to stimulate the study of how humans and animals mutually transform one another’s lives to find yet undiscovered solutions for the survival of different species. Aside from studying culture and the environment, another goal of the biogeography project is to help students assess global social media and the imaging of virtual selves that modulate forms of emotional subjectivity. Today’s media world shares similarities with spectacle culture in early modern Spain. As David R. Castillo and Bradley J. Nelson, in Spectacle and Topophilia: Reading Early Modern and Postmodern Hispanic Cultures, argue, the nature of collectivity in spectacle in early modern Spain can lead to “a better understanding of the social and political configurations that continue to structure our perception of the world in the age of global communications and virtual selves” (2012, xii). Living in a social media culture so riddled with a competition of images for the eyes, it is urgent for teachers to expose students to the constructive forces at work in guiding a society’s optic regime. As a sample of how to do a biogeography in teaching, Appendix 1 provides the guidelines for the course project, “Naming an Early Modern Animal.” Appendix 2 provides additional readings for other potential ideas for animal biogeographies. The course project asks students to assign a proper name to an early modern animal. The project can be included as part of a course on Spanish-speaking cultures, especially those that include environmental or animal studies themes. The course project consists of providing the life story of the animal (30%) and the cultural significance of animal object or spectacle (70%).

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Aside from the five protagonists, many other animals mentioned in this book could be studied through biogeography. For instance, Chapter 3 mentions four jaguars that were sent as gifts to King Philip IV from the Viceroy of Peru. A student doing the biogeography project described in Appendix 1 may wish to name one of the four jaguars sent as a gift to King Philip IV. A student may also wish to do the biogeography project for a whale, coyote, or quetzal. Name

Animal

Species

Birth: Death: Display: Place, Date Place, Date Place, Date

?

Whale

?

?

Escorial (Spain), ?

?

Coyote

Mexico

Mexico

?

Quetzal

Sperm whale (Physeter macrocephalus) Coyote prairie wolf (Canis latrans) Resplendent quetzal (Pharomachrus mocinno)

Guatemala, c. 1576

Guatemala, c. 1580

Weltmuseum (Vienna), ? Royal Armory (Madrid), 1581-today

Table 2. The Lives of Three Animals for a Biogeography Class Project.

Philip II acquired the remains of a sperm whale’s massive jaw that washed upon Spain’s eastern coastline, which can still be found in the Escorial (Sáenz de Miera 1992, 272). The first part of the student presentation includes the sperm whale’s life story and the creative exercise of inventing a name for Philip’s whale. The second part of the presentation is the cultural significance of the sperm whale as object and spectacle in the Escorial. The part of the project that describes the cultural significance can connect whale hunting to environmental history (Richards 2014). It could also study the nature of the whale hunt in the Spanish mindset. Whale hunting in early modern Spain was related to the bullfight. Preceding Moby Dick by centuries, Francisco Núñez de Velasco’s Diálogos de contención entre la Milicia y la Ciencia (Contentious Dialogues between the Military and Science, 1614) details an account of how the Spanish killed a whale in the Cantabrian Sea. Núñez de Velasco describes: “[Hunting a whale] is a dangerous bullfight in the spacious plaza of the fecund sea.”3 Fusing the sea and the whale hunt in terms of the proto-nationalist spectacle of killing a bull, the sea in Contentious Dialogues between the Military and Science is the public square and the whale, like the bull, is impaled by a great number of rejones (“metal spears”) (Núñez de Velasco 1614, 15). 3 “esta es una vistosa montería y un peligroso lidiar de toros en la espaciosa plaza del fructuoso mar” (Núñez de Velasco 1614, 15).

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Fig. 29. Chīmalli (early sixteenth century) (Weltmuseum, Vienna).

Aside from the whale, another student might create a biogeography for a coyote depicted on a chīmalli (“shield”) on display at the Weltmusuem in Vienna (fig. 29). In the first part of the presentation, the student invents a name for the coyote and presents the coyote’s life story. The student also presents an introduction to the coyote as a species, an animal increasing its habitat in urban areas across the United States (Flores 2016). In Lubbock, where I teach, the coyote survived the decimation of the bison, and its survival is an example of an animal with an expanding habitat. The second part of the presentation expounds upon the cultural significance of the chīmalli. The shield was made in Mexico City by a special guild of feather workers, the Amantecas (Riedler 2015). Before the Spanish conquest, amantecayotl, or the practice of creating feather mosaics on shields, was highly valued in Tenochtitlan. Although, today, relatively few feather works survive—Alessandra Russo notes eighty-seven in the Americas,

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seventy-two in Europe, and one in Asia— Fray Bernardino de Sahagún (ca. 1499–1590) writes in the Florentine codex that “whoever wants to see the feather workers and understand their craft can do so with their own eyes because they are everywhere in New Spain” (qtd. in Fane 2015, 115). Sahagún provides information on the technique that went into crafting the shield: Iridescent feathers were carefully trimmed and applied in layers using an orchid-based glue onto amatl (“maguey paper”). The craftsmen accentuated the soft texture of the feathers in their mosaics and shields because they removed the quill and vane structure of the feather. As mentioned in Chapter 2, Hernán Cortés sent Charles V war booty, including the coyote chīmalli among the 125 captured Mexica feather shields. Students can use the image on the shield to reconstruct a preconquest moment. Before the Spanish arrived in the Americas, a coyote was killed in a hunt, a man draped the coyote’s hide over his body, and danced. The man probably celebrated a military victory by wearing a coyote costume that included a coyote hide, and he may have also carried the chīmalli. The student can imagine why the Mexica warrior or shaman decided to wear the coyote skin. For instance, the chīmalli contains glyphs that depict speech coming from the mouth of the figure wearing the coyote figure. What is the meaning of the glyphs? Warriors or shamans often wore the skin of an apex animal predator and were believed to shape-shift into a being with interchangeable godlike, animal, and human characteristics (Norton 2013, 64). In what sense did the man who wore the coyote skin become the coyote? In what sense did he also become Huēhuecoyōtl, the auspicious coyote god of music and dance? In closing, I offer a more detailed discussion for a class exercise in which students create the biogeography of a quetzal. The quetzal is the namesake for the Guatemalan national currency and is also featured in the lyrics of the national anthem. The student examines the transformation of the quetzal’s feathers into Philip II’s feather shield found in the Royal Armory in Madrid (fig. 30). The feather shield is ninety centimeters tall and eighty-six centimeters wide. I suspect that the red color on the shield is from the bright crimson breast and belly feathers of the quetzal, but, to date, the scientific analysis has not been carried out. The guidelines for the student project state that 30% of the presentation grade consists of the creation of a life story for an individual quetzal with an emphasis of how and why human cultural institutions impacted its habitat. After students create a name for the quetzal, they may describe its habitat, provide a description of its physical features, play YouTube clips of its song,

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Fig. 30. Philip II’s Feather Shield (ca. 1581) (Armería Real, Madrid, Copyright Patrimonio Nacional).

and show how it is hunted. Students examine an individual quetzal and reconstruct its life. Possibly, the student will choose a male since his colors are more vibrant. The student will trace how the bird’s feathers arrived from a specific region in southern Mexico or Guatemala to Mexico City in the hands of an Amanteca. After rendering the feathers into the shield, the object would have then been sent to Spain and would have arrived in the hands of Philip II. After studying the life story of the individual quetzal, the student spends 70% of the presentation time assessing the cultural significance of the shield, interpreting how an Amanteca craftsman and King Philip II might have perceived the object.

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1. An Amanteca Craftsman’s Perspective of the Shield By wearing a coyote costume, the Mixtec became a nagualli, a human who emanated the life force of a coyote. By carrying the coyote feather shield, the nagualli not only enveloped himself with the essence of the coyote, but also of birds. Of the many species of birds used to make shields, the quetzal was especially significant. As Marcy Norton notes, the “gleaming green feathers of quetzal” were indispensable in the “instantiation of divinity” (2013, 69). The central image on Philip II’s feather shield can be described as belonging to a page from an emblem book, one of the most popular genres of sixteenth-century literature. Typical of the genre, the central image is allegorical, with an accompanying motto or gloss. It shows two storks protecting their nest from a flying snake. The Amanteca-missionary team that created the shield would have had access to the source image from Pierio Valeriano’s book of emblems, which includes an image of a stork killing snakes with an accompanying motto. In the prose description of the image and motto, Valeriano writes that storks live high up, close to God, and wage perpetual warfare on snakes. The team added another stork and, alongside it, included a snake and a toad, symbols of heresy and death. In the context of the four surrounding scenes of Spanish battle victories, the snake and toad signify Islam, and the crowns on the head of each stork represent Philip II and his father. But the propagandistic message may not have been necessarily taken at face value by the Amanteca craftsman that made it. To what degree did the Amanteca alter Spanish iconography for the purposes of his own tradition? He could have used any number of hundreds of emblems from Valeriano or another emblem book for the central motif for the shield. But the image of the stork eating the snake intimately connects with Mesoamerican iconography. The Amanteca added wings to the image of the serpent on the shield, a detail not found in the original source, but which resonated with the iconographic tradition of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent. The image harkens back to the production of an image of an eagle and snake on Mexica shields. One Mexica feather shield that Cortés sent back to Spain for the Lord Knight Hernando de Vega features a central design that depicts an eagle with a snake in its beak (Fane 2015). A similar emblem was adopted two centuries later as the sign of Mexico’s nationhood. By adding the winged serpent, the Amanteca inserted a distinctly American meaning to European emblem allegory tradition. What would the Amanteca craftsman have thought of the form of the shield? Standard preconquest Mexica shields, like standard European ones, were round. The

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Spanish, however, used adargas (a word from Andalusian Arabic), a uniquely shaped shield, formed by two united ellipses or ovals, in the conquest of Mexico. The Lienzo de Tlaxcala depicts adargas as the only type of shield that the Spanish carry because Hispanic-Moorish adargas proved more useful against Aztec armament and tactics than heavier round shields made of metal and wood. Was the creation of the adarga form for a shield the Amanteca’s way of coopting the form of the Spanish shield? Philip II practiced the European model of collecting, but might the Amanteca who crafted the shield have made a collectible following a native American collection practice and not the other way around? The sixteenth-century writer Diego Durán notes that Amantecas had created shields for the Mexica that showed the great deeds of their gods and past rulers. Moreover, powerful Mexica families kept Amanteca shields in their collections and took them out for battle and ceremonial dance spectacles, even after the conquest. The Amanteca creator of the shield took advantage of the familiar European form, the allegorical emblem, and inserted it into his own traditional practice. This book has examined the European notion of the exotic animal. How, though, did the Amanteca craftsman incorporate something exotic in his art? What was the signif icance of the image of the battle with strange vessels on an unknown sea? How would the Amanteca have thought about the individual quetzal and other innumerable birds that he rendered on the shield? How would he have thought about the red quetzal breast feathers transformed into feathers on Charles’s helm, the feather plume worn by his horse, and the red background for Philip II sitting on a throne overlooking the naval battle of Lepanto? Did the Amanteca transform the essence of the Spanish monarch into the divine essence of the quetzal? 2. King Philip II’s Interpretation of the Shield After the Spanish conquest, the Amantecas continued to produce shields for local Mexica elites, but they stepped up their production for European markets. They began to form teams with Spanish missionaries and used the same artistic technique to create a vast number of material objects with images from Christian iconography. The images were framed and collected by elites across Europe. Sometimes, the actual bodies of birds accompanied these framed feather mosaics in collections—the feather mosaic Saint Jerome once had a dead hummingbird bird on its frame and two dead hummingbird specimens once framed a feather mosaic in an Italian collection depicting a female saint with a cross in her hand (Kern 2018).

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The Amantecas did not just use hummingbird feathers, but also quetzal feathers, for European elites. Sources indicate that, when the Amerindians in Guatemala captured quetzals, they only plucked three or four of the feathers and then let the bird go (López Medel 1990, 39–40; Norton 2013, 69n.92). Given the sheer quantity of feathers used to make their works, no doubt other quetzals, especially after the arrival of the Spanish, were not set free after the hunt, but killed so as to render the maximum number of feathers. The Spanish conquistador Don Julián wrote, in his 1566 final will and testimony, that he would sell off his valuable horse and cape, but “the shield with 200 quetzal plumes” was to stay in the family (Fane 2015, 116 n.32). When Amanteca featherwork was sent across the Atlantic, Europeans disregarded its meaning in Mexica culture. They often treated featherworks like other luxury commodities. Like many paintings by renowned artists, King Philip II regifted many feather objects originally produced by the Amantecas. Philip II sent a feather mosaic painting, Ecce Homo, as an ambassadorial gift to Africa—he gave it to the Jesuits for their evangelical mission to Mozambique (Cummins 2015, 273). Philip II kept others, such as a feather miter, produced in 1576, in the Escorial, which had identical iconography to two other surviving miters (O’Neill 2010, 261). But, like a vast quantity of items in his original collections, the 1576 feather miter does not survive today in the Spanish national patrimony collections. Even though Philip II regifted priceless collectibles (aside from art, he, as stated in Chapter 1, regifted three live elephants), he did not regift the one special feather shield that remains in the Spanish national patrimony collection that was created by the Amanteca craftsman. Philip II, like Don Julián, who did not want to see his feather shield leave the family, had placed the American shield alongside armor, the most valuable collectible in his vast collection. Today, the colors on Philip’s shield have faded, but it is not hard to imagine their former brilliance. José de Acosta, the Jesuit missionary to the New World, wrote that feather mosaics were far superior to paintings (Kern 2018, 335). Pope Sixtus V (1521–90) had a feather mosaic in his possession and touched the object to convince himself that it was really made of feathers and not painted (Kern 2018, 319). When Philip II observed the shield, a unique color sensation would have reached his eyes. His eyes experienced xoxoctic color, a Nahuatl designation for the simultaneously optic experience of emerald green and navy or turquoise blue. Certain iridescent feathers changed from green to blue depending on their movement and position, creating a sensation of pulsation and glittering light (Ségota 2015). What of its texture, sensuously appealing light, and stunning iridescent color never before created in the spectrum of European paint? What did

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Philip II, an avid bird lover, think as he touched the feather object from the other side of the ocean from the Indies, whose soil his feet would never touch? What did he think of the image of himself seated on a throne overlooking the Lepanto battle? How would he have compared this shield to his many other shields in the Royal Armory collection? Philip II collected round European shields crafted by German armorers that celebrated his Habsburg legacy. Philip also kept adargas as booty from Islamic forces in his Royal Armory. What would Philip II have thought about the shield whose shape Spain adapted from the Moors? One fifteenth-century adarga in his collection has an inscribed motto from the Nasrid dynasty, written in Arabic—”There is no victor but Allah” (Crooke y Navarrot 1898, 161). Not only did he have Moorish adargas, but Philip II also had sixteenth-century Spanish adargas in his collection that were used in battles against Islamic forces. Moreover, what would Phillip II have thought of the iconography that the Amanteca-missionary team chose for the shield? Images are placed in four quadrants around a central image of crowned storks. The four images show the major events that seem devised to satisfy Philip’s worldview. The images show the history of victories over Islam as culminating in Philip II’s reign: the battle of Navas de Tolosa (1212), the Catholic entrance and Boabdil’s abandonment of Granada (1492), Charles V’s Battle of the Wells victory in Tunis (1535), and Philip’s victory at Lepanto (1571). The first quadrant shows Spanish forces with a lion image on a war standard at Navas de Tolosa. Philip would have been interested in the historical allusion to the lion and its redeployment as image of his own propaganda campaign against his enemies. The lion’s meaning in the medieval context of Navas de Tolosa signifies the troops are from the early Spanish kingdom of León. The shield then rejuvenates for Philip the medieval story of King Alphonso VII (r. 1126–57), who borrowed the lion from Roman imperial iconography and called himself Alphonso the Lion, later transferring the same name to his Kingdom, León. The third quadrant of the shield is a portrait of Charles V based on Titian’s official portrait, in which the monarch is dressed in his pageant armor and set to battle the Protestant lords at Mühlberg. The Amanteca-missionary team in New Spain did not have Titian’s portrait to copy, but instead used a copy made by Alonso Sánchez Coello. Coello’s copy of the Equestrian Portrait of Carlos V arrived in New Spain in 1580, when Philip II commissioned Coello to make a copy of the painting as a gift to Emperor Wanli of the Ming dynasty. Coello’s copy of Charles V was never sent to China (so it did not disappear in the shipwreck described in Chapter 1), but remained

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in the viceroy’s collection, where it was then copied for Philip II’s shield by the team who creatively readapted the setting from Mühlberg to that of the Tunis campaign against Barbarossa (Cummins 2015, 275). While Philip would have been extremely interested in the image of his father in armor transformed (into feathers!) on the shield, he would have been more interested in his own image. The fourth quadrant shows an image of Philip II seated on a throne wearing a red sash around his neck, holding the Golden Fleece. The quetzal, whose feathers were used for the sash, probably would have been irrelevant to Philip. He would have been more interested in the depiction of himself as monarch. As opposed to the image of Charles V, the image of Philip II in armor was not copied from his off icial portrait. In creating this image, the Amanteca-missionary team would have consulted a broadsheet print (ca. 1580) by Antonio Tempesta (1555–1630) that shows the monarch seated on a throne. The team would have also consulted a copy of an image of the battle of Lepanto, such as the one depicted by Paolo Veronese (1528–88) in the early 1570s. The team fused the two different scenes of Philip II that circulated in print in America—that of Philip on the throne and of the Battle of Lepanto—into a single image of the King. They created a new Philip II image that shows him sitting on a throne overlooking the victorious naval battle over the Ottoman Turks. Finally, Philip II would have especially regarded the central image on the shield with its accompanying Latin motto, serae spes una senectae (“a hope for one in advanced old age”). The principal meaning of the central allegorical image is Spain’s victory over Islam. The central motto in Latin about old age was directed at Philip II, who was well over fifty when the shield arrived to the Royal Armory in Madrid. It would have provoked him to consider his legacy. Typically, the author of the emblem book, after the image and motto, gives an interpretation of the image and motto in prose of usually a page in length. In contrast, the team created a message in four images around the motto to communicate religious propaganda associated with Philip II. Perhaps the images might have soothed Philip II as he looked at and touched the shield. The Latin motto suggests that he, the great planetary monarch, protected Spain from the threat of Islam and perhaps gave him hope that he was the one that would protect Spain from Islam in the future. “A hope for one in advanced old age,” with its accompanying image, works in a similar way as a meme or tweet. Philip II looked at a motto and image that pleased his eyes. The pedagogical exercise of naming the quetzal forms part of an exercise in which students stop to examine an individual animal’s

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role in creating an image and motto that were easily digested at a glance. Taking time to examine the process of visually perceiving superficial images on Philip II’s shield can lead to a critique of the monarch’s self-satisfaction and the consideration of the complex way in which easily consumed images led to landscapes of exclusion on a planetary scale.

Works Cited Argote de Molina, Gonzalo. 1582. Libro de la montería que mandó escrevir el muy alto y muy poderoso Rey Don Alfonso de Castilla, y de León, último deste nombre: acrecentado por Gonçolo Argote de Molina. Seville: Andrés Pescioni. Bernales Ballesteros, Jorge. 2001. Universidad de Sevilla: Patrimonio monumental y artístico. Seville: University of Seville. Castillo, David R. and Bradley J. Nelson, eds. 2012. Spectacle and Topophilia: Reading Early Modern and Postmodern Hispanic Cultures. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Crooke y Navarrot, Juan Bautista. 1898. Catálogo histórico-descriptivo de la Real Armería de Madrid. Madrid: Fototipias de Hauser y Menet. Cummins, Thomas B.F. 2015. “Adarga D-88 or the Wing of God.” In Russo et al., 270–81. Fane, Diana. 2015. “Feathers, Jade, Turquoise, and Gold.” In Russo et al., 100–18. Flores, Dan. 2016. Coyote America: A Natural and Supernatural History. New York: Basic Books. Kern, Margit. 2018. “Cultured Materiality in Early Modern Art: Feather Mosaics in Sixteenth-Century Collections.” The Nomadic Object: The Challenge of World for Early Modern Religious Art. Eds. Christine Göttler and Mia M. Mochizuiki. Leiden: Brill. 319–42. López Medel, Tomás. 1990. De los tres elementos: Tratado sobre la naturaleza y el hombre del nuevo mundo. Ed. Berta Ares Queija. Madrid: Alianza. Norton, Marcy. 2013. “Going to the Birds: Animals as Things and Beings in Early Modernity.” Early Modern Things: Objects and Their Histories, 1500-1800. Ed. Paula Findlen. London: Routledge. 53–83. Núñez de Velasco, Francisco. 1614. Diálogos de contención entre la Milicia y la Ciencia. Valladolid: Juan Godínez de Millis. O’Neill, John P. 2010. Mexico: Splendors of Thirty Centuries. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Richards, John F. 2014. The World Hunt: An Environmental History of the Commodification of Animals. Berkeley: University of California Press. Riedler, Renée. 2015. “Materials and Technique of the Feather Shield Preserved in Vienna.” Russo et al., 330–41.

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Russo, Alessandra, Gerhard Wolf, and Diana Fane, eds. 2015. Images Take Flight: Feather Art in Mexico and Europe, 1400-1700. Munich: Hirmer Verlag. Sáenz de Miera, Jesús. 1992. “Ciencia y estética en torno a Felipe II: Imágenes naturalistas de América en el Escorial.” Reales sitios: Revista del Patrimonio Nacional 29 (112): 50–60. Ségota, Dúrdica. 2015. “The Radiance of Feathers.” Russo et al., 378–85.



Appendix 1 Biogeography Course Project: Naming an Early Modern Animal

Description: This project is designed for an upper-level university course on culture in the Spanish-speaking world. Students create a proper name for an unnamed animal. They must show how the animal impacted culture and how culture impacted the animal. The goal of the course project is to enhance the appreciation of early modern Spanish culture. Determination of grade: 1. Animal life story (30%): Invent a proper name. Describe the animal’s life. Estimate the date and place of the animal’s birth and death. Describe how social institutions affected the animal’s life. 2. Cultural significance of animal object or spectacle (70%): Examine the impact of the animal as object or spectacle.



Appendix 2 Bibliography for the Study of Animals and Early Modern Spain

Primary text Pellicer de Ossau y Tovar, José. 1632. Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande. Madrid: Juan González.

Secondary texts Alves, Abel. 2011. Animals of Spain: An Introduction to Imperial Perceptions and Human Interaction with Other Animals, 1492-1826. Leiden: Brill. ——. 2020. “Domestication and Coevolution.” The Handbook of Historical Animal Studies. Eds. Brett Mizelle, Mieke Roscher, and André Krebber. Oldenbourg: De Gruyter. Beusterien, John. 2012. Canines in Cervantes and Velázquez: An Animal Studies Reading of Early Modern Spain. Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing. ——. 2016. “Humor and a Political Future through Illustrations of Sancho Panza and His Donkey.” Baroque Projections: Images and Texts in Dialogue with the Early Modern Hispanic World. Eds. Michael J. Horswell and Frédéric Conrod. Newark: Juan de la Cuesta. 191–208. ——. 2019. “Comedy and Environmental Cultural Studies: An Image of a Spanish Rhinoceros and Sancho with his Donkey.” Environmental Cultural Studies Through Time: The Luso-Hispanic World. Eds. Kata Beilin, Kathleen Connolly, and Micah McKay. Hispanic Issues Online: University of Minnesota. 254–71. ——. 2020. “Madrigal in Miguel de Cervantes’s La gran sultana: An Animal Studies Approach.” Romance Notes, forthcoming. Brandner, Zachary. 2020. “El oso pardo en la obra de Góngora y Cervantes: Crisis ecológica de la masculinidad.” Romance Notes, forthcoming. Dopico Black, Georgina. 2010. “The Ban and the Bull: Cultural Studies, Animal Studies, and Spain.” Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies 11.3–4: 235–49. Gómez Centurión, Carlos. 2011. Alhajas para soberanos. Los animales reales en el siglo XVIII: de las leoneras a las mascotas de cámara. Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León. Larsen, Kevin. 1984. “Observations on the Animals and Animal Imagery in Cervantes’ Theater.” Modern Language Studies 14.4: 64–75.

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Lawrence, Natalie. 2014. “Disembodied Birds: Crafting the Dodo and the Birds of Paradise in L’Écluse’s Exoticorum libri decem.” Commodity Histories. Accessed December 29, 2019. http://www.commodityhistories.org/research/ disembodied-birds ——. 2015. “Exotic Origins: The Emblematic Biogeographies of Early Modern Scaly Mammals.” Itinerario 39: 17–43. Martín, Adrienne. 2012. “Zoopoética quijotesca: Cervantes y los Estudios de Animales.” eHumanista/Cervantes 1: 448–64. ——. 2014. “Onstage/Offstage: Animals in the Golden Age Comedia.” A Companion to Early Modern Hispanic Theater. Ed. Hilaire Kallendorf. Leiden: Brill. 127–44. ——. 2020. “Sexy Beasts: Women and Lapdogs in Baroque Satirical Verse.” Goodbye Eros: Recasting Forms and Norms of Love in the Age of Cervantes. Eds. Ana María Laguna and John Beusterien. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. 157–76. Norton, Marcy. 2013. “Animal (Spain).” Lexikon of the Hispanic Baroque: Transatlantic Exchange and Transformation. Eds. Evonne Levy and Kenneth Mills. Austin: University of Texas Press. 17–19. ——. 2013. “Going to the Birds: Animals as Things and Beings in Early Modernity.” Early Modern Things: Objects and Their Histories, 1500-1800. Ed. Paula Findlen. London: Routledge. 53–83. ——. 2015. “The Chicken or the Iegue: Human-Animal Relationships and the Columbian Exchange.” American Historical Review 120: 28–60. Jordan Gschwend, Annemarie. 2010. The Story of Süleyman: Celebrity Elephants and Other Exotica in Renaissance Portugal. Zurich, Pachyderm. ——. 2016. “Animals Fit for Emperors: Hans Khevenhuller and Habsburg Menageries in Vienna and Prague.” En la corte del rey de España: Liber Amicorum en homenaje a Carlos Gómez-Centurión Jiménez (1958-2011). 109–126. Pimentel, Juan. 2017. The Rhinoceros and the Megatherieum: An Essay in Natural History. Trans. Peter Mason. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Ruano de la Haza, J.M. 1994. “Los animales en escena.” Los teatros comerciales del siglo XVII y la escenificación de la comedia. Eds. J.M. Ruano de la Haza and John J. Allen. Madrid: Castalia. 271–91. Russo, Alessandra, Gerhard Wolf, and Diana Fane, eds. 2015. Images Take Flight: Feather Art in Mexico and Europe, 1400-1700. Munich: Hirmer Verlag. Wagschal, Steven. 2018. Minding Animals in the Old and New Worlds: A Cognitive Historical Analysis. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

Index Page numbers in italics refer to illustrations. Abada 18-19, 26-27, 35-37, 39, 43-72, 74-89, 91-92, 98, 100-03, 122, 140, 146, 148, 176, 184-85, 199-200, 207, 214, 224 allusions to in anonymous Diálogos de la montería (Dialogues about Hunting) 69 in Góngora poem 69 as gift 47, 49, 70, 71 etymology of 44-45 eyewitness descriptions as dangerous 57-58, 60 as docile 59 as taxidermy specimen 60-61 in the work of Martín Sarmiento 39 n.8 descriptions of at Escorial 56 by Hans Khevenhüller 58, 61, 68 by Philip II 55 by Sebastián de Covarrubias 57-58, 69-70 by visitors to Lisbon 55 in General Hospital of Madrid 57, 68 of bones and rotted skin 61-62 of curative power 85 of food that she ate 55, 59 of impenetrable skin 91-92 record from locksmith for her enclosure 55 images by author and his students of fused with Madrid cityscape 102 with mahout 54 with mother 103 sixteenth-century images of as printed by Philip Galle 43-44, 43 n.9, 44 as watercolor in Adam Hochreiter’s diary 59 in history of Portuguese kings by Pedro Andrade Caminha 54 on anonymous oil paintings in Vienna 59 on cover of Rudolf II’s collection inventory 62 on Jacobo da Trezzo’s gem cameo 58 on Juan de Arfe’s ewer 98 spurious legend about 57 n.21 street name in Madrid 85, 85 n.79 see also rhinos Acosta, Cristóbal Tractado de las drogas y medicinas de las indias orientales (Treatise of the Drugs and Medicines of the East Indies) 84, 89

Remedios específicos de la India Oriental y de la América (Specific Remedies from East India and the Americas) 84 see also elephants Acosta, José de 119-120 Historia natural y moral de las indias (Natural and Moral History of the Indies) 119-120 adarga see feather shields Adonis y Venus (Adonis and Venus) see Vega, Lope de African slaves 132 see also cimarrones Akbar, ruler of Mughal empire see menageries; elephants alba y Sol, El (The Dawn and the Sun) see Vélez de Guevara, Luis Albuquerque, Afonso de, first governor of Portuguese empire in India 49 Alcalá de Henares see theatres in early modern Spain Aldrovandi, Ulisse see curiosity cabinets Almagro see theaters in early modern Spain Alphonso VII, king of León 233 Alphonso the Wise, king of Spain 157 n.40 Cantigas de Santa María (Songs of Holy Mary) 157 n.40 Amadis see dogs Amantecas 227, 231-32 amantecayotl (practice of creating feather mosaics) 227 America by Jan van Kessel see curiosity cabinets Andrade Caminha, Pedro de see Abada Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) 27- 28, 173-75, 181-82, 190-97, 200, 208-15 as hyperbolically comparing Philip IV to Roman emperors 191 includes poems by Fuente, Gaspar de la 210-211 González de Rosende, Antonio 210 León Pinelo, Diego de 210 Méndez de Loyola, Pedro 210 Mira de Amescua, Antonio 209 Oviedo, Alonso de 210 Pellicer de Ossau y Tovar, José 210 Pimentel y Benavides, Gaspar 210 Quevedo, Francisco de 208-210 Rodríguez de León Pinelo, Antonio 210 Valdivielso, José de 213 Valenzuela Fajardo, Pedro de 210 Vélez de Guevara, Luis 211

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Lope de Vega as inquisitorial censor of 214 José Pellicer de Ossau y Tovar as editor 210, 214 animals as connected to Orpheus 95 as consumer goods like spices 53 as dead specimens 115-17, 155-61 in Argote’s museum 124, 126 in the Wellcome Institute’s diorama of Argote’s museum 124 as gifts 17-18, 27, 36, 131, 140, 157 n.40, 18386, 226, 232 see also Abada, elephants, lions, rhinos from Mamluk Sultan of Egypt to Alphonso the Wise 157 n.40 from Philip II to emperor Wanli 74 from Philip II to Toyotomi Hideyoshi from the Mughal Empire to Iberia 3738; 45-49 as living specimens in curiosity cabinets 130-32 exotic 15, 19-26, 28, 59, 63, 64 n.39, 78, 82, 116, 127 n.16, 130, 134, 138, 144, 157-59, 161, 180, 190 n.20, 192, 200, 231 hunting of see hunting in the work of Albrecht Dürer 135 in tapestries designed by Giulio Romano 96-97 n.103 individual species of alligators 123, 130, 136, 140, 144, 152, 156 ants 118 baboon 135 bats 158 bear 156 (claw of); 208 boar 126, 130, 188, 196 camels 50, 59, 63, 64 n.39, 97, 157 n.40, 208 cats 86 n.82, 208 cheetahs 88 chickens 67, 120,-21, 192, 206 see also theaters in early modern Spain cochineal 74, 132 coyotes 138, 226-28, 230 crab 135 crocodile 156-57 deer 126, 130 donkeys 30, 60, 67, 164, 204, 204 n.45, 205, 239, see also theaters in early modern Spain elk 74, 85, 92 foxes 158, 188, 196 giraffes 88, 157, 157 n.40 hogs (pigs) 67, 83 n.74, 121, 154 horses 67, 97, 116, 118-19, 131, 140, 142, 147-48, 150 (palfrey), 151-55, 162 see also theaters in early modern Spain ibex 135 jaguars 122, 226, 185 llama 64, 64 n.39

lynx 135 monkeys 131, 163, 183, 208 moose 85 n.78 mules 186, 205 see also theaters in early modern Spain oryx 85 n.78 oxen 47, 56, 177 panthers 47, 88 porcupines 83 n.74 (as source for bezoar stones), 195 (as automaton with a human within), 196, 207 (as costume for plays) rabbits (hares) 119, 135, 138, 192, 196, 208 ram 149 (as Golden Fleece), 150 (as Golden Fleece), 152 (as Golden Fleece), 154, 185, 204, 206, rooster 208-209 sharks 136, 140, 152, 156 sheep 64 n.39, 67, 99, 149, 207 snakes 123, 208, 230 storks 135, 230, 233 tapir 85 n.78 toads 230 turtles 146 (sea); 195-96 (as automaton with a human within), see also staged animal combats vicuña (bezoar stone from) 83 n.74 whales 135, 173, 226-27 walrus 135 wolves 181, 188, 192, 196-97, 205, 226 worms 62, 118 zebra 17 n.6, 157 n.40 see also Abada, armadillos, birds, bulls, dogs, elephants, lions, rhinos Juan de Arfe’s interest in 95-100, 96 n.103 on ships 51-52, 122-23 Philip II’s interest in 146-47 sense of territory 27, 29, 101-03 see also bezoar stones; hunting; taxidermy Albert VII, Archduke of Austria 131, see also curiosity cabinets Anthropocene 15-18, 27, 29, 35, 100, 215, 224 Aranjuez see menageries The Archdukes Albert and Isabella Clara Visiting a Collector’s Cabinet see curiosity cabinets Arfe y Villafañe, Juan de 6, 26-27, 35-36, 92, 93, 94-99, 125-26, 187, 188, 197, 200-03, 215 basin for Scipio Africanus ewer 92 n.93, 93 n.95, 94, 99, 200-02 De varia commensuración para la Esculptura y Architectura (Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture) 93-96 Descripción de la traça y ornato de la custodia de plata de la Santa Yglesia de Sevilla (Description of the Form and Decoration of the Silver Monstrance in the Holy Church of Seville) 94 n.96

Index

illustrator (for Argote’s Libro de la Montería (The Book on Hunting) and Nobleza de Andalucía (Nobility of Andalucía) 125-26 impact on Diego de Velázquez 94 n.97 Orpheus ewer (for Philip III) 95-96 Quilatador de oro, plata y piedras (Assayer of Gold, Silver, and Precious Stones) 94 n.96 Scipio Africanus ewer (for Philip II) 93 n.95, 94-95, 99, 126, 200 Argote de Molina, Gonzalo 19, 25, 27, 69 n.53, 115-16, 123-24, 125, 126-32, 134, 136-37, 145, 156-57, 159-60, 183-84, 186, 187, 189, 197, 200, 201, 202, 203, 215, 223-24 as a soldier 116, 126, 134 collaboration with Arfe y Villafañe, Juan de 125-26 connection to slave trade 202-03 Libro de la Montería (The Book on Hunting) 126, 130, 183, 186-87, 202 Arias Montano, Benito see curiosity cabinets armadillos 13, 15-16, 18-19, 25, 27, 84, 115-20, 121, 122-24, 130-31, 134-36, 138-42, 144, 145, 146-47, 152-57, 159-63, 215, 224 as armoured horse 153-54 as confused with rhinos 139-40 as connected to European belittlement of American fauna 161 as food source for indigenous people and Europeans 119-21 as little pig with lizard tale 154 as living specimens in menageries 122 as museum specimens 123-24, 157, 160 as symbol of agricultural fertility 118 America 140-44 (equine caricature); 144-45 (aquatic beast) how nature favors the weak 119 as threatening aquatic beast 136, 144-45, 152 diet of 118 etymology 152-54 Fuleco 18-19, 26-27, 115-20, 122-29, 131-32, 134, 136-39, 144-46, 152-53, 155-63, 224 geographical range 117 giant (glyptodon) 161 images America by Maarten de Vos 140-42, 141 Amerique by Stafano della Bella 142, 143 as Dürer’s Rhinoceros 139-40 as America in sculpture by Gian Lorenzo Bernini 144-45, 145 by Frans Post 120-21, 121 in Archduke Ernst of Austria’s royal victory arch 143-44 in A Book of Diverse Animals, Birds, and Reptiles 138-41, 139

243 in frontispiece for Francesco Redi’s Experiments on the Generation of Insects 160 in frontispiece for States, Empires, and Principalities of the World (1621) by Pierre d’Avity 142 in Gesner 147 in Hernández’s Novae Hispaniae Thesaurus (The Natural History of New Spain) 146 in Jan van der Heyden’s Still-life with Rarities 161 in L’Écluse 159-60 in Philip II’s collection 146 Histoire Naturelle des Indes (The Natural History of the Indies, Drake Manuscript) 120 in Joris Hoefnagel 138-39 in Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies (1571 and 1574) 137, 136-38 in Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies (1580) 138 on household objects 141-42 on maps by Claes Janszoon Visscher, Diogo Ribeiro and Descelier 141, 141 n.27 in pre-Columbian America 118 nine-banded 117, 117 n.2, 138, 140-41, 147, 162 non-standard Spanish names for ayotochli; aiotochtli (gourd rabbit) 11819, 122 cachicamo 118 chupa 120 gurre, herre-herre (hairy-hairy) 118 jueche 119 peludo 118 quirquinchos (kirkinchu) 118 siete carnes (seven meats) 119 tatú 159 toche 119 on ships 122-23 other names for tatou (French) 159 tatu peba (Portuguese) 120 tatovai (French) 120 six-banded (Euphractus sexcintus) 19, 138 tail as a cure 138-39 three-banded 147 armor 22-28, 43, 56, 62, 71-72, 80-81, 89, 90, 91-92, 99, 115-16, 119, 124, 130-32, 135, 140, 142, 145, 147-50, 151, 152-55, 159-62, 199, 215, 224, 232-34 as the hide of Rhinoceros by Dürer 23-25, 147, 153 as image of the planet’s most spectacular form of live theater 148

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as engraved with Rhinoceros by Dürer 151-52 bards (horse armor) as the inspiration for interest in armadillos 152-55 Horse Armor of Maximilian I 152 in the form of a unicorn or rhino 151 Tournament Armor of Charles V 150, 151 designs by Dürer 22, 24 designs by Hans Burgkmair 22-23, 51 designs by Desiderius Helmschmid 199-200 engraving of Golden Fleece on 149 Philip II’s interest in 25, 148-52 Maximilian I’s interest in 22 with Hercules engravings 150, 152 see also armadillos Arrival of Vasco da Gama to Calicut or Cochin see rhinos; lions ayotochli (gourd rabbit) see armadillos Babur, ruler of Mughal empire see rhinos Baburnama (the Book of Babur) see rhinos Badiano, Juan, author of Aztec medicine manual 138 Balthasar Carlos, prince of Asturias and son of Philip IV 192-93 Barbary lions see lions bards (horse armor) see armor Bazán, Alvaro de, Marquess of Santa Cruz and commander-in-chief of the Spanish naval forces 156 Becerril see bulls Bella, Stefano della see armadillos Belon, Perre 123 Benavente see bulls Bernaldo de Quirós, Francisco Antonio 207 El toreador don Bibilés (Don Babilés the Bullfighter) 207 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo see Fountain with Four Rivers bezoar stones 83, 83 n.74, 132 biogeography 15, 17, 19, 26, 28, 35, 115-16, 173, 223-28 in teaching 223-28 birds 17 n.5, 21, 43 n.9, 47, 50, 59, 63, 64 n.39, 77-78, 122, 127 n.16, 130, 138-41, 158-59, 176, 188, 192, 197, 199, 204, 206, 216, 230-31, see also theaters in early modern Spain birds of paradise 17 n.5, 159 blue-bellied roller 135, 146, also see Dürer, Albrecht bullfinch 59 ducks 59 eagles 95, 197, 230 flamingos 59, 157 n.40 hummingbirds ibis 157 n.40 ostriches 59, 139, 157 n.40, 183, 190 owl 135

parrots 59, 122-23, 140, 146 peacocks 59 quetzal birds 28, 223, 226, 228-32, 234 stork 135 swallows 59 Boalo see bulls A Book of Diverse Animals, Birds, and Reptiles see armadillos The Book of Garments (Trachtenbuch) see Weiditz, Christoph Books of emblems 50, 78-79, 99, 142, 230; see also rhinos Borcht, Pieter van der 142-44 Buen Retiro Park see zoos; staged animal combat Buffon, Georges 59, 161 Buitrago see bulls Bullbaiting 200 bulls 15-16, 18-19, 26-28, 38, 60, 63, 95, 97-98, 126-27, 173-82, 188, 190-94, 196-200, 201, 202-04, 206-17, 224, 226 and national pride and race 201-03, 215 and Philip II 178-79, 200 and Philip III 179-80 anti-bullfighting proponents 178 arenas for Benavente 198 finca de la Tela (the terrain of the Cloth, Madrid) or Parque (Park) 193, 195 Hertz Theatre in Vienna 215 Pamplona 176-77 Plaza de Toros (Madrid) 215 Plaza Mayor (Madrid) 65, 179, 193-94, 197, 207 Real Maestranza (Seville) 215 Vauxhall (London) 215 Santa María Plaza (Guadalajara) 198 as a hunting spectacle 196-197 as both exotic and indigenous 21, 28, 200 as the principal popular spectacle in early modern Spain 203, 207-14 breeding of 177, 180-81 centrality in material culture outside of Spain 197-200 connection to religious spectacle 178 horns as symbolic of Islamic Turks 211-12, 214 importance of the Jarama river region for breeding 175-76, 180-81 images of painting by Laethem, Jacob van (in the Spanish city of Benavente) 198 as part of hunting scenes by Jan van der Straet (Stradanus) 199 print published by Galle 198-99 copper engraving by Jan Cooaert 198 Antonio Tempesta’s broadsheet 176 as woodcut by Arfe in Argote’s Book on Hunting 200, 201

Index

on Arfe’s ewer and basin 97-98, 200-01 on shield of Philip II’s parade armor 200 Vista del Alcázar Real y entorno del Puente de Segovia (The View of the Royal Alcázar and the Environs of the Segovia Bridge) 196 in ancient Minoan culture 175 proper names of Caramelo 175 Fernando 175 Jarama 18-19, 26, 28, 130, 173-82, 190-93, 195-98, 201-03, 208-14, 216, 224 Spanish terms relating to corrida 57 n.21, 178-79, 196-98, 99 n.36, 200 cuchilladas 179 encierro (in town of Cuéllar) 177, 179 n.7 mandón 176 rejón 198-99 toros bravos 176-77 place names in Spain related to Becerril 175 Boalo 175 Buitrago 175 Torote 175 transporting across land 176-77 see also Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great); theaters in early modern Spain Burgkmair, Hans 22, 51, 134-35; see also armor, rhinos Burningham, Bruce 174 caballero de Olmedo, El (The Gentleman from Olmedo) see Vega, Lope de Cabrera de Córdoba, Luis 79, 179, 190, 191 n.22 cachicamo see armadillos Cairo see menageries Calderón de la Barca, Pedro Judas Macabeo (Judas Maccabeus) 205 La pedidora (The Lady That Asks) 207 Mojiganga del Parnaso (Parnassus Interlude) 85, 204 n.45 Cantigas de Santa María (Songs of Holy Mary) see Alphonso the Wise Caramelo see bulls Caro, Ana 204 n.45, 206 Casa de Campo see zoos casa de los celos, La (The House of Jealousy) see Cervantes, Miguel de Castillo, David R. 225 Catherine of Austria, Queen of Portugal 38, Cervantes, Miguel de 28, 67, 86, 89, 162, 175, 186, 188-89, 204-06, 216-17, 223 Don Quixote 40, 67, 86, 162, 180, 186, 188-89 El coloquio de los perros (The Colloquy of the Dogs) 67, 206

245 El retablo de las maravillas (The Marvelous Puppet Show) 28, 175, 216-17 La casa de los celos (The House of Jealousy) 205 La gran sultana Doña Catalina de Oviedo (The Great Sultana) 89 La Numancia (The Siege of Numantia) 206 Pedro de Undemalas (Pedro, the Great Pretender) 206 chaīmalli (coyote shield) see feather shields Charles V 22, 25, 62, 74, 77, 80-81, 88, 94, 97, 128, 138, 148, 150, 151, 153, 178, 184, 194, 198, 228, 233-34 see also armor bards (horse armor) China 71-75, 91, 122, 159, 233 Chunee see elephants cimarrones (fugitives) 202, 203 cattle 202-03 dogs 202-03 slaves 202-03 Circe, La (Circe) see Vega, Lope de Clara see rhinos Clusius, Carolus see L’Écluse, Charles de Cock, Enrique, chief archer for Philip II 152, 178-79, 196 coconuts 83 Codazzi, Viviano see Perspectival View of a Roman Amphitheater Collaert, Adrian 43 n.9, 141 coloquio de los perros, El (The Colloquy of the Dogs) see Cervantes, Miguel de Columbus, Chistopher 49, 75 Colóquios dos simples e drogas da India (Colloquies of the Remedies and Drugs from India) see D’Orta, Garcia conde Partinuplés, El (Count Partinuples) by Ana Caro see theaters in early modern Spain Contentious Diálogos de contención entre la Milicia y la Ciencia (Dialogues between the Military and Science) see Núñez de Velasco, Francisco Cooaert, Jan see bulls corral see theaters in early modern Spain corrida see bullfighting Cortés, Hernán 77-78, 121, 228, 230 Cosimo I see the Medici family coyotes see animals cuchilladas see bulls Cuelvis, Jakob 60 Thesoro Chorographico de las Espannas (Chorographic Treasure of the Spanish Kingdoms) 60 Cull, Laura 173 curiosity cabinets (curio cabinets) 23, 115, 130, 132, 142, 158, 194, 224 as armoires (guardarropas) 162, 162 n.46 as humanist gathering place 127, 158, 160 as museum and place of the muses 127

246 

Tr ansoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain

as theatres of the world 129-130, 157 in the homes of Aldrovandi, Ulisse 124 Argote de Molina, Gonzalo 131 Arias Montano, Benito 130 Enríquez de Ribera, Fadrique 128 Enríquez de Ribera, Per Afán 128 Gessner, Conrad 159 Giovio, Paolo 128, 134 Hubert, Robert 160 Imperato, Ferrante 123 L’Écluse, Charles de (Clusius, Carolus) 157-60 Mal Lara, Juan de 127, 127 n.17, 159 Monardes, Nicolás 132 Worm, Ole 123 Vincent, Levinus 122 n.12 Zamorano, Rodrigo 124 paintings of America by Jan van Kessel 142 The Archdukes Albert and Isabella Clara Visiting a Collector’s Cabinet 131 Still-life with Rarities (Jan van der Heyden) 161 see also animals Daniel in the Den of Lions by Peter Paul Rubens see lions D’Avity, Pierre see armadillos De varia commesuración para la Esculptura y Architectura (Varying Proportion for Sculpture and Architecture) see Arfe y Villafañe, Juan de diablo cojuelo, El (The Limping Devil) see Vélez de Guevara, Luis Día Sánchez de Carvajal see dogs Día y noche de Madrid (Madrid at Day and Night) see Santos, Francisco Dialogo dell’impresse militare et amoris (Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems) by Paulo Giovio see rhinos Diálogo de las empresas militares y amorosas (Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems) by Rovillé, Guillaume see rhinos Diálogos de la montería (Dialogues about Hunting) see Argote de Molina,Gonzalo Diálogo del hierro y sus grandezas y excelencias (Dialogue about Iron, Its Greatness and Excellence) see Monardes, Nicolás Diego, Prince of Asturias and Portugal, fourth son of Philip II of Spain 38-40, 58 n.24; see also elephants The Discovery of the Large, Rich and Bewtiful Empire of Guiana see Raleigh, Sir Walter dogs 17 n.3, 45, 67, 86 n.82, 126, 127 n.16, 131, 186-87, 189, 192, 196, 199-206, 223-24; see also theaters in early modern Spain Amadis (owner Lorenzo Suárez de Figueroa) 224 Bocanegra (owner Philip II) 223

Kitmir 208 Lionel (Little Lion) (owner Philip II and Isabel de Valois) 187, 223 Mahoma (owner Día Sánchez de Carvajal) 224 Manchado (owner Philp II) 223 Don Diego see elephants; Diego, son of Philip II of Spain Don Quixote see Cervantes, Miguel de dragon blood (red resin from plants) 136 Duarte Cerón, Francisco 146 Duchesse Eleonora de Medici see the Medici family Durán, Agustín 181 Durán, Diego 231 Dürer, Albrecht 15, 22, 23, 24-26, 28, 43-44, 80-82, 84, 99, 134-35, 153, 156, 158 as sixteenth-century authority of true-tolife animal image 24, 135 gardens at Warande 135 Wing of a European Roller 135, 146 see also Philip II, rhinos earth ethics 15-16, 29 Ecce Homo see feather art elephants 15-19, 26, 28, 35, 37-40, 41, 42-43, 47, 49, 53, 59-63, 65, 67-69, 72-77, 82, 87-89, 90, 92, 96-100, 122 n.12, 131, 134, 144, 157 n.40, 180, 184, 191, 197, 200, 205, 214-16, 224 allusions to in Góngora poem 69 in Miguel de Cervantes 89 in Sebastián de Covarrubias 57, 69, 99 and the moriscos 87 and the Mughals 37, 45, 47 and the Ottoman Turks 86-88 as animal of peace 98-99 as gifts 19, 27, 37, 38, 38 n.4, 39, 40, 42, 47, 60, 70 (tusks of), 71, 73 as images in floats in parades 76, 87, 144 as natural rival to the rhinoceros 58-59 (in Pliny and Lope de Vega), 82 (in Villalva) as paired with the rhinoceros in Columbus, Marco Polo, and Mendoza 75 as paired with the rhinoceros in art and architecture 75-76 as possessing language 101 as taxidermy specimens 60-61 as war animal 89-91 images of of Philip’s 1562 elephant (by Jans Mollihns I) 40, 41 on ewer by Juan de Arfe 92, 97 in Cristóbal Acosta 90 jawbone of 157 n.41 names of 40, 42 Chunee 180 Don Diego 40 Don Pedro 72

Index

Hanno 40, 49, 53, 60, 70 Hansken 60-61, 63 Hawa’i (owner Akbar) 37 Hawa’i (owner Philip II) 18, 19, 26-28, 35-45; 47, 49-51, 53, 55-56, 59, 62-63, 66, 68-72, 74-76, 78, 86-89, 92, 122, 184-85, 200, 208, 214, 224 Süleyman 38 n.4, 60 owned by Philip II gift for Hideyoshi (Don Pedro) 72-73 gift for Prince Carlos (1562) 38-39, 41 gift for Prince Carlos (1551) 38 in Antón Martín Hospital in Madrid and gift for Henry IV (Hawa’i) 68 on ships 49-54 see also mahouts Elizabeth, queen of England 42 Elogios o vidas breves de los caballeros antiguos y modernos, ilustres en valor de Guerra que están al vivo pintados en el museo de Paolo Iovio (Praises or Short Lives of Historical and Modern Noble Men Shown as Valorous Soldiers that Are Painted Alive in Paolo Giovio’s museum) see Giovio, Paolo Empresas espirituales y morales (Spiritual and Moral Emblems) by Villava, Juan Francisco de see rhinos encierro see bulls environmental cultural studies 30 n.12, 173-74, 225-26 importance of comedy in 117 n.1, 162 epilepsy 84-85 Equestrian Portrait of Carlos V see Sánchez Coello, Alonso Experiments on the Generation of Insects see armadillos ewers 92, 93, 94-97, 98, 99-100, 126, 200-01 in early modern Spain 92 n.93 in European museums 92 n.93 see also Arfe y Vallafañe, Juan de feather art 227-28, 230-35 amantecayotl (feather mosaics) 227 bird specimens as part of 231 miters 232 the mosaic Ecce Homo 232 the mosaic of a female saint with a cross in her hand 231 the mosaic Saint Jerome 231 see also gifts feather shields as legacy of Hernando de Vega 230 as legacy of Spanish conquistador Don Julián 232 as part of Mexica collections 231 chaīmalli (coyote shield) 227-28, 227 Philip II’s adarga 228-35, 229, see also Islam Fernández de Enciso, Martín see armadillos Ferdinand II, archduke of Tyrol see menageries

247 Ferdinando I, Grand Duke, see Medici family Ferdinando II, Grand Duke, see Medici family Ferrer de Valdecebro, Andrés see rhinos finca de la Tela (the terrain of the Cloth) or Parque (Park) see bulls, theaters in early modern Spain Flight Ways: Life and Loss at the Edge of Extinction see van Dooren, Thomas Forma e natura e costume de lo Rinoceronte (The Shape, the Nature, and the Way of the Rhinoceros) by Giacomo Penni, Giovanni see rhinos Fountain with Four Rivers by Gian Lorenzo Bernini masterpiece of sacred theater and Europe’s mapping of world 144 see also armadillos Fray Bernardino de Sahagún 228 Fuleco see armadillos Funes y Mendoza, Diego de 57, 92 game of canes ( juego de cañas) 178, 194, 198 Ganda 43, 49-53, 90, 92 n.94 as hobbled 50-51 images of Dürer, Albrecht 23 Giacomo Penni, Giovanni 52 Burgkmair, Hans 51 see also rhinos Galle, Philip publisher of Venationes Ferarum, Auium, Piscium; Pugnae bestiariorum: & mutae bestiarum (Hunts of Wild Animals, birds and Fishes) 176, 188, 197, 199 see also Abada, bulls, lions Gallinero see menageries Gargiulo, Domenico see Perspectival View of a Roman Amphitheater Gaspar de la Fuente, son of Gaspar de la Fuente see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) Gaspar Pimentel y Benavides, the Fourth Marquis de Javalquinto see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) General Hospital see rhinos; early modern theaters in Spain Géricault, Théodore see lions Gesner, Conrad 24, 123, 135-36, 140, 147, see also curiosity cabinets Ghislain de Busbecq, Ogier 88 Giacomo Penni, Giovanni 53 Forma e natura e costume de lo Rinoceronte (The Shape, the Nature, and the Way of the Rhinoceros) 53 see also rhinos gifts African slaves as 58 n.24 as feather art 232

248 

Tr ansoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain

in international diplomacy (Iberia versus Japan and China) 70-74, 157 n.40 from emperor Wanli (Ming dynasy) to Iberia 74-75 spices 53 see also animals, Abada, elephants, lions, rhinos Giovio, Paolo 50, 79-81, 128, 134 collector of Dürer’s Rhinoceros 134 Elogios o vidas breves de los caballeros antiguos y modernos, ilustres en valor de Guerra que están al vivo pintados en el museo de Paolo Iovio (Praises or Short Lives of Historical and Modern Noble Men Shown as Valorous Soldiers that Are Painted Alive in Paolo Giovio’s museum) 128 Gobierno general, moral y político hallado en las fieras y animales silvestres (The General Governing Morals and Politics Found in Beasts and Wild Animals) by Ferrer de Valdecebro, Andrés see rhinos Góngora, Luis de 69, 211-12, 214 Soledades (Solitudes) 211 González de Mendoza, Juan 74-75, 92 Historia de las cosas más notables, ritos y costumbres del gran reyno de la China (History of the Most Notable Things, Rituals, and Customs of the Great Kingdom of China) 74-75 González de Rosende, Antonio see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) Gran Sultana, La see Cervantes, Miguel de Gresham College London see museums Guadalajara, Marcos de 87 Memorable Expulsión y justísimo destierro de los Moriscos de España (Commemoration of the Expulsion and the Most Just Exile of the Moriscos of Spain) 87 gurre see armadillos Guzmán, Gaspar de, Count Duke of Olivares 193-94, 214 Guzmán y Ribera, Don Enrique de 193 Hannibal 89, 97 Hanno see elephants Hansken see elephants Hawa’i see elephants Head of a Lioness by Géricault, Théodore see lions Heise, Ursula 27, 162 Helmschmid, Desiderius see armor Henry IV, King of France 42-43, 184 Hercules 25, 150, 152, 155, 190 see also Philip II, armor Hernández, Francisco de 146, 159 Novae Hispaniae Thesaurus (The Natural History of New Spain) 146 herre-herre see armadillos

Herrera, Gabriel Alonso de 177 Obra de Agricultura (Treatise on Agriculture) 177 Hideyoshi, Toyotomi, chief Imperial minister of Japan 72-73 Historia natural y moral de las indias (Natural and Moral History of the Indies) see Acosta, José de Histoire d’un voyage faict en la terre du Brésil (Voyage to Brazil) by Léry, Jean de see armadillos Histoire Naturelle des Indes (The Natural History of the Indies) 120, 153, 202; see also armadillos Historia de las cosas más notables, ritos y costumbres del gran reyno de la China (History of the Most Notable Things, Rituals, and Customs of the Great Kingdom of China) see González de Mendoza, Juan A History of Portuguese Kings by Andrade Caminha, Pedro de see rhinos Honorato Pomar, Jaime 147 Horse Armor of Maximilian I see armor horses see animals, armadillos Hospital de la Caridad see theaters in early modern Spain Hospital de la Santísima Trinidad see theaters in early modern Spain Hospital de la Señora de Gracia see theaters in early modern Spain Hospital de Nuestra Señora de Gracia see theaters in early modern Spain Hospital de Nuestra Señora del Pecador see theaters in early modern Spain hospitals 19, 26, 35, 37, 42, 57, 63-70, 85-87, 224 as a place for observing animals 63, 83-87 as a place for observing the mentally ill 86 as a place for the poor and sick 63, 66 see also theaters in early modern Spain hunting 21, 27, 45, 46, 60, 69, 101, 121, 124, 126-27, 130-31, 176, 183, 186-87, 191-92, 197, 199-202, 203, 205, 216, 223-24, 226 see also Abada, animals, Arfe y Villafañe, Argote de Molina, bulls, Galle, lions, rhinos, Velázquez Imperato, Ferrante see curiosity cabinets The Imperial Book of Festival see staged animal combats Imprese morali et heroiche (Moral and Heroic Emblems) by Simeoni, Grabiele see rhinos Inscriptions or Titles of the Most Ample Theater that Houses Exemplary Objects and Exceptional Images of the Entire World see Quiccheberg, Samuel Isabella Clara Eugenia, Sovereign of Spanish Netherlands see curiosity cabinets Isabel de Valois, Queen and third spouse of Philip II 186

Index

Islam 87-88, 159, 184, 202 n.40, 210-12, 230, 233-34 as represented on feather shield 230, 233-34 Philip II’s attitude toward 233-35 see also bulls Istanbul 88-89, 123, 182-83, 185-86, 188, 207; see also menageries jaguars see animals Jahangir, Prince Salim and the 4th Mughal emperor 47 Jansz Post, Frans 120 Japanese diplomatic envoy in Spain 71-72 Javan (or lesser one-horned) rhino see rhinos John II, king of Portugal 40 Juan de Dios 86-87 Juan of Austria see lions Judas Macabeo (Judas Maccabeus) see Calderón de la Barca, Pedro jueche see armadillos juego de cañas see game of canes Kessel, Jan van see curiousity cabinets, images of Khair-ed-Din (Red Beard) 184 Khevenhüller, Hans, ambassador for the Rudolf II in the Spanish court 58, 61-64, 68 Kircher, Athanasius 129 Kitmir see dogs, names of Kutuz, the Mamluk Sultan of Egypt see animals landscapes of exclusion 28, 223, 235 L’Écluse, Charles de (Clusius, Carolus) 21-22, 116, 124, 155, 157-60 Exoticorum libri decem (Ten Books of Exotica) 21, 157-58 Laethem, Jacob van 198-99 game of canes, painting of a 198 see also bulls León Pinelo, Diego see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) leonero see lions leontocomos see lions Léry, Jean de 120, 122-23 Histoire d’un voyage faict en la terre du Brésil (Voyage to Brazil) 120 Libro de la descripción de verdaderos retratos de ilustres y memorables varones (Book of the Description of the True Portraits of Famous and Noteworthy Men) see Pacheco, Francisco de Libro de la Montería (The Book on Hunting) see Argote de Molina, Gonzalo Linschoten, Jan Huyghen van 73 Voyage ofte schipvaert van Jan Huygen van Lischoten naer Oos ofte Portugales Indien (The Voyage of Jan Huygen van Linscholten to the East Indies) 73-74 A Lion Hunt by Peter Paul Rubens see lions

249 lions 15-19, 23, 27-28, 35, 42 n.7, 50, 63, 68, 87-88, 90, 95-97, 98, 126, 135, 144, 150, 152, 154-55, 173-74, 181-86, 187, 188-93, 196-97, 199-200, 204, 206-08, 210, 212, 215-16, 223-24, 233, see also theaters in early modern Spain as intentional subjects 189 as Ottoman gifts to Europeans 184-86 Barbary (Pantera leo leo; lion subspecies) 19, 97, 182-86, 188, 197, 206, 216 connection with Hercules 155 connection with Spanish kingdom of León 233 hunting of 184, 186 images of by Dürer 135 Daniel in the Den of Lions by Peter Paul Rubens 183 Head of a Lioness by Théodore Géricault 189 A Lion Hunt by Peter Paul Rubens 188 woodcut by Juan de Arfe for Argote’s Book on Hunting 187-88; 187 wooduct published by Galle in Venationes Ferarum, Auium, Piscium; Pugnae bestiariorum: & mutae bestiarum (Hunts of Wild Animals, birds and Fishes) 188, 198-99 importance for the Medici family 182-83 Juan de Austria and 183 Maghreb 18-19, 26, 144, 173-74, 181-82, 18486, 189-90, 193, 195-96, 203, 209, 212, 224 lion tamers 185 leonero 186, 188 n.15 leontocomos 186 near extinction of Barbary 182, 216 stereotype of as man-eating 186-89 transportation of 185-87 Lo fingido verdadero (Acting is Believing) see Vega, Lope de Lombard, Lambert 138, 147 A Book of Diverse Animals, Birds, and Reptiles 138-41 López de Mendoza y Pimentel, Iñigo 198 López Martínez, Antonio Luis 176-77 López Medel, Tomás 118-20, 232 peligros de la ausencia, Los (The Dangers of Absence) see Vega, Lope de Lotti, Cosme 195 Louis XIV, king of France 63, 142 Lucretia de León 86-87 Mahoma see dogs mahouts (nair) 40-42, 45, 49, 53-56, 58, 60, 68, 72-73, 89, 92 n.94 names of Dharma and Drama 40 Gaspar 40 Oçem 40 Mahmet 40

250 

Tr ansoceanic Animals as Spectacle in Early Modern Spain

Maravall, José Antonio 197 makeshift (temporary) theatres see theaters in early modern Spain Mal Lara, Juan de 127, 146, 155, 159; see also curiosity cabinets Málaga see theaters in early modern Spain Mamluk Sultan of Egypt 157 n.40 mandón see bulls Manuel I, king of Portugal 49, 53, 70 Maravall, José Antonio 197 Culture of the Baroque: Analysis of a Historical Structure 197 Maria Manuela, princess of Portugal 38 marqués de Mantua, El (Marquis from Mantua) see Vega, Lope de Marta la piadosa (Marta the Pious) see Molina, Tirso de Marvin, Garry 180-81 Maximilian I, archduke of Austria, German king, and Holy Roman emperor 22, 24, 152; see also armor Maximilian II, Holy Roman emperor 60, 76 Medici family Catherine de Medici 89 Cosimo I de Medici 76, 176, 183, Duchesse Eleonora de Medici 157 n.40 Grand Duke Ferdinando I 193 Grand Duke Ferdinando II 61 Memorable Expulsión y justísimo destierro de los Moriscos de España (Commemoration of the Expulsion and the Most Just Exile of the Moriscos of Spain) see Guadalajara, Marcos de menageries 35 n.1, 37, 45, 59-60, 63, 71, 78, 100, 115, 123, 129, 183-83, 185 Alcázar (Segovia) 150 n.30, 184 Ambras Castle, Innsbruck (Ferdinand II of Tyrol) 71 Aranjuez (Philip II) 59, 63, 78, 175-76 Belvedere Park (Pope Gregory XIII) 71 Cairo 88, 182, 185 capital city of Qin dynasty 21 Florence (Medici) 60, 188, 192-93, 195-96 Gallinero (Chicken Coop, historic aviary in the Buen Retiro) 192 Ghent (Charles V) 183 in Assyrian empire 100 Istanbul 88-89, 123, 182-83, 185-86, 188, 207 Tenochtitlan (House of Animals) 77-78, 122 Versailles 51, 59, 63 Warande gardens (Ghent) 135 Méndez de Loyola, Pedro see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) Menezes, Diogo de, Portuguese viceroy in Goa 47, 49 Miguel EN Cervantes: El retablo de las maravillas by Rubín, David and Miguelanxo Prado (graphic novel) 217

Minsheu, John 58, 127 Mira de Amescua, Antonio see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) Mocquet, Jean 123 Mojiganga del Parnaso (Parnassus Interlude) see Calderón de la Barca, Pedro Molina, Tirso de 180, 204 n.45, 206-07 Marta la piadosa (Marta the Pious) 180 La mujer que manda en casa (The Woman Who Runs the House) 206 Santa Juana (Saint Joan) 207 Mollihns I, Jans 40; see also elephants Monardes, Nicolás 25, 27, 84, 115-16, 118, 127, 130, 132, 133, 134-36, 137, 138-40, 144-45, 147, 152-62 as a businessman 27, 116, 132, 134, 156, 157 connection to slave trade 132 Diálogo del hierro y sus grandezas y excelencias (Dialogue about Iron, Its Greatness and Excellence) 133 Primera y segunda y tercera pares de la Historia medicinal, de las cosas que se traen de nuestras Indias Occidentales (Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies) 27, 116, 132, 134-36, 139, 152-53, 155 Monforte y Herrera, Fernando 76 Relación de las fiestas que ha hecho el Colegio Imperial de la Compañía de Jesús de Madrid en la canonización de San Ignacio de Loyola y S. Francisco Xavier (News about the Parade that Imperial College of the Company of Jesus Held in Madrid for the Canonization of Saint Ignatius of Loyola and Saint Francis Xavier) 76 The Monkey Painter see Teniers, David Monserrate, Antonio 37 museums 18, 23, 45 n.11, 115-16, 124, 128, 150 n.30, 158, 160-61, 224 etymology (as connected to the muses) 127-28, 160 Gresham College London 61 n.32, 160 history of 18, 23, 116, 150 n.30, 160, 224 rise of empiricism 156-61 see also curiousity cabinets mujer que manda en casa, La (The Woman Who Runs the House) see Molina, Tirso de Muzaffar Shah II, Sultan of the Muzaffarid dynasty 49 nair see mahouts Nelson, Bradley J. 225 Nobleza de Andalucía (Nobility of Andalucía) see Argote de Molina; Gonzalo Novae Hispaniae Thesaurus (The Natural History of New Spain) see Hernández, Francisco de

Index

Nueva filosofía de la naturaleza del hombre (New Philosophy of Human Nature) by Sabuco, Oliva see elephants, descriptions of Núñez de Velasco, Francisco 57 n.21, 226 Contentious Diálogos de contención entre la Milicia y la Ciencia (Dialogues between the Military and Science) 57 n.21, 226 Numancia, La (The Siege of Numantia) see Cervantes, Miguel de Obra de Agricultura (Treatise on Agriculture) see Herrera, Gabriel Alonso de Oçem see mahouts Officinae epitome (or Officina) by Jean Tixier da Ravisi see rhinos, descriptions of orientalism 74-77 Orta, Garcia Da 49, 83-84, 134 Colóquios dos simples e drogas da India (Colloquies of the Remedies and Drugs from India) 83, 84, 134 Ortelius, Abraham 130 Theater of the World (bundle of maps) 130 Ōtomo Sōrin, Japanese lord 71 Ottoman Turks 37, 49, 234; see also elephants Oviedo, Alonso de see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) Oviedo, Gonzalo Fernández de 136 n.23, 152-54 Sumario de la Natural Historia de las Indias (Summary of the Natural History of the Indies) 153 Pacheco, Francisco de 94 n.97, 125-26, 128, 131 Libro de la descripción de verdaderos retratos de ilustres y memorables varones (Book of the Description of the True Portraits of Famous and Noteworthy Men) 126, 128 pageants 23, 25, 77, 148, 150, 155, 196, 233; see also public spectacles Pamplona see bulls Parque (Madrid) 193-94 Pasha Saqizli, Mehmed 183 Patio de la Leonera (The Lion Patio) see staged animal combats pedidora, La (The Lady That Asks) see Calderón de la Barca, Pedro Pedro de Osorio, illegitimate son of Isabel de Osorio and Philip II 40; see also elephants Pedro de Urdemalas (Pedro, the Great Pretender) see Cervantes, Miguel de Pellicer de Ossau y Tovar, José see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) peludo see armadillos performance studies 27, 28, 173, 175 Perspectival View of a Roman Amphitheater by Viviano Codazzi and Domenico Gargiulo 191, 193

251 Philip II, king of Spain 22, 25-28, 35-43, 47, 58, 60-75, 77-82, 85 n.79, 86-89, 93, 95, 97 n.101, 98-100, 115-16, 124, 126, 128-32, 134, 145-56, 149, 158-62, 178-79, 183, 186-87, 190, 193, 196, 199, 200-01, 207, 215, 223-24, 226, 228-35 as collector 25, 146-152, 158-59 as Hercules 150, 152, 155 as self-promoter of image of a planetary ruler 25, 81, 99-100, 148, 202, 234 see also armor, public spectacles Philip III of Spain 61-62, 95, 179, 184, 190-91, 193 Philip IV of Spain 27, 40, 173, 181, 184-86, 190-95, 197, 203-04, 209-11, 213-14, 226 Piazza della Signoria (Florence) see staged animal combats Piccinini, Filippo see Vega, Lope de Pimentel de Herrera, Juan Alonso, governor of the Duchy of Milan 183 Pires, Tomé 159 Suma Oriental (Account of the East, from the Red Sea to China, written in Malacca and India in 1512-1515) 159 Pius V, Pope 183 Plaza Mayor (Madrid) 65, 179, 193-94, 197, 207; see also bulls Pliny 58, 91, 157, 184 Polo, Marco 50, 74-75; see also elephants, rhinos Primera y segunda y tercera pares de la Historia medicinal, de las cosas que se traen de nuestras Indias Occidentales (Medicinal History of the Things Brought from Our West Indies) see Monardes, Nicolás Prado, Miguelanxo see Miguel EN Cervantes: El retablo de las maravillas psychoanalysis 15 public spectacles 26, 36, 70, 76, 198 in celebration of Carlos V 178 in celebration of Ernst of Austria 144 in celebration of Maximilian II 76 in celebration of Philip II 87-88, 148, 152, 152 n.32, 178-79, 196 in celebration of Philip III 179 Ottoman 208 Roman emperors in 190, 190 n.20 see also Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great), armadillos, bulls, elephants, lions, pageants, rhinos public sphere in early modern Spain 27, 35, 36 n.2 quetzal see birds Quetzalcoatl 230 Quevedo, Francisco de see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great)

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Quiccheberg, Samuel 129 Inscriptions or Titles of the Most Ample Theater that Houses Exemplary Objects and Exceptional Images of the Entire World 129 quirquinchos (kirkinchu) see armadillos Rabat Zoo see zoos Raleigh, Sir Walter 140 The Discovery of the Large, Rich and Bewtiful Empire of Guiana 140 Real Maestranza see bulls Redi, Francesco Experiments on the Generation of Insects 160 rejón see bulls Relación de las fiestas que ha hecho el Colegio Imperial de la Compañía de Jesús de Madrid en la canonización de San Ignacio de Loyola y S. Francisco Xavier (News about the Parade that Imperial College of the Company of Jesus Held in Madrid for the Canonization of Saint Ignatius of Loyola and Saint Francis Xavier) see Monforte y Herrera, Fernando relics 82-83, 85, 146 Remedios específicos de la India Oriental y de la América (Specific Remedies from East India and the Americas) see Cristóbal Acosta retablo de las maravillas, El (The Marvelous Puppet Show) see Cervantes, Miguel de rhinos (rhinoceroses) 15-16, 18-19, 21, 23, 24-26, 28, 35-36, 40, 43-45, 47, 49-50, 51, 52-64, 67-70, 72, 74-85, 91-92, 96-98, 99-101, 134-35, 138-40, 142, 144, 146-47, 150-51, 153, 158, 184, 190, 200, 214-16, 224 as favoring a water habitat 55 as gifts 47, 49, 53, 62 (horn of) as images on floats in parades 76-77, 144 as legendary rival to the elephant 82, 98 as paired with the elephant in art and architecture 75-76 as paired with the elephant in Columbus, Marco Polo, and Mendoza 75 as touring spectacle 55, 63-64 bezoar stone from 83 n.74 Clara 53 n.15, 55-56, 63, 99 etymology 44 greater one-horned Indian (Rhinoceros unicornis) 19, 44, 45, 92 n.94 (mistaken for African rhino); see also Abada, Ganda horn, blood, hide, breath, and hoof as cure 82-86 hunting of in the Mughal empire 45-47, 46, 48 images of in books of emblems Dialogo dell’impresse militare et amoris (Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems)  79-81

Diálogo de las empresas militares y amorosas (Dialogue of Military and Love Emblems): 79-81 Empresas espirituales y morales (Spiritual and Moral Emblems) by Juan Francisco de Villalva 81-82 Gobierno general, moral y político hallado en las fieras y animales silvestres (The General Governing Morals and Politics Found in Beasts and Wild Animals) by Andrés Ferrer de Valdecebro 78 in captivity in Europe 43 Javan (or lesser one-horned rhino) 45 popularity of printed image of 89, 91 transported on ships 49-54 see also Abada, armadillos, Albrecht Dürer, Ganda Rodríguez de León Pinelo, Antonio see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) Rodríguez Rubí, Tomás 215 Spanish Self Portraits 215 Rojas, Agustín de 204 Rovillé, Guillaume see rhinos Royal Indian Hospital see theaters in early modern Spain Rubens, Peter Paul see lions Rubín, David see Miguel EN Cervantes: El retablo de las maravillas Rudolf II, Holy Roman Emperor 61-63, 71, 83 Sabuco, Oliva 101 Nueva filosofía de la naturaleza del hombre (New Philosophy of Human Nature) 101 Saint Jerome see feather art Sánchez Coello, Alonso 74, 129, 233 Philip II in Parade Armor 149 Equestrian Portrait of Carlos V 233 Sande, Duarte de 71-72 Santa Juana (Saint Joan) see Molina, Tirso de Santa María Plaza (Guadalajara) see bulls Santos, Francisco 179 Día y noche de Madrid (Madrid at Day and Night) 179 Sarmiento, Martín see Abada Scipio Africanus, Publius Cornelius, Roman general 92, 93 n.95, 94-99, 126, 200 science, history of 156; see also curiosity cabinets, museums, zoos Sebastian, king of Portugal 49, 70, 85 selva sin amor, La (The Forest without Love) see Vega, Lope de serrana de la Vera, La (The Mountain Woman from La Vera) see Vélez de Guevara, Luis siete carnes (seven meats) see armadillos Simancas, Juan de 136, 153 Simeoni, Gabriele see rhinos Sixtus V, Pope 232

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Index

Soledades (Solitudes) see Góngora, Luis de Spanish Self Portraits see Rodríguez Rubí, Tomás Spectacle and Topophilia: Reading Early Modern and Postmodern Hispanic Cultures see Castillo, David R. and Bradley J. Nelson staged animal combats 18, 26-28, 68, 173-75, 181, 188, 190-97, 204, 207-09, 212, 215-16 automatons in the shape of wooden turtles that prod animals to fight 195-196 locations of General Hospital (Madrid) 68 Istanbul (as described in The Imperial Book of Festival) 188, 207-08 Patio de la Leonera (The Lion Patio) 192-93 Piazza della Signoria (Florence) 188 organizers and spectators of Cosimo I de Medici 196 Guzmán, Gaspar de, Count Duke of Olivares 193 see also Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great), bulls States, Empires and Principalities of the World by Pierre d’Avity, see armadillos Stevens, John 128, 140 Still-life with Rarities by Jan van der Heyden see curiousity cabinets Straet, Jan van der (Stradanus) see bulls Süleyman, Sultan of Ottoman Empire 38 n.4, 60; see also elephants Suma de Geografía (Sum of All Geography) see Fernández de Enciso, Martín Suma Oriental (Account of the East, from the Red Sea to China, written in Malacca and India in 1512-1515) see Pires, Tomé Sumario de la Natural Historia de las Indias (Summary of the Natural History of the Indies) see Oviedo, Gonzalo Fernández de Teles de Menezes, Fernão, Philip II’s viceroy to Goa 38 Tempesta, Antonio 176, 234 Ten Books of Exotica see L’Cluse, Charles Teniers, David 163 The Monkey Painter 163 Tenochtitlan see menageries taxidermy 61 n.2 etymology 153 the description of the armadillo in Monardes as 153 Dürer’s Rhinoceros as artistic 152 also see Abada, elephants theaters in early modern Spain as commercial enterprise (price of admission) 67 as places for animal combat 190-197 bull costumes and references 207, 217 corrales 64-65, 68-69, 174, 191-92, 201-02, 204-06, 211, 215, 224

birds as actors in 206 dogs as actors in 205-06 horses and donkeys as actors in 204-05 lion costumes in 206-07 locations of permanent Alcalá de Henares 65, 99 Alcázar palace 39, 60, 71, 191, 193-94 Almagro 65 Casa de Comedias del Hospital (Málaga) 65 Cruz (Madrid):65-69, 192 Guadalajara 65, 99 Hospital de la Caridad (Trujillo) 65 Hospital de la Santísima Trinidad (Salamanca) 65 Hospital de la Señora de Gracia (Murcia) 65 Hospital de Nuestra Señora de Gracia (Tudela) 65 Hospital de Nuestra Señora del Pecador (Toro) 65 Princípe (Madrid) 65-68, 192 Royal Indian Hospital (New Spain) 65 Zamora 65 locations of temporary (makeshift) 19497; see also bulls, finca de la Tela (the terrain of the Cloth) or Parque (Park) relationship to hospitals 64-70 see also public sphere Thesoro Chorographico de las Espannas (Chorographic Treasure of the Spanish Kingdoms) see Cuelvis, Jakob Thévet, André 121, 140 Titian 233 Tixier da Ravisi, Jean 44 Officinae epitome (or Officina) 44 toche see armadillos toreador don Bibilés, El (Don Babilés the Bullfighter) see Bernaldo de Quirós, Francisco Antonio Toro see theaters in early modern Spain toros bravos see bulls Torote see bulls Tournament Armor of Charles V see armor Tractado de las drogas y medicinas de las indias orientales (Treatise of the Drugs and Medicines of the East Indies) see Acosta, Cristóbal Trezzo, Jacopo da 58, 58 n.24 Trujillo (Hospital de la Caridad) see theaters in early modern Spain Tudela see theaters in early modern Spain Urreta, Luis de 91-92 Valdivielso, José de see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) Valenzuela Fajardo, Pedro de see Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great)

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Valeriano, Pierio 230 van der Heyden, Jan Still-Life with Rarities see armadillos; curiosity cabinets van Dooren, Thomas 216 Flight Ways: Life and Loss at the Edge of Extinction 216 Vaca, Jusepa 211 Vega, Lope de 58, 91, 177 n.2, 180, 186, 195, 203, 204 n.45, 205, 207, 211, 214 Adonis y Venus (Adonis and Venus) 206 El caballero de Olmedo (The Gentleman from Olmedo) 207 El marqués de Mantua (Marquis from Mantua) 206 La Circe (Circe) 214 La selva sin amor (The Forest without Love), an opera produced in collaboration with Filippo Piccinini 195 Lo fingido verdadero (Acting is Believing) 91 Los peligros de la ausencia (The Dangers of Absence) 206 Velázquez, Diego de 94 n.97, 197 Philip IV Hunting Wild Boar 197 Vélez de Guevara, Luis 42, 59, 204 n.45, 205, 207, 211-12 El alba y sol (The Dawn and the Sun) 212 El diablo cojuelo (The Limping Devil) 42 La serrana de la Vera (The Mountain Woman from La Vera) 205, 207, 211 see also Anfiteatro de Felipe el Grande (The Amphitheater of Philip the Great) Venationes Ferarum, Auium, Piscium; Pugnae bestiariorum: & mutae bestiarum (Hunts of Wild Animals, birds and Fishes) see Galle, lions Versailles see menageries vida y hechos de Estebanillo González, La (Life and Deeds of Estebanillo González) 180 Villava, Juan Francisco de see rhinos

Vissher, Janszoon see armadillos Vista del Alcázar Real y entorno del Puente de Segovia (The View of the Royal Alcázar and the Environs of the Segovia Bridge) see bulls Vos, Maarten de see armadillos Voyage ofte schipvaert van Jan Huygen van Lischoten naer Oos ofte Portugales Indien (The Voyage of Jan Huygen van Linscholten to the East Indies) see van Linschoten, Jan Huyghen Voto, Antonio 61-62 Wagschal, Steven 157 n.40, 187, 189 Wanli, Emperor of the Ming dynasty (Zhu Yijun) 74, 233 Warande see Dürer, Albrecht; menageries Weiditz, Christoph 50 Trachtenbuch (The Book of Garments) 50 whales see animals Wing of a European Roller see Dürer, Albrecht Wing of a Green Amazon Parrot see Dürer, Albrecht Worm, Ole see curiosity cabinets Yamuna river see rhinos zoos 17 n.4, 18, 21, 26-27, 29, 35-36, 59-60, 63, 77, 78, 100-03, 122, 182, 224 as symbol of Philip II’s imperial power 78, 100 history of 18, 21, 26, 27, 29, 35, 35 n.1, 36, 78, 100, 100 n.111, 101, 122 locations of Buen Retiro Park (Madrid) 35 Casa de Campo (Madrid) 19, 35, 40, 60-61, 63 Rabat (Morocco) 182 Jardin des Plantes (Paris’s first public zoo) 59, 63