Humor in Selected Works of Unamuno

by

Tara Lockwood, B.A., M.A.

A Dissertation

In

SPANISH

Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of Texas Tech University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

Approved

Dr. Janet Pérez, Chair

Dr. Julián Pérez, Committee Member

Dr. Carmen Pereira-Muró, Committee Member

Fred Hartmeister Dean of the Graduate School

August 2009

Copyright 2009, Tara Lockwood Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to express my deepest gratitude to the Chair of my dissertation committee,

Dr. Janet Pérez, for her help and guidance. I would also like to extend my appreciation and thanks to the other members of my dissertation committee, Dr. Julián Pérez and Dr.

Carmen Pereira-Muró.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ii

ABSTRACT iv

CHAPTERS

I. INTRODUCTION 1

II. LITERARY CRITICISM OF UNAMUNO 8

Criticism pertaining to the philosophical/serious Unamuno 8 Criticism directly related to the humor in Unamuno’s work 37

III. THEORY 78

IV. THE NON-TRAGIC 105

Cómo se hace una novela 108

Don Sandalio 131

Un pobre hombre rico 151

V. THE OBSESSIVE 176

Cómo se hace una novela 180

Don Sandalio 190

Un pobre hombre rico 196

VI. THE RIDICULOUS 208

Cómo se hace una novela 208

Don Sandalio 213

Un pobre hombre rico 217

VII. SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS 239

WORKS CITED 248

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ABSTRACT

Miguel de Unamuno (1864-1936) remains one of the most studied, and, perhaps,

nevertheless, one of the most enigmatic literary figures of Spain. He is also probably the

best-known of the group of writers referred to as the Generation of 1898. Although a vast amount of criticism exists on the extensive literary production of this Basque writer

(whose repertoire encompasses poetry, novels, short stories, essays, and drama), the majority of critics have focused on his contemplative side and characterized much of his work as tragic. A few, however, have discerned in his work an underlying pervasive playfulness inextricably linked to Unamuno’s process of literary creation. Thus, this dissertation proposes to develop and expand the scope of the research by this relatively small group of critics.

To achieve this goal, the present study examines three of Unamuno’s narratives from approximately the same time period (1927-1930) with an eye toward how the writer incorporates comical and non-tragic elements into his fiction. By analyzing these novels according to three categories of humor (the non-tragic, the obsessive, and the ridiculous), this dissertation demonstrates the veracity of its initial hypothesis that Unamuno maintains a ludic relationship with the reader, which he accomplishes by incorporating multiple levels of burla and engaño in his work. In addition, certain components of

Henri Bergson’s theory on laughter prove relevant to the present study. Specifically, the description given by the French philosopher as to what constitutes humor and how a writer achieves it serves as a reference point for the analysis of several manifestations of humor discussed in the present investigation. This dissertation is presented in the hope

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Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 that it may make contribute to the ongoing study of the under-appreciated humorous facet of Unamuno.

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CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION

“…hay que cultivar el sentimiento cómico de la vida, diga lo que quiera ese

Unamuno…” (Emeterio in Un pobre hombre rico 101)

The above quotation illustrates a couple of the techniques used by the Basque

writer Miguel de Unamuno to disconcert and play with the reader. First, a fictional entity

who makes a third-person reference to his author blurs the boundary between fiction and

reality; second, since Unamuno strongly linked the development of a sense of humor with

a person’s attainment of true authenticity and therefore certainly did believe in the

importance of cultivating the comical facet of life, he most probably is poking fun at the fairly large number of critics who focus nearly exclusively on the tragic element in his

work. At the same time, he turns the joke upon himself by the burlesque intertextual allusion to El sentimiento trágico de la vida and “diga lo que quiera ese Unamuno.”

Despite his supposed seriousness, his jokes are often self-referential. The relationship that

Unamuno discerns between the cultivation of a sense of humor and the achievement of

personal authenticity also coincides with his belief that authenticity can not be attained

intellectually, but rather only through being alive in the present moment. The purpose of

this study is to explore the humor found in some of the writer’s fictional work.

In El humor y la novela española contemporánea (1968), Santiago Vilas argues that Unamuno was the Spanish intellectual who “potencialmente ha sido el intelectual español mejor dotado para ser el más grande humorista después de Cervantes; no le faltó a don Miguel más que decidirse a ‘dar esa vuelta a la esquina’ que nunca dio” (108).

Although this statement may not be completely accurate, and it is true that Unamuno did 1

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not dedicate himself exclusively to the cultivation of humor (but neither did Cervantes),

without doubt humor plays an important role in much of his work.

The life of Unamuno (1864-1936) spans one of the most complex periods of

Spanish history. He belongs to the Generation of 1898, a group of writers characterized

by its rejection of the political system imposed by the Restoration in 1876, which lacked

institutional, economic, and social stability. Spain’s loss of its last colonies in 1898

culminated an ongoing crisis of confidence and affected the Spanish intellectuals, each of

whom attempted to find a way to regenerate Spain and Spanish culture. Within these

circumstances at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries,

Spanish writers composed many significant and memorable works, making this period

one of the most vital in the history of Spanish literature. Humor is frequently used as a

means of social criticism during this period, as it enables a writer to criticize discreetly

the conditions of the country. As Vilas states: “Abunda el humorista especialmente en

momentos de crisis espiritual, de mayor escepticismo, de pasión y de coerción” (101).

Thus, the use of humor among the Generation of ’98 comes as no surprise. Unamuno

reflects on the complexity of the circumstances in which he lived and the effect this had

on his life in a speech given to a group of students in 1931:

…creo que más que un hombre soy un pueblo, dentro del cual luchan varios partidos entre sí. Mi niñez ha trascurrido entre contiendas civiles, las de los carlistas y los liberales, que se me metieron dentro, y he llevado siempre en el pecho un carlista y un liberal. Siempre he vivido en duelo íntimo, alimentando contradictorias posiciones y sintiendo la necesidad de cualquiera que defendiese una de ellas. (El Sol 7 de julio)

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Unamuno often expresses the true significance of an action or a situation by

means of humor. Conrad Hyers explains this function of humor in The Spirituality of

Comedy: Comic Heroism in a Tragic World. For him,

humor provides a vantage point that stands apart from the immediate circumstances and positions of the fray. It is not totally immersed in the seriousness of the moment, or a particular cause, or the all-consuming struggle. It is, therefore, a perspective from which issues and situations can be seen from an unusual or unexpected angle. The tragic impasse is transcended in order to stand more firmly within the flesh-and-blood of the human condition. (30)

Because Unamuno focuses on the man of flesh and blood rather than on abstract

intellectualism, the above quotation serves as a particularly appropriate summary of his

use of humor. As the critic Thomas Franz observes in Unamuno’s Paratexts: Twisted

Guides to Contorted Narratives, one of the results of Unamuno’s often humorous

paratexts is precisely to reduce and balance the sense of tragedy expressed in the story

itself (11). Another critic, Mary Bretz, in her article “El humor y la comicidad en

Unamuno,” also agrees that a study of the humor in Unamuno’s work is indispensable

“para major entender y valorizar al escritor, completándole desde un ángulo distinto…”

(149). Without such an understanding of this side of Unamuno, the reader may

misunderstand the purpose of the work; on the other hand, the reader who reads between

the lines may discover not only the humorous facet of the writer, but also the true intent

of the author and the real message that he wishes to convey to the reader. Unamuno

understands the problems brought on by a life based too much on reason, and thus he sees humor as an escape, albeit temporary, from man’s over-dependence on reason. With this in mind, he addresses this in the prologue to Amor y pedagogía:

¿Qué otra cosa es el sentimiento de lo cómico sino de la emancipación de la lógica, y qué otra cosa sino lo ilógico provoca la risa? Y esa risa, ¿qué es sino la 3

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

expresión corpórea del placer que sentimos al vernos libres, siquiera sea por un breve momento, de esa feroz tirana, de esa Fatum lúgubre, de esa potencia incoercible y sorda a las voces del corazón? (165)

Unamuno also possessed a great ability to treat tragedy comically. Although

tragic themes and patterns may dominate his work, the characters and their behavior are

often laughable. Interestingly, in most cases the characters themselves, being tragic, do

not possess a sense of humor, but the reader, watching them from his/her perspective,

may find their behavior comical. Also, as Hyers observes, because Unamuno appreciated the muddiness of human nature, he was able to see truth and goodness in other

perspectives and acknowledge the limitations of his own (28-9). For the Basque writer,

people and circumstances were not neatly divided into black and white, light and dark,

right and wrong. For this reason, he disdained any attempt to label or pigeon-hole him.

Departing from Hyers’ assertion that “comic vision is double-vision, as distinct

from the highly focused, riveted, even tunnel vision of tragedy (29)” and that the comic

vision receives “images from opposite positions (29),” Unamuno, who read in at least

eighteen modern languages as well as the classical ones that he taught, certainly fits the

description of a person in possession of this vision, one who “offers more than one point

of view, wanders this way and that, and is inclined to vacillate and equivocate” (20).

This also fits in with Unamuno’s concern for the man of carne y hueso, how the

individual relates to both himself and to the world, and the fact that each person must

face his/her own death, not abstractly, but personally. Unamuno disliked dogma in all of

its forms, claiming that what can be explained and categorized is already dead, as

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explicitly expressed in his 1902 essay “Mi religion” (and continually reiterated

throughout much of his work):

Hay amigos, y buenos amigos, que me aconsejan me deje de esta labor y me recoja a hacer lo que llaman una obra objetiva, “algo que sea—dicen—definitivo, algo de construcción, algo duradero.” Quieren decir dogmático. Me declaro incapaz de ello y reclamo mi libertad, mi santa libertad, hasta la de contradecirme, si llega el caso. Yo no sé si algo de lo que he hecho o de lo que haga en lo sucesivo habrá de quedar por años o por siglos después que me muera; pero sé que si se da un golpe en el mar sin orillas, las ondas en derredor van sin cesar, aunque debilitándose. Agitar es algo. Si merced a esa agitación viene detrás otro que haga algo duradero, en ello durará mi obra. (257-8)

Unamuno focused on the living moment in which the individual interacts with and simultaneously creates the world. Such ongoing interaction and creativity also lends itself to the wider perspective of the world that Unamuno possessed. This approach leads to what Hyers refers to as “comic inclusivism, in contrast to the exclusivism of the tragic view” since “competing canons and claims must be relativized, and both incorporated in a larger, more flexible world view” (40). Thus, “out of the comic

‘composition’ an odd sort of wholeness and unity results, a kind of coincidence of opposites without entirely losing the opposition” (62). This, as will be seen in this study, frequently occurs in Unamuno’s fiction.

Although many critics have studied Unamuno, the majority deal with the tragic

and philosophical component of the writer’s work. Several critics have mentioned in

passing the humor found, for example, in Amor y pedagogía but few have focused on

humor as a central characteristic. If, as Mario Valdés observes in Death in the Literature

of Unamuno, Unamuno’s work is a “literature of death,” this study proposes to

demonstrate that it is to the same extent a literature of engaño and burla. Just as death

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and Unamuno’s preoccupation with immortality reappear as themes in nearly all of his

work, the writer also continuously plays with the reader, literary critics, his fictional

characters, life and death. Bretz recognizes this characteristic of Unamuno as does Franz

in his 1970 dissertation, “The Bases of Humor in Three Novels of Unamuno,” an

investigation of the use of humor in Paz en la guerra, Amor y pedagogía, y Niebla.

Benedicte Vauthier also makes an important contribution to the study of Unamuno’s use of irony in Arte de escribir e ironía en la obra narrativa de Miguel de Unamuno, which

focuses on Amor y pedagogía. One of the goals of this investigation is to develop further

the research realized by the relatively small group of critics who are aware of the

humorous component in the Basque writer’s work.

To accomplish its goal, the present study investigates the humor found in some of

Unamuno’s fiction which has not yet been studied extensively or in which the comical

aspect has been as yet largely ignored, such as La novela de don Sandalio, jugador de

ajedrez; Cómo se hace una novela; y Un pobre hombre rico. These three narratives from

the same (relatively short) time period (1927-1930) exhibit many of the same

characteristics, but in each a different type of humor dominates. When appropriate,

however, specific examples from narratives other than those that are the focus of the

present study are included in order to provide a broader perspective of the topic. In

addition, to form a theoretical base, this study incorporates several components of Henri

Bergson’s theory on comedy and demonstrates how they are applicable to some of the humor found in Unamuno’s work.1 Finally, the present investigation also hypothesizes that burla and engaño are fundamental to Unamuno’s creation of the comical and will demonstrate the Basque writer’s ludic relationship with the reader. 6

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NOTE

1 Given that early criticism largely privileged Unamuno’s philosophic and sometimes polemic essays at the expense of his fiction, it is especially interesting that Bergson, his contemporary and one of Europe’s most prominent philosophers, overlapped several of the Basque writer’s more serious interests: as a professor of philosophy with a serious interest in life (which he defined in opposition to prevailing mechanistic theories of the day) he wrote on numerous topics of interest to Unamuno, especially time and metaphysics, consciousness and free will. Perhaps equally relevant to the volume cited here in relation to his ideas on humor ( Le Rire ‘Laughter’, whose French original dates from 1900), is Introducción a la metafísica (first published in French in 1903). (Although the connection between laughter and metaphysics is not immediately evident, it is part of his interests in the workings of the mind, intellect, and memory, as part of the flow of consciousness). He does not refer specifically to the soul or spirit (which would have attracted Unamuno), but treats aspects of the spirit realm which he terms “Pure Memory.” Bergson’s moral philosophy (ethics) would surely have appealed to Unamuno. The latter, a lifelong voracious reader, with a special interest in and knowledge of contemporary philosophy, is unlikely to have been unaware of one of the most prominent European philosophers of his day. For the present study, it is unnecessary that Unamuno should have read Bergson’s essay on Humor, cited in Chapter III. What is remarkable—and relevant—is the near‐perfect correlation between Bergson’s theorization of the verbal bases of humor and Unamuno’s practice.

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CHAPTER II

LITERARY CRITICISM OF UNAMUNO

Because of the vast number of critical studies that exist on the work of

Unamuno,1 for the purposes of the present study, this chapter is divided into two

categories of relevant criticism: 1) that which focuses on Unamuno’s serious and philosophical side but has contributed indirectly to the study of humor, and 2) that which

has as its central focus the examination of the writer’s use of humor and/or irony. Many

of the critics of the first group do recognize in passing the presence of humor in some of

Unamuno’s work, and it would be a great disservice to ignore the work of major critics

who have made lasting, significant contributions to the understanding of Unamuno. In

many ways, they have paved the way for those who have chosen to study the humorous

facet of the author. However, the review of critics in this enormous group is necessarily

selective. This investigation will seek connections between these critics and those who

focus on humor, thus contributing directly to the present study. The second group of

critics, those who have focused on the humorous component in at least some of their studies of Unamuno, is much smaller and a more comprehensive assessment of their work will be presented.

Part I: Criticism pertaining to the philosophical/serious Unamuno

Julián Marías

In Miguel de Unamuno, this critic offers a general comprehensive interpretation

of Unamuno’s literary work and analyzes his philosophical position. He also discusses

the influence on Unamuno of Sören Kierkegaard, Henri Bergson, Edmund Husserl, and 8

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

José Ortega y Gasset. Through Marías’s discussion of terms such as anguish, the tragic

sense of life, and irrationalism he successful demonstrates that Unamuno was a forerunner of existentialism and that his concepts were an innovating force in the development of modern philosophy.

Marías insightfully observes that “en Unamuno no se puede encontrar, no ya un

sistema, sino ni siquiera un cuerpo de doctrina congruente” (35). He adds that this is because Unamuno “salta sin cesar de un tema a otro, y de cada uno sólo nos muestra un destello” (35). Therefore, his work at times may seem arbitrary since “en vano se buscaría en las obras de Unamuno, ni siquiera en las que aparecen con mayores pretensiones intelectuales, un proceso lógico coherente, una fundamentación de cada aserto que permita utilizarlo a su vez para elevarse a una nueva verdad” (35-6). On the other hand, and equally convincingly, Marías asserts that there exists a certain type of

unity throughout all of Unamuno’s work, achieved by reiteration:

Unamuno salta de un tema a otro, pero repitiéndose constantemente; se escapa de una cuestión, pero es para reincidir un instante después sobre ella; por cualquier página que abramos un escrito suyo encontramos idéntico ambiente, una nota permanente e invariable, arrancada con igual pasión a los más diversos instrumentos: el poema, el drama, la novela, el ensayo, el comentario a un libro o a un hecho; y así a lo largo de todos sus volúmenes y de su vida entera. Ni sistema, pues, ni aforismo, sino reiteración de momentos dispersos. Esta es la unidad dinámica y permanente del pensamiento de Don Miguel de Unamuno. (38)

This quality of Unamuno’s style has significance to the present study because it forms the

basis of the open-endedness found throughout much of the writer’s work, and it is

precisely this quality that at time helps to balance the tragic with the non-tragic.

Marías also observes that exaggeration serves as a central characteristic of

Unamuno’s style. For example, “Unamuno ponía en un mismo plano, como es sabido, a

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Cervantes y a Don Quijote, a Hamlet y a Shakespeare, a Augusto Pérez o Abel Sánchez y

a él mismo, a don Miguel” (53). Though the critic terms it an exaggeration to put

fictional characters on par with real live human beings,

no se ha reparado suficientemente en ello. Se dirá que es una ocurrencia arbitraria, que no puede tomarse demasiado en serio, que tampoco la tomaba así al pie de la letra el propio Unamuno. Esto es cierto, pero con negarle última seriedad y consistencia no hemos empezado siquiera a entenderlo. ¿Por qué esa ocurrencia? Se trata de una exageración evidente; pero hay que repetir una vez y otra que la exageración lo es siempre de algo que no es exagerado; por tanto, la exageración hace resaltar y a la vez oculta un núcleo de sentido, de verdad, que importa poner a una luz conveniente. La exageración consiste en subrayar desmesuradamente una dimensión real de algo, y así nos llama la atención sobre ello; pero si sólo vemos la falta de medida y rechazamos lo que así se nos presenta, no reparamos en ese germen verdadero, que es el que importa. En rigor, la relación del hombre con las cosas es siempre exagerada; cuando hablamos, ponemos de relieve un aspecto de algo que nunca se da así, solitario y único, sino mezclado a los demás; cuando usamos vitalmente una cosa cualquiera, aislamos una de sus posibilidades; cuando me como una manzana, tomo aislada y arbitrariamente su cualidad de sabrosa y comestible, prescindiendo de sus caracteres geométricos, de sus propiedades físicas generales, de su facultad reproductora, de su índole susceptible de funcionar como un proyectil disparado por mi mano. Y así en todo; cualquier acto vital es ya una interpretación, y ésta una exageración. (53-4)

Marías has touched upon a vital characteristic of Unamuno’s fiction, and has also,

perhaps unknowingly, discovered one of the origins of the Basque writer’s humor, though

he does not explicitly connect the use of exaggeration with the humorous results found in

some of Unamuno’s work, such as Amor y pedagogía.

Marías gives Unamuno’s readers an invaluable guide because of his thorough

analysis of all of Unamuno’s work and his capacity to form interrelationships among the

novels. His description of the evolution of Unamuno’s narrative also has contributed to

the understanding of his work. For example, at the end of the section “Los relatos de

Unamuno,” he concludes:

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Después de intentar la comprensión de la persona “desde lugar ninguno,” sin tener en cuenta tiempo ni lugar, Unamuno va, simplemente, haciendo vivir a sus personajes delante de los ojos del alma. Y al hilo de ese vivir, que es el nuestro, nos hace penetrar imaginativamente en la sustancia de su realidad misma, que adivinamos y vamos poseyendo por una misteriosa vía de simpatía y afinidad espiritual. (153)

It is true that one of Unamuno’s strengths is his ability to bring to the reader the reality of daily life, what Marías refers to above as “haciendo vivir a sus personajes,” and although the critic does not discuss Unamuno’s use of humor, he has again indirectly identified a source of humor, the obsessive, isolated personality of many of Unamuno’s characters and the importance given to the creative process that manifests itself throughout the writer’s work.

Mario Valdés

Among this critic’s prolific studies of Unamuno is Death in the Literature of

Unamuno, which he opens by speculating on why Unamuno’s work has provoked such

unceasing commentary (at the moment he was writing the above book in 1966, at least

1500 books and articles). He attributes such a large volume of criticism to the “polemics

and disagreements that surround Unamuno’s thought” (6-7) and adds that this ongoing

debate originates in the “fact that many minds have attempted to simplify the most complex literary figure of contemporary Spain” (6-7). Finally, the critic affirms that

“Unamuno was not Lutheran, atheistic, nihilistic, nor a disciple of Nietzsche or of

Kierkegaard, nor a pragmatist, a mystic, nor a primitive Christian…Unamuno was a

man—in his own words ‘nada menos que todo un hombre, un hombre de carne y

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hueso’—who opened his mind to the widest spectrum of Western philosophy and

literature” (6-7).

Valdés accurately assesses the reason for the controversy among critics when he

recognizes that their intention is to arrive at a single explanation to interpret the work of a

multi-faceted writer; that is, they wish to assign him one particular identity and then be

able to demonstrate how his work reflects the dogma and ideology of the given label.

It is also true, as Valdés acknowledges, that Unamuno was, certainly (more so than the

average person), familiar with a wide range of philosophical thought and the literature of

many cultures. However, although Valdés discusses Unamuno’s knowledge of Western

thought, it is important to note that the Basque writer also stepped outside of occidental

philosophy, at times referring to the Hindu Upanishads or to Buddhist and other oriental

belief systems. Such a person is difficult to label, and, it must be reiterated, Unamuno

abhorred the idea of being pigeon-holed into a certain category. Naturally, the

combination of critics whose job it is to label and a writer who defies labeling also gives

rise to some of the humor found in Unamuno’s work.

Valdés captures an essential quality of Unamuno’s writing when he states that for

Unamuno, reason was not a method, but rather an indispensable characteristic of

language, that is, “since he is using language he must use the logic of thought to express

himself” (21). This feature of Unamuno’s writing has led to a lot of misinterpretation

because “the metaphors of Unamuno can be misconstrued if they are not regarded as the

linguistic attempt to capture the essence of an intuition,” connected to Unamuno’s

affirmation of “the eternal flux of the opposition of being and non-being” (21). Valdés

also perceives that 12

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When we comment on the eternal flux of the opposition of being and non-being, it is never intended to indicate two positive entities in struggle as one would consider one man pushing another. What this expression indicates is a driving force which is at work—the work of being—and has as a basic partner the force of change and destruction. Therefore, together the forces are in eternal flux. (21)

Thus, when critics have interpreted literally Unamuno’s many references to the ongoing

struggle and the tragedy of life, they may misunderstand the underlying spirit from which

this stems and miss the vitality that Unamuno brings to the written page.

Valdés acknowledges the humorous presentation of death in Amor y pedagogía through the “exaggerated caricature-like characters of Avito—the father of the genius to be; Marina—the mother; Don Fulgencio—the teacher; Menaguti—the poet; and

Apolodoro or Luis, depending on who calls to him, his father or his mother—the genius to be” (77).2 The critic also identifies “three situations of the presentation of death in

this novel of Apolodoro’s life: 1) the intimate thoughts about death of the genius to be; 2)

the talk of death with Don Fulgencio as the teacher lectures Apolodoro, and; 3) the act of

death, first of his sister Rosa and then of Apolodoro himself” (77). Apolodoro wonders

whether death will come in the same way that sleep does, which for Apolodoro, always

escapes him. Thus, he asks: “Sucederá lo mismo con la muerte? Piensa, y pónese a

imaginar qué será eso de la muerte, aun cuando asegura su padre que no es más ni menos

que la cesación de la vida; la cosa más sencilla que cabe. Para don Avito no hay tal

problema de la muerte; eso es un contrasentido; la muerte es un fenómeno vital” (104-5).

Valdés perceptively recognizes that Unamuno has presented the “philosophical

comparison of sleep and death as a grotesque farce rather than as a personal tragedy” (77)

and that he accomplishes this by using the ridiculous.

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Valdés also directly acknowledges the absurdity of many of the ideas presented in

Amor y pedagogía. When Apolodoro attempts to live his life according to the scientific

abstractions which he has been taught, the world becomes such a ridiculous place that he

nearly becomes insane. However, he is grounded in reality enough to realize “that it is

his father’s logical abstractions put to practice that have made him so inadequate” (81).

Unamuno uses grotesque images throughout the novel “to demonstrate the ridiculous made sublime” (80). For example, as Apolodoro’s sister lies on her deathbed, Avito lectures on the physiological and pathological aspects of the case, his last words of wisdom being “Va a concluir el process vital […]” (144). Also, Avito expresses himself spontaneously only when he discovers the hanging body of his son: “¡Madre!—gimió desde sus honduras insondables el pobre pedagogo, y cayó desfallecido en brazos de la mujer” (148-9). The element of the absurd also contributes to the humor found, not only in Amor y pedagogía, but in other novels as well.

Valdés insightfully observes that the effect that Apolodoro’s death has on the characters is minimal (81). In fact, in the epilogue to the novel, Unamuno explores these effects: Avito resumes his abstractions as soon as he finds out that he is going to be a grandfather to the child of the maid whom Apolodoro impregnated before committing suicide, and it turns out that don Fulgencio has submerged himself even more deeply into his grotesque abstracted world (81). The last part of the novel consists of a treatise supposedly written by don Fulgencio, “Apuntes para un tratado de cocotología,” which explains in great detail, complete with diagrams and charts, how to make a paper bird.

Valdés is one of the few critics to comment on this section of the book, and although he discusses it only briefly, his observation on the appendix to this Tratado demonstrates his 14

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understanding of the novel: “In the appendix to the Tratado Unamuno gives the culmination of the use of reason to life: the completely false world created by don

Fulgencio as the view of a sunset upon the sea by a paper bird” (81).

The critic acknowledges the humorous facet of Unamuno when he describes

Amor y pedagogía as a “grotesque farce, both tragic and humorous” (81). The character

of Apolodoro represents a “trágico agonista” (81), and the figures of don Avito and don

Fulgencio are “ridiculous adaptations of an abstraction—scientism as life” (81). He then

adds that

through humorous, sometimes sarcastic, satire, Unamuno has developed the theme that the truth of man and life, that the meaning of existence, cannot be grasped through logic and reason but only by the emotive intuition of the spirit. The ultimate question throughout has been the meaning of death; there has been no answer since only reason has been used in the search. Two assurances for immortality of the personal yo—children and literary creation—have been based on reason. The problem of the existence and possible annihilation of the personal yo has been authentically presented; it has only been the method which has led the characters to the ridiculous artificial abstractions in which they lived. (81)

Without doubt, Unamuno employs humor in this novel to express the limitations of reason. Valdés, in support of the thesis of his book on the theme of death in Unamuno’s work, also affirms the ubiquitous presence of death in Amor y pedagogía and states that

the question on the meaning of death has been left unanswered because only reason was

used in the search. He also considers absurd the two assurances for immortality of the

personal yo presented in the novel—children and literary creation—since these, too, are based on reason (81). The critic successfully proves in his book the omnipresence of death in Unamuno’s work, though perhaps the Basque writer would object to the

assertion of literary creation being based on reason.

15

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

Valdés has successfully developed a plausible system of classification of

Unamuno’s work based on the relationship that the self has with the environment in which the person lives and a corresponding attitude toward death.3 He has managed to

incorporate all of Unamuno’s work into this system because he does not depend on rigid

categories. Furthermore, at times, the critic touches upon some of the characteristics that

make Unamuno’s work humorous. For example, even though the theme of death does

not explicitly provoke laughter, the way in which some of Unamuno’s characters die

leaves the reader with an acceptance of death as such an ordinary event that it somehow

crosses the line from tragedy to a neutral zone bordering at times on comedy.4

Ricardo Gullón

This critic has also made an enormous contribution to the study of Unamuno. His

Autobiografías de Unamuno places Unamuno in his historical epoch and insightfully

analyzes the writer’s major works of fiction. For Gullón, one of the outstanding

characteristics of Unamuno is his ability to harmoniously integrate various parts into a

single unity. He is also impressed that Unamuno “no desfigura los hechos históricos; los

utiliza, situándolos en una perspectiva personal para darles el sentido que a sus ojos

tienen” (9). The plural form autobiografías in the title of the critic’s study also merits

attention since it expresses the idea of multiple selves, which forms an essential part of

Unamuno’s ideology. The critic describes Unamuno’s styles in the following way:

“Para mostrar el contraste y situar a la historia en el lugar que le corresponde, Unamuno

utilizó una estructura sencilla, pero de planos invertidos. Lo histórico pasa al fondo,

mientras lo intrahistórico se adelanta y ocupa la embocadura del escenario. Tal inversión 16

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

obliga al espectador, al lector, a concentrarse en lo cercano” (26-7). This explains

Unamuno’s tendency to focus on the man of carne y hueso rather than on abstractions.

The critic also sees similarities between Unamuno’s work and esperpento. When

discussing Amor y pedagogía, he points out that “el contraste entre lo que el personaje quiere ser y lo que es, entre cómo se ve y cómo lo ven, tan propio del esperpento, dará forma a la novela, y…el humorismo Unamuniano cuaja en escenas de sainete” (54). It is true that many of Unamuno’s characters exhibit deformations or are possessed by one overwhelming characteristic to the point that they are caricatures.5 This also contributes

to the creation of comical situations.

Gullón observes that Unamuno was using experimental techniques in his writing

that would not be widely accepted until later. He points out that in 1902 “el público y los

críticos condenaron la intrusión del novelista en la novela, especialmente si se

manifestaba en forma de soliloquios y comentarios” (55). This contrasts with the

situation in 1924 when “Unamuno repetiría la experiencia, en Teresa, dispersando la

novela (y utilizando indistintos verso y prosa), pero el lector de 1924 estaba dispuesto a

aceptar innovaciones. La irrupción de las vanguardias le había acostumbrado a

considerar legítimo cualquier experimento” (55). Thus, according to the critic, in Amor y

pedagogía Unamuno employs two techniques in order to establish the autonomy of a

fictional entity: “el primero, situarse frente a él dentro y fuera de la novela, para

conversar como se conversa entre amigos; el segundo, insertar al final de ella un tratado

científico escrito por el filósofo extravagante” (55). The critic adds that because of this

technique, the philosopher exists outside of the novel as well as in it. He maintains that

because the reader sees the character separate from the author, arguing with him, he/she 17

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

(the reader) feels that the character is not only real, but also free (56). This blurring of

fiction and reality also serves to create humorous situations and/or reduce the tragic

aspect in much of Unamuno’s work.

Gullón is not alone in his opinion that Unamuno was ahead of his time in his use

of experimental techniques to achieve his literary goals. However, it is important to keep

in mind that a mix of poetry and prose frequently appeared in medieval and Renaissance

literature. For example, la novela sentimental was usually a combination of prose,

poetry, and epistolary, as explained by César Hernández Alonso in his book Novela

sentimental española: “Entiéndese por novela sentimental un tipo de narración que surge

en la España del siglo XV, que combina y conjunta la poesía de cancionero con

narraciones caballerescas […] No entraremos en el tema de la conveniencia o

inoportunidad de usar el término novela para este tipo de tratados y narraciones […]”

(11). Later, in 1499, La Celestina exemplified the mixture of various literary genres, thus

defying classification, as did much of Unamuno’s fictional work. Furthermore, since

Unamuno was a very well-read person, it seems reasonable to assume that his familiarity

with literary history enabled him to incorporate previously used techniques into his own

work. It is possible that a few writers of the Vanguard as well as some literary critics,

lacking the in-depth knowledge and broad perspective of Unamuno, have in some cases

erroneously taken the old for the new.

Gullón calls attention to several points of humor in Unamuno’s work. He, along

with Valdés, discussed above, does mention the “Apuntes cocotológicos.”6 He correctly

assesses this treatise as a “parodia de los tratados científicos entonces al uso…” (56).

The critic continues his description of the Apuntes: “Es una jocosa defensa contra la 18

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

acusación de asistematismo lanzada contra Unamuno, y un modo de poner en solfa el

sistema, burlándose de la jerga, el orden mecánico, el aparato crítico, la bibliografía, las

notas, las notas a las notas…” (56). It is true that the Apuntes makes fun of nearly all

dimensions of life at the time, including both scientific and literary trends. The appendix,

like the Apuntes, is dedicated to don Fulgencio “y a la Cocotología racional (nótese el adjetivo) con graciosa referencia al descubrimiento de la aparición del sexo en la pajarita, punto de partida para las habituales divagaciones clarificadoras” (56-7). Thus, Gullón does recognize the comic nature of some of Unamuno’s work, at least in his most obviously humorous writing.

The critic also discusses the humor present in the prologue to Amor y pedagogía

in which the supposed prologuist (really Unamuno himself) states that the true intention

of the novel is to make fun of those who do not understand la burla. Gullón adds that “el humor templa la ternura y la ternura suaviza la ironía” (60). The critic further explains

this goal of Unamuno’s when he says: “Intentar, remover, perturbar hasta el punto de la

confusión fue el propósito, y dejar prendidos en el error a los incapaces de advertir cuál

era la burla y quién era el burlado, a quienes no vieran que el burlador y burlado eran una

misma persona” (61). In other words, as in much of Unamuno’s work, the humor in

Amor y pedagogía exists in multiple layers, and only the most perceptive reader may be

able to discern the true meaning. For Gullón, “La intención del autor al ingerirse tan

descaradamente en el relato, hablando de sí en tercera persona, es clara: le atrae la

ambigüedad porque ambigua es la vida, y si el público, vago monstruo, no acierta a

discriminar ‘cuándo se le habla en broma y cuándo se le habla en serio,’ el lector amigo

de la dedicatoria, sí lo hará” (61). Without doubt, ambiguity plays a vital role in 19

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

Unamuno’s work and at times contributes to the humor of a situation or gives rise to hope

in the midst of tragedy.

The critic also discusses the humor found within the novel itself. He points out,

for example, that even the physical appearance of don Fulgencio provokes laughter since

the tone of the author’s description of the character is burlesque, deformed, and more

appropriate to a caricature than a portrait. According to the critic, “Los elementos

utilizados para acentuar lo bufo sirven varias finalidades: los esqueletos e inscripciones

son una burla del cientifismo decimonónico en lo más accesible del público: las teorías de

Darwin, simplificadas al extremo para que parecieran cómicas” (75). This assessment of

the humorous side of the novel rings true; throughout it, Unamuno carries to the extreme

the possible consequences of the most recent scientific research. For Gullón, the

accumulation of the grotesque in the novel makes sense because without it, Unamuno

would not have been able to achieve the desired effect (75).

Gullón makes an important contribution to the criticism on Unamuno when he discerns connections between the novels San Manuel bueno, mártir, Teresa, and Don

Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez. These novels share the characteristic of being based on

documents supposedly written by a third person which have fallen by chance into

Unamuno’s hands.7 This proves to be an interesting feature of these novels, and Gullón

gives it the attention that it merits. For example, he says of San Manuel bueno, mártir:

“La paradoja estriba en que siendo San Manuel bueno, mártir novela tan unamuniana y

reflejo de hondas inquietudes del autor, puede ser aceptada como el escrito de alguien

que al redactarla sólo se proponía dejar memoria del virtuoso varón a cuyo lado viviera”

(332). Indeed, the stated intention of the narrator does not ring entirely true; the reader is 20

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

aware of the existence of an underlying purpose, although he/she may not be able to

identify it. Unamuno possesses the same ability to deceive his readers, just as Don

Manuel deceives his parishioners, and this at times contributes to the creation of comical

situations.

Gullón criticizes much of what other critics have said about Unamuno. For

example, while many have accused Unamuno of creating an inconsistent, unrealistic

world, for Gullón, this world makes sense when one takes into account that the reality

created by the writer “era la subjetiva, la entrañable” (95). In particular, Gullón takes

issue with those who say that the problems presented in Unamuno’s novels “parecen

ejercicios literarios para demostrar la particular concepción unamuniana de la novela, una

ejemplificación de sus teorías estéticas” (96). The critic, however, demonstrates a more

complex understanding of the writer when he affirms that “Niebla dista de ser un

paradigma, y menos una demostración de teorías estéticas. Es una novela humanísima,

no menos novelesca y apasionante por girar en torno al drama íntimo y a la problemática

existencial […]. Lejos de ser ejemplos, demostraciones, parecen un grito romántico, o la

elaboración de un grito lanzado románticamente” (96-7). Although the critic recognizes

Unamuno’s Romantic roots, he also acknowledges that the writer is much too complex to

label as a late Romantic, that when Unamuno discusses the adulteration of the soul, he is not referring to a person whose goodness becomes corrupted by society, but rather to “la duplicidad radical de la persona” (156), which resonates much more profoundly than the

Romantic declaration “el hombre es bueno y la sociedad le corrompe” (156). Indeed, this duplicicad radical serves as an essential component of Unamuno’s work and at times contributes to the humor. 21

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

Gullón also takes issue with those who have accused Unamuno of insincerity and attempt to prove their point by citing the frequency with which the Basque writer contradicts himself. For Gullón, however, a critic that believes this “perdió de vista algo

muy importante: el modo de ser y por tanto el ser de Unamuno es contradictorio” (270).

Although it is understandable that Unamuno might be misinterpreted, a careful reading of his work enables one to reach the same conclusion as Gullón: Unamuno demonstrates an awareness of the contradictory nature of life and the contradictions that exist within every human being (272). It is also true that Unamuno never “hizo secreto de sus vacilaciones: por el contrario, las convirtió en su razón de ser” (272). He also freely discussed such issues, as indicated in a letter to A. Jiménez Ilundain: “No le angustie demasiado vivir en un estado de contradicción última, ahora creyendo y ahora no; o más bien queriendo creer sin lograrlo. Es mejor que la estúpida paz de una fe muerta o de una incredulidad muerta” (qtd. in Gullón 277).

Nevertheless, Gullón does fall into the trap of other critics when he refers to

Unamuno’s egotism, as illustrated in the following excerpt:

Cervantes y Galdós se contentan con perdurar en el personaje autónomo; les basta la alegría de sentir viva y libre a la criatura engendrada por ellos. Unamuno, si quiere independientes a las figuras ficticias, es para utilizar en beneficio propio esa independencia; su egotismo contrasta con el altruismo de los otros […]. El conflicto entre la libertad del personaje y la voluntad unamuniana de insuflarle su ser, se revolvió mediante diestro escamoteo de la individualidad ficticia, poniendo tras la máscara el rostro del autor. (255)

Later on in his book, Gullón returns to the same theme:

Podía decir que a Unamuno le faltaba aquella simpatía y compresión que en grado tan alto poseyeron Cervantes y Galdós. Es cierto. Más egoísta, o, si se prefiere, más egotista que ellos, para compensar artísticamente ese desinterés por quienes están fuera se interesó por los que están dentro, explotando sistemáticamente y a fondo la pluralidad del yo. Si en todos los personajes le reconocemos, en cada 22

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

uno descubrimos rasgos diferentes reveladores de las posibilidades y negatividades que adentraban en él, más o menos soterradas o domeñadas. (308)

Although Unamuno’s continual reference to and constant preoccupation with the self

may appear to indicate an egotistical obsession, a careful reading of his work, particularly

his essays, reveals a man whose desire is anything but selfish. The pervasive theme of

the self in his literary work refers to a self as real as the man de carne y hueso, that is, the

self that lives and dies, the one that must deal with his/her own mortality. It is a self that

incorporates the entire world, but not in the sense that it consumes everything around it;

rather, it is a flexible, changeable self, as expressed in the prologue of Tres novelas

ejemplares: “…todo hombre humano lleva dentro de sí las siete virtudes y sus siete

opuestos vicios capitals: es orgulloso y humilde, glotón y sobrio, rijoso y casto, envidioso

y caritativo, ávaro y liberal, perezoso y diligente, iracundo y sufrido. Y saca de sí mismo

lo mismo al tirano que al esclavo, al criminal que al santo, a Caín que a Abel” (25).

Unamuno’s concern with the self reflects his awareness of the complexity of life and

death. This explains why in his essay “En mi viejo cuarto” he proclaims that “por

nuestro cuerpo van desfilando diversos hombres, hijos de cada día, y que el de hoy se

devora al de ayer como el de mañana se devora al de hoy, quedándose con algunos de sus

recuerdos, y que, nuestro cuerpo es un cementerio de almas. ¡Cuántos hemos sido!”

(187). Such contemplation of the mysteries of life/death does not tend to characterize an

egotistic personality whose world revolves around only him. Support for this more

universal view of Unamuno’s concern for the self also appears in Cómo se hace una

novela:

Y no sólo mi tragedia, sino la de todos los que viven en la historia, por ella y de ella, la de todos los ciudadanos, es decir, de todos los hombres—animales 23

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

políticos o civiles, que diría Aristóteles, la de todos los que escribimos, la que todos los que leemos, la de todos los que lean esto. Y aquí estalla la universalidad, la omnipersonalidad y la todopersonalidad—omnis no es totus, no la impersonalidad de este relato. Que no es un ejemplo de ego-ismo, sino de nos- ismo. (132)

Armando Zubizarreta

In Unamuno en su novela this critic makes an original contribution to the field by

focusing at times on the language used by Unamuno. He observes, for example, that the

verb tense chosen by the writer helps to create a sensation of possibility rather than reality. In particular, Cómo se hace una novela demonstrates this potentiality by the repeated use of the conditional tense, such as “…que sería,” “…se empezaría por darle un nombre,” “…le llamaría” (91).8 For the critic there exists no doubt that Unamuno

“no ha querido construir un personaje. Simplemente ha ensayado con este embrión de

personaje,” and consequently, the reader “ha perdido, tras la primera presentación, la

ingenuidad inicial y adquiere una desconfianza que le libera y le impide caer en un

nuevo engaño” (93-4). In this way, the reader becomes aware of life as a series of

possibilities rather than a fixed entity with a specific beginning and end; it is frequently

this open-endedness that points to an underlying playfulness on the part of Unamuno.

The language used by Unamuno also manifests his efforts to express life in its most vital

form, that is, the moment being lived. For this reason, Zubizarreta argues that there

exists “un indicio lingüístico que nos acerca a su búsqueda de un lenguaje al servicio de

la existencia concreta. En la obra aparecen insistentemente los adverbios de lugar y

tiempo, principalmente el aquí y el ahora” (133). Without doubt, the way that Unamuno

24

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uses language to express the open-endedness of life as well as the here and now merits further study.

Zubizarreta also confirms the Romantic roots of the character Jugo en Cómo se

hace una novela:

Jugo, en su carácter, sus afanes, sus ansiedades, en su entrega apasionada a la lectura, al sueño, es un personaje romántico. El lenguaje empleado crea un pathos emocional propio del romanticismo […]. A Jugo no sólo le ocurren las cosas, sino que siente que le ocurren […]. Todo lo que le ocurre, en nombres, verbos, adverbios, es tremendo, desmesurado, sin límites […]. Jugo de la Raza aparece como un héroe de novela romántica, lleno de un pathos emocional romántico. (125-7)

It is true that the character the character Jugo de la Raza exhibits Romantic

characteristics, and it is equally accurate to say, as Zubizarreta observes, that “Este tipo

de lenguaje aparece alguna vez en las páginas de la obra que no pertenecen al plano

novelesco. En el prólogo de 1927 Unamuno recuerda la crisis de 1897, el ‘momento de

suprema, de abismática congoja’ del estallido de la crisis” (127). That Unamuno has

created a Romantic novel from the historic level of the novel, not only the fictional, merits further study as it fits into Unamuno’s idea of the gray area that exists between fiction and reality. Also, at times the blurring of these contributes to the humor in his work.

For Zubizarreta, it is natural to find a return to Romanticism in Unamuno since he intended to rebel against realismo and naturalismo. Thus, “Toda su obra está escrita como una superación del siglo XIX y su obra novelística, concretamente, como superación del naturalismo” (128). The critic affirms that the language used by the

Basque writer is the most appropriate for a novel that attempts to “revelar la creación de la persona y su problemática” (129). This is because 25

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

En verdad el lenguaje de Unamuno tiene un sentido mucho más filosófico, de orientación existencial, que sentimental […]. Parece como si hubiese buscado una denominación para expresar que se encontraba descubriendo una dimensión ontológica de la persona humana. Todo el esfuerzo de Unamuno es una búsqueda de un lenguaje “íntimo y vital.” (129)

Undeniably, Unamuno composes his work in a unique language, particularly in his fiction. Zubizarreta correctly observes that this language manifests Unamuno’s efforts to

express life in its most vital form, that is, the moment being lived.

Francisco Javier Arias Santos

It is appropriate to include at this point a summary of an article by Arias Santos

published in 1999, “Una nueva visión de Unamuno.” Although the article does not

discuss the writer’s use of humor, it contains groundbreaking information that may have a

great impact on future studies of the writer. In it, Arias Santos discusses the relatively recent publication of three previously unpublished works of Unamuno (“El misterio inicial de mi vida,” Nuevo mundo, and El resentimiento tragico de la vida) and the effect

that the appearance of these texts may produce on the traditional thinking about the

writer. Arias Santos contends that the publication of these works will cause the

reevaluation of many traditional opinions held by important critics such as Julián Marías,

Armando Zubizarreta, Ricardo Gullón and others. Of the newly published texts, one is a

novel, one an essay, and the third consists of notes for a book about the Spanish Civil

War.

The short essay, “El misterio inicial de mi vida”9 narrates the possible suicide of

Unamuno’s father during the writer’s childhood, a fact previously unknown. Santos

Arias argues that if this information can be confirmed, Unamuno’s almost obsessive 26

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interest in death (especially suicide) and its meaning will have a plausible explanation.

Taking into consideration the close relationship between the writer’s life and his literary

work, the possibility of his father having committed suicide should be taken seriously

(181). If true, this explains why Unamuno refers to his father very rarely whereas

references to his mother abound (182). It would also explain the suicide of the father of

some of his fictional characters, such as Augusto’s father in Niebla (182). Of course, the

lack of reference to Unamuno’s father could simply be because he died when Unamuno

was only six years old, and thus he did not know or remember him well. Nonetheless,

Unamuno’s obsession with death does often take the form of suicide: Apolodoro in

Amor y pedagogía, Augusto in Niebla, Alejandro in Nada menos que todo un hombre.

And in San Manuel bueno, mártir, suicide is a constant temptation for Manuel. “El

misterio inicial de mi vida” begins with a statement of the effect that the event had on

Unamuno:

Nunca lograré olvidar, ni aunque lo quisiera, lo que podría llamar con toda propiedad el horizonte terrestre de mi historia íntima, de la biografía de mi alma. Todo lo anterior a este recuerdo, todo lo de más allá de él, es para mí como un remoto velaje que allende ese horizonte forma el fondo insondable, infinito, de mi vida pasada. De este recuerdo arranca mi conciencia y hasta me atrevo a decir que toda la vida de mi espíritu no ha sido más que un desarrollo de él. (1)

The writer then describes what at first seemed like an ordinary evening with his father working in his home office when suddenly a shot was heard: “Se levantó mi madre, fue a la puerta del gabinete y la halló cerrada con llave por dentro” (1). A few minutes later, the young Unamuno followed the servants into the room: “Precipitáronse dentro y yo me aventuré tras ellos. Mi padre yacía en su sillón, blanco y rojo, blanco de cera el rostro y enrojecido por un corrillo de sangre que le brotaba de la sien. En el suelo una pistola”

27

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(1). In the concluding paragraph of the essay, Unamuno reiterates the profound effect of this event on his life: “En torno de aquella visión se fueron organizando todas las subsiguientes visiones de mi experiencia. Ni mi madre tenía para mí sentido íntimo sino ligada a aquel suceso, a aquel tiro que rompe un silencio de ocaso y aquel hilo de sangre sobre un rostro marmóreo” (2). Arias Santos raises the question of why the suicide of

Unamuno’s father would have been kept a secret for so many years, speculating that “la familia de clase media acomodada en que Unamuno nace y el fuerte ambiente religioso del Bilbao de principios de siglo, dejan suficientemente claro que la familia guardase el secreto de la desgracia familiar” (182).

The recently published novel, the first written by Unamuno, Nuevo mundo, offers

a new perspective on Unamuno’s nivola since it was written in a style unlike his first

published novel, Paz en la guerra, but shares characteristics with Amor y pedagogía. For example, it contains very little physical description; instead, the existential conflicts of the young Rodero become the main focus of the story. Without doubt, asserts the critic,

“Nuevo mundo es una auténtica nivola, lo que plantea graves dificultades a la hipótesis

de una supuesta evolución estilística” (184). In this novel the reader can find the themes

of antidogmatism, Unamuno’s own ideas concerning religious faith and the truth, the

dilemma of faith versus reason, and more. For example, from the opening paragraph, the

reader can tell that it possesses characteristics of what Unamuno (as the fictional entity

Victor Goti in Niebla) will later call a nivola:10

Con los apuntes de memorias que al morir me dejó el pobre Eugenio Rodero, con lo que le oí muchas veces en nuestros paseos y con lo que de él pude conocer directamente he trazado la relación de su vida que aquí presento al público. Fue vida interiorísima, casi sin peripecias ni vicisitudes, sabido lo cual queda desde ahora desengañado el lector que busque distraer su ánimo en un relato de 28

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009

ocurrencias de accidentado curso externo. Mi empeño, tal vez no alcanzado, ha sido no referir los pasajeros sucesos de su vida sino en cuanto dieron origen, fomento o asiento a los estables hechos de su alma. Lo eterno de ésta es lo que quisiera fijar aquí. (43)

Not only does this point to the lack of external details characteristic of the nivola, but it

also shows Unamuno’s preoccupation with lo eterno. In addition, this first novel is based

on notes left behind by an alleged third party, a technique employed in later works such

as La novela de don Sandalio and San Manuel Bueno, mártir (discussed above). It is, in

fact, a manuscrito encontrado, one of the numerous homenajes by Unamuno to his

admired Cervantes. Likewise, the theme of the importance of a literary work being alive,

in the sense that it reflects the process of creation, makes its debut in Nuevo mundo:

Pensé un momento aprovechar el siguiente ensayo de Eugenio Rodero para un trabajo coherente y justificado, reduciéndolo a la lengua y el pensamiento comunes, traduciéndolo a la lógica social, pero deseché al punto tal tentación, impiadosa hacia mi pobre amigo. Dar coherencia a su ensayo era quitarle vida, era destruir la libre marcha de su asociación de ideas, era restituir lo sugestivo con lo instructivo. He creído más bien dar lo suyo, lo propio de él sin llenar sus lagunas con lo de común acervo que él no se hubiera apropiado y asimilado de verdad. (64)

Later in the narrative, the writer reiterates the same point: “La idea…¡pobre idea! Una idea solo es viva y verdadera idea en el mundo en que nació como pedazo de un alma; una misma idea lanzada a dos almas son dos ideas, no hay dos iguales, como no las hay hojas de árbol. ¡Vulgarísima concepción que no han penetrado los bárbaros que dicen luchar por ideas!” (70). The ongoing creation which results in a lack of complete closure is also expressed in Unamuno’s first novel when the writer describes the process of literary creation (reminiscent of that found later in Cómo se hace una novela):

Trabajaba, por lo demás, con verdadero encarnizamiento. Trazaba el bosquejo de una obra cualquiera y durante una larga temporada le dedicaba continua preocupación, aportando a ella el fruto de lecturas, meditaciones, 29

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observaciones y conversaciones. Cuando el material era copioso lo metía en caja y redactaba el argumento ensartando sus notas; y dedicándose luego a la poda. Así lo reducía mucho. Y vuelta a rellenarlo de notas por un lado y otro, y vuelta a nueva reducción y entrada en caja. Y así por una serie de formaciones sucesivas de aluvión y de sedimento de ellas cumplía su labor. Así se explica que no dejara nada acabado. (73)

Unamuno has emphasized the open-endedness by putting the last line of the above quote

unattached to any paragraph. Further evidence of incompleteness exists in the presence

of six addenda after the supposed end of the narrative, the first of which ends in ellipsis:

Y con pausa, con voz débil, empezó a contarme su vida íntima, la que he tratado de reproducir en estas líneas. Me habló por último de sus amores en América, de su Ángela, y de cómo tras muchas lágrimas le dejó por sus ideas y casó con otro, con un chico bueno, por sus cuartos. Cuando empezó a hablarme de la proximidad de su muerte se me escapó esta… (84)

Nuevo mundo also contains examples of Unamuno’s predilection for inventing words:

“Cuanto más personal uno más hombre, cuanto más unamunizado yo más humanizado.

No por exclusión, por inclusión” (88). The last words of this quote also serve to refute the claims of some critics on Unamuno’s egoism. Arias Santos suggests that there are probably too many themes in Nuevo mundo for such a short novel (90 pages) and hypothesizes that this may be one of the reasons that Unamuno decided not to publish it.

Never again, observes the critic, did the writer attempt to group together so many topics in a single work (185). His subsequent writing, however, does expand upon the philosophical content in this first novel; thus, it can be seen as a departure point from

which all of his later work originates (185).

Equally important is the publication of the third text, with the self-parodic title El

resentimiento trágico de la vida. This work should serve to modify opinions concerning

Unamuno’s alleged involvement with Franco’s party during the Spanish Civil War. For

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Arias Santos, after reading the notes which make up this book, it becomes very difficult

to criticize Unamuno’s behavior during the time that he was under house arrest, and the

reader can “apreciarse lo alejado que estaba del bando nacional” (187). In it, Unamuno calls for a return to true faith, but not the dogmatic faith of the Nationalists. Since the writer opposes any kind of dogmatism, at times it appears that he does not see much difference between Fascism and Marxism since “tanto el bando fascista como el marxista son grupos cerrados, en los que sus componentes arrinconan su inteligencia crítica, aceptando dogmáticamente sus planteamientos” (188). Indeed, this is clearly expressed

in the text when Unamuno writes: “Bolchevismo y fascismo son las dos formas—

concava y convexa—de una misma y sola enfermedad mental colectiva” (51). Arias

Santos confirms that the defense of his ideas that Unamuno presented to Millán Astray

demonstrates a complete coherence between the writer’s life and his work (188), which is

supported by the text when Unamuno relates the following incident in which he clearly

criticizes Astray: “El viernes 4 IX al saber fusilamiento del marido de Clotilde abrí

Evangelio y leí Lucas XI 17 ‘todo reino dividido en sí mismo, etc.’ ‘¿Pero qué? ¿Aquí no

hay antipatriotas?’ ‘No’ ‘¡Qué lastima! A quien vamos a matar?’ De mentalidad fajista.

‘¡Viva la muerte!’ grita Millán Astray. Lo que quiere decir ‘¡muera la vida!’” (35).

Arias Santo correctly asserts that this work, along with the other two recently published,

makes it necessary to reconsider traditional opinions held by many critics and readers

alike, specifically, the supposed stylistic and philosophical evolution must be questioned

(188).

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Paul Olson

This critic’s relatively recent study, The Great Chiamus: Word and Flesh in the

Novels of Unamuno (2003) continues in the same vein as some of Zubizarreta’s work,

that is, with a focus on the language used by Unamuno. Departing from the premise of

Thomas Mermall, who studied the mystical rhetoric of La agonía de cristianismo and asserts in “The Chiasmus: Unamuno’s Master Trope” that the chiasmus can “rightly be regarded as Unamuno’s master trope, serving as his major linguistic and rhetorical recourse for generating contradiction and paradox” (246), Olson continues and expands on Mermall’s study with a focus on Unamuno’s fiction. Mermall concludes that the

“chiasmus is an open form, which Unamuno uses to avoid closure, sustain tension, dissociate terms, undermine identities, generate perpetual contradictions, and affirm the eternal struggles between reason and faith” (246). When Olson applies these conclusions to Unamuno’s fictional work, he finds similarities between works that are usually considered to be very different from each other, such as Paz en la guerra and Amor y

pedagogía. Both of these, according to Olson, are moral tales “of the tyranny of words and ideas—logocracia or ideocracia—over mortal flesh and blood” (53). The functions of the chiasmus (avoidance of closure, dissociate terms, etc.) also contribute to the humor found in Unamuno, thus making Olson’s book especially relevant to the present study.

Olson considers Unamuno’s first nivola (Amor y pedagogía) to be very modern,

even postmodern, due to “its emphasis upon its own textuality—its condition as a web of

words—and in making clear that we can have no understanding of the problems of

human thought and sentiment except through the equally problematic world of words”

(62). He also finds the novel to be one of Unamuno’s “most effective syntheses of 32

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tragedy and comedy” (63). This is particularly evident in the presentation of Apolodoro’s suicide by hanging and his fear of looking ridiculous if he is found “strung up like a

sausage” (63). Additionally, the prólogo-epílogo and the appendix to the Apuntes

suggest “Unamuno’s reluctance to give definitive closure to any of his works, thereby

creating the effect of three-dimensionality” (64). Although Olson is not the first to see this novel as essentially modern or postmodern, his emphasis on the tension between closure and openness and the effect that it creates brings an original perspective to its

interpretation.

Olson concludes that the tension between openness and closure relates to

Unamuno’s antithetically structured thinking, which “can be identified as a tension

between the desire for limits and limitlessness, between individuality and totality…”

(98). In Niebla, for instance, the text’s apparent closure within itself does not create the

final work, “for when Augusto tells Unamuno to abandon the thought of reviving him, it

is because he has come to realize that the basic reality of existence in time is its

irreversible openness toward the future” (98). For Olson, “Niebla demonstrates that the

idea of the ontological primacy of language and thought is a snare that tempts the

intellectual and all who intellectualize, and the work also poignantly expresses the

alienation produced by believing that the realm of language, thought and mind is of an

order of being radically different from that of physical reality” (98-9). Olson further concludes that Augusto Pérez “is a creature of language because he exists within and by it” (99). In other words, the protagonist of Niebla is possessed by language even though

he does not possess it and “is only an evanescent shape in the mist,” one of many potential forms (99). Unamuno’s characters who are possessed by language frequently 33

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contribute to the humor in the narrative since their inability to live in the physical realm

often collides with physical reality, producing comical situations. For example, the

character Fulgencio Entrambasmares in Amor y pedagogía, often “gives birth” to

aphorisms: “Frunce los labios y baja los ojos, síntomas claros del parto de un aforismo”

(71). Not only does he physically grimace as if possessed by some spirit before

producing an aphorism, but he then tries to live according to the supposed wisdom

contained in sayings such as, “Si no hubiera hombres habría que inventarlos” (97) . In

contrast to this, his wife must remind him to take care of even the smallest details of daily

life: “Acuérdate, Fulgenico, de que hoy tienes que ir a casa del notario” (96). Don

Fulgencio had obviously completely forgotten about this: “¡Ah, es cierto! ¡Memoria

mía!... Pero ¡qué cabeza…!” (96).

Olson defines as novels of passion those which are not nivolas. These “are a

serious presentation of almost pathological personalities” (100), whereas the nivolas tend

to be self-reflexive, metanovelistic, caricatured, and unconventional in form (100). For

example, in Nada menos que todo un hombre, the protagonist Alejandro Gómez employs

words such as hombre and yo as “a means by which thought is given direct access to

substantial realities…” (105). Olson points out that Alejandro “believes that the shadow

of his idea can lead the body of reality…” (105); thus, the word hombre exists as an

entity “having an axiomatic reality from which certain corollaries inevitably follow”

(105). Alejandro further demonstrates his ability to control the world of facts through his

control of words when he humiliates his wife’s lover by making him deny the

relationship. By doing so, Alejandro successfully annihilates whatever reality the

relationship once had. Julia, his wife, ends up in an asylum, where “she fears she really 34

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will go mad and suffer the hallucination of believing that her relationship with the Count was only a hallucination” (107).11 Although Olson may be correct in categorizing this

“exemplary” novel, as well as Abel Sánchez, Tía Tula, Dos madres, Tulio Montalbán y

Julio Macedo, and El marqués de Lumbría, as separate from the nivolas, they continue to

evoke Unamuno’s concern with the primacy of language versus flesh and blood reality.

Olson later acknowledges this in his discussion of Abel Sánchez, in which Joaquín

manifests “the tragedy of yielding before the omnipotence of thought” (123). Joaquín

lives in absolute solitude, and “like Augusto Pérez, he has never had a sense of really

existing” (123). Instead, “he has held on frantically to a realm of thought in which envy

and hate are the only substantial—though impalpable—realities” (123).

One of the distinguishing characteristics of what Olson calls Unamuno’s novels of

passion is the introduction of structural anomalies into families, often resulting in profound tensions (138). In particular, Dos madres and El marqués de Lumbría are both

“variations on the theme of families…, in which are created a series of ambiguities in

structures of kinship” (138). For Olson, “the persistence of this theme, and its association

with the idea of consanguineous marriage, suggest that it was a particular concern of

Unamuno himself, born of a marriage between uncle and niece, and raised, after his

father’s death, in a household headed by two widows—a grandmother who was also his

paternal aunt, and a mother who was also his first cousin” (138). Though Olson does not cite the source of this information, his conclusions about the recurrence of this theme in

Unamuno’s fiction make it plausible that the author has personal experience with the topic, just as the possible suicide of his father (discussed above) may help to explain the persistence of this theme in his work. Olson points out that in La tía Tula “the theme of 35

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two mothers appears twice over, since Tula proves to be a second mother to the children

of two other women, and the final chapter suggests that the pattern will be repeated by

the children themselves” (138).

Olson, along with others, considers Cómo se hace una novela to be a return to the

nivola. This work is characterized by “profound tension between closure and openness—

that is, between ending and continuing—already manifested in Jugo de la Raza’s fear of

finishing the reading of his novel, as well as in Unamuno’s personally reported fear of

endings and discontinuities in his own daily life” (172). This novel also represents a

“continued presentation of the major themes found in all Unamuno’s work, among which

one of the most notable is that of the tyranny of ideas” (172). Here, “Unamuno insists as

much as ever that flesh and blood reality is never to be subordinated either to literary

verbiage or to political ideologies” (173). Olson also comments on the ambiguity of the

title, which may be translated in several ways: “How a novel is made,” “How one makes

a novel,”or “How a novel makes itself” (173). The critic considers the last translation to

be the most significant since “it becomes clear that for Unamuno the question as to how a

novel makes itself is identical with the question as to how a reader participates in its

making, and ultimately, with the question as to how the human personality makes itself”

(174). It also makes the novel fully existential, an important point for Unamuno, for

whom life is a novel.

To conclude his study, Olson argues that a chiasmus is formed from the

chronological trajectory of Unamuno’s novels

in which the sense of intrahistoria that had pervaded Paz en la guerra returns in San Manuel Bueno; the “nivolesque” qualities manifested in Amor y pedagogía reappear in many aspects of what Unamuno sought to achieve when he said that 36

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in them “intenté escarbar los sótanos y escondrijos del corazón” first of the masculine heart, and then of the feminine heart. (224)

That is, the “sense of intrahistoria that had pervaded Paz en la guerra returns in San

Manuel Bueno; the ‘nivolesque’ qualities manifested in Amor y pedagogía reappear in

many aspects of what Unamuno sought to achieve when he said that in them ‘intenté

escarbar los sótanos y escondrijos del corazón’…” (224). Olson emphasizes that one of

the principal points of his study is to demonstrate that Unamuno’s use of chiasmus and

lacquer boxes (cajas chinas) share the same function. Both aspire “through strength of

structure to provide his works with an effect of corporeality having secure ontological

foundations, just as Unamuno desired them for beings of living flesh and blood” (224).

Olson succeeds perhaps more than most critics in defining the interrelationship that exists

among Unamuno’s fictional works. Although many have observed that the same

character appears in more than one novel, Olson shows much greater depth of analysis

when he analyzes the underlying structures and how they fit together. The inclusion of

Nuevo mundo would have formed a beginning and a final link in the chain, but even

without it the critic has shown originality and insight in his analysis.

Part II. Criticism directly related to the humor in Unamuno’s work

Bénédicte Vauthier

This modern critic has elaborated a unique perspective on Unamuno’s fiction with

his book Arte de escribir e ironía en la obra narrativa de Miguel de Unamuno, published

in 2004. In the introduction to the book, Vauthier expresses surprise that in Spain, “lejos

de ser visto como un humorista—un ironista—Miguel de Unamuno, el escritor más

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famoso de la llamada ‘generación del 98,’ gozaba más bien de la fama de ser un

escritor—y un filósofo—trágico, obsesionado por la mortalidad de su nombre e imbuido

de su yo” (30). Vauthier’s principal argument is that Unamuno should not be read only historically and ideologically, but that his fiction must also be read just as literature. The critic attempts to analyze the means by which Unamuno communicates his ideas to the reader, a goal which he realizes without ignoring the ideology and historical perspective of Unamuno’s fiction. Some of Vauthier’s ideas are similar to those of David William

Foster, who also objects to the biographical focus of criticism on Unamuno. Foster expresses this explicitly in the opening paragraph of his book, Unamuno and the Novel as

Expressionistic Conceit (1973):

Criticism on Unamuno is all but unanimous in its desire to see in his literary work a mirror of the intellectual and personal biography of the man. The result has been on the one hand a criticism that has not shown a full awareness of the subtle distinction to be made between the individual and his artistic creation, and on the other hand the lack of a unified study of Unamuno’s novelistic art. It is a fact that there have been various studies of individual works like Niebla, which has been the subject of several very useful studies. But Unamuno’s work as a whole has not attracted the attention of the critics as a literarally-artistic (sic) product deserving of study on the basis of non-biographic considerations. The lack of a study of the works—a production so very rich and extensive—within the context of the literary tendencies of the period in which they were written is unfortunate in the case of an author so important and outstanding in the development of Spanish letters in this century. (1)

Vauthier, however, does incorporate a theoretical perspective when he analyzes

Unamuno’s fiction based on Mikhail Bakhtin’s premise that “la obra literaria debe ser entendida de manera integral, en todos sus aspectos, como fenómeno del lenguaje—es decir, puramente lingüistico, sin atender al objeto realizado por ella, siempre dentro de los límites de la normalidad científica que dirige la materia” (41). According to

Vauthier, Bakhtin “inscribe al hablante, y más aún al escritor, en una compleja y 38

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dinámica encrucijada socio-individual, la forma […] reflejará y refracturá, pues,

estilísticamente, en el objeto estético, la intencionalidad, la ideología, […] del hablante”

(41). Vauthier criticizes others who have focused on the irony in Amor y pedagogía, arguing that most of the formalist and poststructuralist critics tend to reduce this irony to

“inofensivos y gratuitos juegos verbales convertidos en tantas expresiones de la sin razón de la razón. Sinónima y síntoma de ‘nuestra’ posmodernidad, la ironía no es jamás leída como vehículo discursivo de una bien entendida visión del mundo irónico ni tampoco como forma de conocimiento” (51). Vauthier’s book addresses this issue directly by forming connections between the irony used by Unamuno and the historical/sociological moment in which the novelist lived.

Most of Vauthier’s book deals with the nivola, specifically Amor y pedagogía,

which the critic believes to be “la muy original respuesta que Unamuno dio en una

determinada situación espacio-temporal y que sólo se puede entender a la luz de otros

discursos (enunciados)” (75). The discourses to which Unamuno responds in Amor y

pedagogía “son la historia, la filosofía (o lógica) y la estética o la crítica literaria” (76)

and linked to these discourses there exist unnamed interlocutors:

El humorismo de Unamuno, entiéndase su filosofía o lógica paradójica, su filosofía o lógica del sentido propio, podría considerarse como una alternativa a la filosofía o lógica krausiana, por una parte; a la filosofía o lógica escolástica—muy en particular al sentido común de Balmes, por otra, a sabiendas de que ambas lucharon oficialmente por ocupar el terreno del ‘saber,’ en particular en el mundo de la educación…Todos estos discursos se opondrían al ‘discurso ortodoxo’ de la Iglesia, la estética escolástica, que apenas encuentra cabida en Amor y pedagogía, si se exceptúan pequeños guiños en los Apuntes para un tratado de cocotología. (77-8)

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It seems plausible, as Vauthier suggests, that Unamuno, through this novel, is carrying on

a dialogue with proponents of various ideologies in vogue at earlier times and that he

utilized the novel as a way to do this. For the critic,

tanto la forma (entendida como forma de un cierto contenido) como el contenido (entendido como contenido de esta forma) de Amor y pedagogía, es decir, la forma arquitectónica de la novela en cuanto objeto estético, revelan que Unamuno novelista trató de escribir su versión de la historia de España. Y si tal fue su intención, lo tuvo que hacer rivalizando con Menéndez Pelayo, autor de la desgarradora Historia de los heterodoxos españoles, por un lado; rivalizando también con Galdós, el escritor realista por antonomasia de la Restauración— menos con Clarín, que falleció en 1901, por otro.12 (77, note added)

The above is a very profound insight on the part of Vauthier since it fits in with

Unamuno’s theory of intrahistoria, elaborated not long before he wrote Amor y

pedagogía, and also his intrahistorical vision of the third Carlist War in Paz en la guerra.

Vauthier adds: “No se puede descartar que la nivola promovida por Victor Goti tuviera entre otras funciones la de novelar nuevamente esta trágica historia interior de España.

Eco de esa preocupación se encuentra en estas—trágicas—notas sobre la revolución y guerra civil españolas, mejor conocidas como El resentimiento trágico de la vida” (83).

It seems plausible that Unamuno’s tendency to blur the line between fiction and reality is related to the idea above that both the novel proposed by Goti in Niebla and the writer’s

nonfiction serve similar purposes.

Vauthier is also one of the few critics who deny a great difference between

Unamuno’s first published novel, Paz en la guerra, and his later fiction. Although

Unamuno himself confirms that there is a difference between them, Vauthier astutely

observes that the differences noted by the critics are not the same as those pointed out by

the writer: “Está claro, sin embargo, que Unamuno y los críticos no trazaron la divisoria

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con las mismas razones, ya que éstos dedujeron de este alegato que las novelas

posteriores a Paz en la guerra, o sea, las nivolas, ya no eran novelas, mientras Unamuno

pasó toda su vida desmintiendo esta conclusión” (91). Without doubt, Unamuno and the

critics had very different perspectives on which they based their comments. Vauthier

observes that “por más que hay notables cambios temáticos y formales entre esta primera

novela y las demás, el realismo del que echa mano Unamuno no puede asimilarse sin más

ni más al realismo decimonónico ni es óbice para que la primera novela del autor cupiera en el molde del humorismo cervantino” (92). Here the critic insightfully implies that not even Paz en la guerra can be classified as a Realist novel; furthermore, the techniques

used in it “son exactamente las mismas estrategias que vamos a encontrar en las novelas

posteriores, con la diferencia de que la estilización ya no será sólo homeopática” (93). It

is somewhat surprising that Vauthier does not mention Nuevo mundo, which reads much

more like the so-called later nivolas, albeit in a less sophisticated form.

For Vauthier, it is indispensable that the reader of Unamuno take into account

“una de las peculiaridades estilísticas de la obra de Unamuno, menos estudiadas hasta el

día de hoy, es decir, la polifonía de su estilo” (110). Though this characteristic has been

observed by many critics, it generally carries negative implications. For example, in

1928, José Agustín Balseiro describes Unamuno in the following way:

Pensador poliédrico, hay en él resonancias de muchos pensadores. Por eso sus contradicciones tan frecuentes y terribles. Su voz no es melódica. Entra en ella más de un acento. Es voz bachtiana; polifónico. El cerebro de Unamuno semeja parlamento en sesión permanente. Brotan en él los discursos más encontrados y las opiniones menos conciliables. (qtd. in Vauthier 110)

Much later (1977), María Gómez Molleda states that “Unamuno en la etapa de fin y

principio de siglo es como una caja de resonancia de todos los proyectos e ideas de su 41

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entorno” (qtd. in Vauthier 110). Unamuno himself often complained about the lack of

understanding that he had suffered because of “la visión fragmentaria, que impedía leerle

con visión totalizadora: ‘Usted, por lo que veo, sólo conoce de mis frases sueltas, muchas de ellas falsamente atribuidas, mal citadas, peor citadas, peor leídas y pésimamente interpretadas’” (qtd. in Vauthier 110).

Vauthier also distinguishes between irony and satire, noting that Unamuno employs the former rather than the latter. The critic states that although we may at times be able to identify the voices heard in Unamuno’s dialogues,

Tendremos que olvidarnos de los nombres y apellidos de nuestros personajes si no queremos equipar el trabajo del ironista con el del escritor satírico. Porque está claro que Unamuno no cita adrede a sus interlocutores ya que bien hubiera podido hacerlo. El ironista se contenta con reflejar las imágenes de los lenguajes: los parodia, estiliza ideas y estilo. El escritor satírico designa su víctima, trata de zaherirla cuando no de derrumbarla. (112)

Unamuno accomplishes his goal at times by mentioning a particular well-known person or ideology, but often through the voice of one of his fictional characters, without pointing a finger at any particular individual. For example, in Amor y pedagogía,

“oiremos ante todo las voces de los krausistas y kraus-institucionistas…así como

personalidades afines a krausimo…que lucharon por defender un nuevo modelo educativo. Junto a ellas, resonarán aquellas de sus adversarios (Jaume Balmes, Félix

Sardá y Salvony, Ramón de Campoamor)”13 (131). Vauthier confirms that “Unamuno ha

buscado y elegido deliberadamente el recurso discursivo—la ironía—y el género—la novela—que le permitieron ser crítico al tiempo que le evitaron caer en la sangrienta polémica. Si bien Unamuno no atacó nunca directamente, no se cansó de criticar

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implícitamente. Entre líneas” (132). The critic is correct in his observation that much of

Unamuno’s humor and irony is found between the lines of his work.

Vauthier criticizes the inability of many critics to correctly interpret Unamuno’s literary work. This is why he emphasizes that learning to read between the lines of

Unamuno’s work is indispensable for understanding the true meaning of his literature:

“Bien es cierto que mientras no sepamos cómo ni entendamos por qué es necesario aprender a leer entre líneas a Unamuno, es casi inevitable que los críticos (literarios) acabemos siendo víctimas o prisioneros de la red irónica tejida por el autor” (175).

Certainly it is true that Unamuno directs much of his burla at literary critics. As Janet

Pérez observes in “Rhetorical Integration of Unamuno’s Niebla,”

Not only does Unamuno, like Croce, question the concept of genre, he deliberately blurs and confuses the boundaries, and parodies the concept itself via the invention of counter-genres, the most famous being the nivola (elsewhere explained as a burlesque of genre and as a joke perpetrated on his crtics). […] Surely Unamuno would have smiled at the seriousness with which subsequent scholarship has treated the nivola, accepting it as a genre and debating which of his novels fit the classification and which do not. (51)

Vauthier also refutes the great importance that many critics have attributed to Unamuno’s

spiritual crisis of 1897 since this lends itself to the creation of a “before” and “after” in

the writer’s life. The critic demonstrates acute insight when he points out that the

spiritual crisis theme suffers from overuse and that it “…suele ser incluso un argumento

de peso para explicar el tema, e incluso el tono, de la novela” (180). Here Vauthier

addresses an important issue concerning the emphasis that the critics put on a single

factor which in reality is only one of several. By focusing on just this one aspect some

critics may have oversimplified and misinterpreted Unamuno’s work. In nearly all cases,

the overdependence on a single explanation has led to narrow perspectives. 43

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Like Bakhtin, Vauthier suggests that “en lugar de interpretar la novela a la luz de

nuestra actualidad, hay que tratar de comprenderla primero como el autor la entendía”

(187). He suggests that Amor y pedagogía serves as an encyclopedia of Spanish life,

“pero no es una enciclopedia nada de objetos usuales. La vida española se expresa aquí a

través de todas sus voces, a través de todos los lenguajes y estilo de la época” (319). The

critic suggests that Unamuno chose to express himself as a humorist, not a preacher,

because it is the humorist who “según el tema de la representación, convoca en el tablado

a los mejores actores de la época—portavoces de las ideologías dominantes—y hace que

cada uno hable según su estilo y defienda las ideas que le son propias…” (418). Vauthier

also observes insightfully, as has Thomas Franz (discussed below), that the lack of

attention to the paratexts of Unamuno has served to divert attention away from the humor

and irony, since it is precisely the paratexts that alleviate the sense of tragedy.

Mary Bretz

In 1974, Bretz published the article “El humor y la comicidad en Unamuno.”

According to this critic, the humor of Umamuno’s work is closely tied to paradox since

“para Unamuno, la realidad misma es paradójica” (150). She correctly observes that

Unamuno’s humor goes beyond mere entertainment and that he uses comic elements in

his writing in order to illustrate the tragedy of an individual’s lack of authenticity (152).

The critic cites examples from Niebla to support her ideas, stating that the prologue of the novel introduces the humorous intentions of the novel: “Allí Unamuno cede la palabra a uno de sus personajes y éste sigue con una serie de burlas: se ríe de los prólogos mismos, del público y de las letras en bastardilla” (152). 44

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For Bretz, the emphasis on trivialities functions as one of the humorous elements

in the novel. As an example of this, she cites Augusto’s concern about whether Eugenia lives with her maternal or paternal aunt and uncle. Also, when Augusto feels the need to

write down Eugenia’s name in his book of memories, he has to go back and ask the name

of the doorman; finally, he cannot write anything down without first reflecting on the

respective value of a pen versus a pencil (153). Augusto’s fixation on Eugenia is based

on a “decisión racional sin base sentimental” and Augusto affirms that “el aburrimiento

es el fondo de la vida, y el aburrimiento es el que ha inventado los juegos, las

distracciones, las novelas y el amor” (qtd. in Bretz 153). Eugenia, for Augusto, is a “flor

de su aburrimiento” (qtd. in Bretz 153). Bretz credibly argues that these details

contribute to the overall absurdity of Augusto’s situation and thus help to create comical circumstances.

Bretz points out that Eugenia is one of the few characters in the novel whom

Unamuno does not caricature. Although she is cruel and egotistical, she possesses a level

of authenticity which enables her to remain true to her feelings. Finally, it is because of

her that Augusto yields to his feelings and lets go of his intellect. When she makes fun of

him, Augusto becomes humanized for the first time, “pues por primera vez siente el terrible sentimiento trágico de la vida—el anhelo de ser, de sentirse vivo y de sobrevivir”

(154). At this point, it is no longer posible to speak either of comedy or tragedy since “la comedia consiste en no sentirse, la tragedia en no poder salvarse por no haber sentido la necesidad de la salvación” (154). In a complete reversal, Unamuno makes his readers see that what is comic is tragic and that the tragic is not truly tragic since “se salva por querer ser” (154). Without doubt, Unamuno has succeeded in blurring the line between comedy 45

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and tragedy, though it is probably not entirely true that the humor in the novel depends

completely on the lack of personal authenticity. Indeed, even after Augusto begins to

define himself there still remains something of the comical in his persona.

According to Bretz, Nada menos que todo un hombre brings to a new level the

fusion of comedy and tragedy since “aquí no es solamente que la ausencia de sentimiento

produce la comicidad, sino que lo que no es auténtico subjetivamente, tampoco se considera real objetivamente” (155). Whereas in Niebla laughter prepares the reader for

tears, in Nada menos que todo un hombre tragedy serves as preparation for laughter. To

explain how she reached this conclusion, Bretz discusses the scene where Julia is thrown

into a mental institution for falsely claiming that she has been unfaithful to her husband,

Alejandro. Unamuno presents the scene as if it were a tragedy and the doctors at the

asylum also call the situation tragic. In this case, however, the tragedy exists in

appearance only since it ends in a grotesque farce (155). Bretz explains:

Los que se creía tragedia se convierte en comedia porque Julia se da cuenta de que la realidad objetiva—sus relaciones con el conde—es inauténtica y, por lo tanto, irreal. Sí, empezaba a tener relaciones con el conde, pero fueron relaciones insinceras. No hay realidad donde no hay sentimiento. Declara que todo fue mentira; ella, lo mismo que Alejandro, niega realidad a lo inauténtico como si no hubiera ocurrido. Los dos se aferran a una realidad subjetiva; no había amor entre Julia y el conde, sin amor no hay realidad […]. Así vemos que hay un desarrollo de la teoría del humor en esta novela. En Niebla la comicidad consiste en la falta de autenticidad que se manifiesta en acciones cómicas. Nos reímos de estas manifestaciones, pero no negamos su realidad. En Nada menos que todo un hombre, las acciones del conde no son cómicas en sí mismas; la comicidad resulta de la negación de su realidad aun sabiendo que representa una verdad objetiva. Sustituimos por completo la realidad objetiva de la razón por otra que proviene del sentimiento. (155-6)

Bretz has developed a thoughtful theory concerning the evolution of Unamuno’s humor

and the way in which he plays with subjectivity and objectivity. However, it seems that

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comedy can be found in both authentic and inauthentic situations in both of the novels

discussed above.

Unamuno’s drama El hermano Juan (1929) attains yet another level when it

reaches the conclusion that a distinction between subjective and objective reality does not

even exist. Both become comedy, and “se burla de todo menos de la muerte, y ésta se

presenta como una burla divina” (156). Bretz observes that unlike Augusto, Don Juan

possesses something authentic in his irrationality that prevents him from being funny.

Also, unlike Augusto, he knows from the beginning that he is playing a role, as indicated

when he says: “Adelante, pues, con la comedia, que el toque está en matar un rato la vida

mientras desfila la película” (qtd. in Bretz 157). Bretz sees this as a change in Unamuno

since previously, playing a role meant a lack of authenticity which manifested itself as

comedy, but Juan is not a comic figure. The humor in the work is “agrio, desilusionado,

que se dirige contra este mundo, que no es sino comedia” (157). Nothing escapes this

aggressive humor, and although Juan makes fun of everything, he himself never laughs

(157). That is, Juan, like the majority of Unamuno’s characters, does not possess a sense

of humor. The comedy is based on the reader’s watching the characters perform their

tragic lives.

Bretz also discusses the necessity to laugh at oneself. She explains that when we

laugh at others, we come to understand that real comedy originates in what is not

authentic. However, if we manage to laugh at ourselves, we can face our own lack of

authenticity and protect ourselves from the danger of falling into the insincerity that

surrounds us (158). The critic sees this as the reason that Unamuno praises Don Quijote;

he epitomizes the man who does not fear ridicule (158). Augusto Pérez, on the other 47

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hand, exemplifies the fear of public ridicule (158). Bretz concludes that Unamuno

wanted everyone to put themselves in a situation of public ridicule, like Don Quijote, and

he also wanted everyone to reject external reality and public opinion in order to confront

their internal, subjective reality (158). Unamuno achieves this when he parodies himself

in much of his work. The protagonist of Un pobre hombre rico (1930) also suffers from

fear of being made fun of by others, but he saves himself by overcoming this fear,

affirming that it is necessary to cultivate the comical sense of life, no matter what

Unamuno might say (160). In this novel, Unamuno has further developed his idea of

comedy, and Bretz recognizes that the protagonist continues to be comical even after he

develops his authentic personality (161). Bretz’s explicit connection of the fear of public

ridicule that many of Unamuno’s characters suffer because of their lack of authenticity

provides a new perspective.

Thomas Franz

This critic has contributed probably more than any other to the study of humor in

Unamuno’s texts. In his dissertation (1970), “The Bases of Humor in Three Novels of

Unamuno,” he was one of the first to focus on the humor in Unamuno, moving away

from the tragic. As he states in the preface to his dissertation:

There is, however, a large amount of humor in Unamuno’s novels which has never been satisfactorily accounted for by either the proponents of monolithic agony or the terrorists of contemplation. Such humor could reasonably constitute a “third mood” within Unamuno’s fictional world and might hold the clue to discovering the transcendent view of life which much commentary—both literary and philosophical—has seen fit to deny him. (2)

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The main purpose of Franz’s dissertation is to show that humor is indeed a third mood in

Unamuno, which functions together with agony and contemplation. He chose to focus on

Paz en la guerra (1897), Amor y pedagogía (1902), and Niebla because they are full-

length novels, thus making it easier to observe the “juxtapositioning of the humorous, the agonistic, and the contemplative” in greater detail (3). Franz acknowledges, nevertheless,

that these novels may not be the most humorous combination of Unamuno’s fiction.

For Franz, Paz en la guerra serves as the debut of many of Unamuno’s techniques

of humor. To illustrate this, he cites the reasons given by the protagonist Pedro Antonio

for going to fight for the Royalists in the last of the Carlist Wars, who says that he is

going because it was the will of his uncle and also, according to the priests, the will of

God. The reversal of the traditional hierarchy here causes the reader to “suspect that

Pedro Antonio is really attempting to provide a childish alibi for subservience to his uncle

by equating his relative’s desires with the scriptural interpretation declaimed from the

pulpit” (12). The vulgarity and humanness of the priest also functions as a source of

humor for Franz. For example, the priest ceremoniously uses snuff, and when confronted

with a real problem, he can recur only to trite Catholic rhetoric, not personal experiences.

The contertulios are another source of humor in the novel since they juxtaposition

the tragedy of the war with the ongoing daily ritual of life:

In Chapter One their chaotic nonsense immerses the reader in the slow pace of village life, nestled as it is amid the alternating decades of war and peace. In the subsequent chapter, however, the strong Carlist sentiments which initially produced a caricature of provincial politics acquire relief as causes of the Carlist War. These fundamentally good people, who enlisted our sympathy through their sense of humor, harbor within them the germs of death and destruction. Yet at the same time this sense of humor, filled with the vitality of life as it has gone on for centuries, is actually the Bilbainos’ spiritual salvation during the nightmare of bombardment. (16) 49

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Franz also discerns the humor that exists in the direst of situations, such as the songs of

ridicule composed spontaneously by the Loyalists:

Viva Carlos sin cabeza, Viva Andechaga sin pies, Vivan todos los carlistas Con el pellejo al revés. (qtd. in Franz 141)

Later the joking and the daily activities presented in the first chapter return and the intrusion of war becomes just one more component of community life (18).

Humor manifests through other characters in the novel as well. Juan Arana, for

example, worried about his ability to support his family, meditates on the ideas of

Malthus every time his wife gives birth. Ironically, although he is worried about the

family’s financial situation, he continues to be overcome by passion, thus creating more and more children for him to support (possibly a self-parody on the part of Unamuno, who fathered ten children). The character Celestino is pure caricature, “abogado carlista,

recién sacado del horno universitario, con la fiebre oratoria que la Revolución soplaba

por España, fogoso y parlanchín…Era una máquina de frases y de frases y citas…(qtd. in

Franz 45). Franz insightfully perceives that this novel employs many techniques of humor seen in subsequent novels; senseless quoting has become a habit of characters in

both Amor y pedagogía and Niebla. Unamuno also portrays humorously the sheltered mind of the protagonist Ignacio, who, impressed by Celestino, raves about how well-read the lawyer is. Celestino, like the other two educated characters in the novel, Carlos and

Pachico, is comical because he lives enslaved to “irrelevant concepts” and ironic because his finite understandings are apparent to everyone except himself (34).

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Franz concludes that the humor of the characters in Unamuno’s first published

novel functions as a social act to bring together the people in the town, making them both

“more critical and more tolerant simultaneously” (33). Even the most unlikeable

characters, such as Celestino, “are afforded a degree of humanity by their humorous

treatment” (33). Franz has insightfully illustrated a component of the novel that is not

immediately obvious to the reader. Particularly helpful is the way he links humor to

tragedy. Although at times Franz seems to confuse having a sense of humor with being

“of good humor,” his analysis of the humor in this novel brings to light a facet previously

unstudied, thus realizing his stated goal.

The second chapter of his dissertation discusses Amor y pedagogía. Franz

correctly calls the “Prólogo” to this novel “an outstanding example of Unamunian humor

and irony” (51). He observes that the language used “is calculated to fit perfectly into the

time-honored formulas generally followed in mandatory prologues” and exhibits a comic

mixture of excessive formalism…and unrestrained emotionalism” (51). He also

perceives that the criticisms made by the fictitious prologuist are “sometimes exceedingly

valid, sometimes in pitiful error” (51). The critic concludes that in the prologue “there is

just enough truth, just enough confession of guilt…to playfully disconcert the reader”

(55). This, naturally, raises doubts as to whether everything that follows should be taken

seriously, and the prologuist himself admits the presence of a confusing duality

throughout the novel (55). This irony is underlined by the prologuist when he writes with

the same “dryness and pedantry he criticizes in the author” (55).

Franz discusses the humor inherent in Avito’s idea of creating a genius, first by

marrying deductively, then by raising the child according to precise scientific standards. 51

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Even the love letter that he composes for Leoncia, whom he has chosen as the mother of

the “future genius,” employs the grave language used in the Magna Carta. Ironically,

when he finally meets Leonica, he finds himself physically attracted to her friend,

Marina. He then sends the letter originally intended for Leoncia to Marina. Throughout

the novel, Avito repeatedly ends up yielding to his instincts. Once Marina and Avito are married, “life in the Carrascal household becomes a discipline to master” (65). For

Franz, one of the most hilarious scenes in the novel is when the pregnant Marina is rushed to the hospital and the “grave functional disorder envisioned by Carrascal turns out to be a case of simple indigestion, caused by all the beans he has forced Marina to eat for their phosphorus content” (65). Franz observes that “for Carrascal and those like him, the material environment comes to acquire a logic of its own, completely divorced from its irrational base,” and that this “becomes humorous when exhibited in an unconscious, absent-minded individual whose left hand remains ignorant of his right hand’s activities”

(69). The humor so far in the novel can be divided into two patterns: “(1) the absurd results of Carrascal’s logical problem-solving methods, and (2) the unconscious- conscious desdoblamiento of his personality” (69).

A page of Franz’s dissertation is devoted to the dilemma that Avito faces when he must choose a name for the genius. Although Avito claims that the name he selects,

Apolodoro, means “…don de Apolo, de la luz del Sol, padre de la verdad y de la vida”

(41), Franz adds “that Apolodoro was also the name of a first-century compiler of myths,” who was “famous for the dullness of his prose” (73). This creates an ironical situation “which augurs ill for Avito’s son’s later attempts at both writing and the creation of a personal myth” (73). The selection of Apolodoro from a list of eight names 52

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of Greek origin also proves amusing because Avito finally chooses it so that he and his

son could use the same trunk without having to change the initials on it. By basing his

choice on such a trivial reason, “the social scientist has disregarded Don Fulgencio’s

scholarly analysis for the names included on his list of suggestions” (73). Just as when he chose his wife, Avito has again let himself wander from the science which he supposedly holds in such high regard.

The analysis of Amor y pedagogía proceeds chapter by chapter of the novel.

Franz continues to include absurd examples related to the raising of Apolodoro. For

example, the child is subjected to ridiculous experiments, such as his father lifting him

into the air on a stick to check his prehensile grip. He also places a candle dangerously

close to Apolodoro’s eyes to see if his eyes follow the light, and performs a technical

therapy on his son to “stimulate his development scientifically” (74). When the child

begins babbling in the normal way that infants do before they begin to speak, Avito

blames it on his “tradition-bound, unenlightened wife” (85). Later, when Avito tries to

find “some portentous significance in this babbling through the application of phonemic

analysis,” the reader cannot help but laugh (84). Franz’s selection of examples of humor

enables the reader of his dissertation to understand the level of absurdity that Avito has

reached in his determination to create a genius.

Later in the novel, when the adolescent Apolodoro has been placed under the

tutelage of the philosopher Don Fulgencio Entrambosmares, Franz observes that Avito’s

“stupidity has rapidly lost its ability to provoke laughter owing to our growing empathy

for the boy’s suffering and our suspicions of imminent tragedy” (91). Thus, when the

philosopher attempts to communicate with the boy, “he becomes aware that the father has 53

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turned his son into an automaton” (91), as illustrated by the following exchange: ‘Pero, hombre, ¡di algo! Y como un eco repite Apolodoro: ¡Algo!’” (qtd. in Franz 91). It is true that at this point the reader begins to feel a sense of impending doom for Apolodoro.

Still, however, the situation continues to be humorous. Apolodoro being such a contrived

character, possessing an almost unreal quality, the reader may find it difficult to truly

empathize with his plight and may instead continue to focus on the ridiculousness of his

supposed creators.

The mix of tragedy with comedy continues throughout the rest of the novel.

When a young girl rejects Apolodoro, he begins to contemplate suicide. Avito seems to

realize that his son is going through some kind of crisis, “but the gulf between father and

son has become so wide that conversation merely serves to bring hidden disappointments

and accusations into the open” (98). Indeed, the father, rather than displaying any real

compassion for his son, “launches into a discussion of Lobacheusqui’s experiments with

perpendicular lines and posits a Metapestalozzian four-dimensional system of education”

(99). Also both comic and pathetic is Avito’s “incapacity to understand death or life outside of their scientific context” (99), which comes to light when his daughter (born after Apolodoro), who suffers from a disease, begins to deteriorate, and it becomes obvious that no one will be able to save her (99). Here begins what Franz refers to as the

“black humor” of the novel.

Franz perceives that the humor in the novel is created by various strategies. One type of humor frequently manifests itself with the “use of scientific concepts to describe acts which are essentially vital and, hence, immeasurable” (101). Another technique of humor originates in practice not being in accord with theory, which produces humor 54

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when both narrator and characters say one thing but “it seems with an occasional wink at

the reader,” its opposite is implied (102). Closely related to this comic irony is the humor created when a character “makes errors owing to his limited scope of reality” (102).

Finally, the narrator at times parodies the “foolishness of the characters” or “the characters parody themselves or historical figures (i.e. Hegel, Socrates, D’Annunzio)”

(102). This classification of humor coincides with that found in the novel.

Franz also correctly observes (as does Bretz, discussed above) that the characters themselves do not possess much of a sense of humor; therefore, the function of humor is linked to the reader, not the characters. He maintains that this type of humor “allows the reader to experience the foolishness inherent in rational theories about life and to better accept the notion that authenticity entails adaptation to the chaotic and the unconscious”:

(102).

Since the chaotic and irrational processes of life infinitely repeat themselves, the object of this adaptation is the overcoming of death. By laughing at the characters we are momentarily brought to experience a sense of absurdity which annihilates the preoccupation with death generated by the interior monologues of the novel. In this god-like state we feel superior to the novelistic creations, a feeling which takes on a hollowness as we are led to perceive our own enslavement to reason dramatized in the pathetic vacillations of these characters. We are, in short, permitted a moment of peaceful omniscience, only to be shown how utterly inaccessible it is to us since our creation of reason. This is the tragic sense of life. (102-3)

Although not all readers will necessarily experience the novel in the same way, all will

certainly feel the sense of absurdity. The feeling of superiority to which Franz refers may

vary in intensity among readers, but Franz nevertheless has analyzed humor in the novel

with insight and clarity. The complete seriousness of the characters contributes a great

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deal toward the humor in the novel since it can be funny to watch people take themselves seriously.

Niebla is the third novel discussed in his dissertation. Franz admits that it is

difficult to analyze the humor in Niebla since the characters lead “the type of lives that their acquired personalities allow them to lead. At such a spectacle both the reader and the author may only participate to the extent that they, empathizing with the characters, freely undergo each new experience without demanding to see some road map of precisely where they have been or are presently going” (127). Franz is aware of the necessity for a different type of analysis in the case of this nivola. Thus, the critic is correct when he states that “ordering incidents according to techniques employed or

effects achieved would produce an inadequate appreciation of humor’s role in the

development of separate characterizations and of their interrelationships: a much less

satisfying outcome” (127). The “Prólogo” and the “Post-Prólogo” serve in part as a

discussion of the types of humor that are found in the novel itself (127). For example, the

character/narrator Victor Goti states that Unamuno has been interested for a long time in writing “…una bufonada trágica o una tragedia bufa, pero no en que lo bufo o grotesco y lo trágico estén mezclados o yuxtapuesto, sino fundidos y confundidos en uno” (qtd. in

Franz 128).

For Franz, Augusto’s personality, or rather his lack of one, at the beginning of the novel contributes to the humor. For example, when Augusto is preparing to go outside, he appears at the door of his house and extends his right arm, palm downward, all the while gazing at the sky in a statuesque manner. At this point the narrator states that the character does not do this to take possession of the world, but rather to see if it is raining. 56

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Franz points out that “after observing Augusto’s posture enigmatically for several

moments we are given, not some symbolic interpretation, but the most elemental of facts:

this pompous figure is trying to see if it is raining” (129). When he realizes that it is in

fact raining, “Augusto’s reluctance to use his umbrella because it looks so elegant folded

in its case is yet another example of his lack of involvement with life” (130).

Augusto’s alienation from the world is further illustrated when he becomes

interested in a young woman whom he randomly follows when he finally manages to

leave his house. However, instead of attempting to communicate directly with the girl,

he interrogates her portera. For Franz, this provokes humor since Augusto’s questioning

of la portera “is carried on in a muffled voice as if it were a matter of international

intrigue” (132). Augusto also demonstrates that he is out of touch with the world and

relationships when he immediately begins to brood over the names of the future children

that he will have with a woman whom he still has not met. The scene becomes even

more comical when his brooding is interrupted by his realization that the fog has made

the park bench damp, so he “fastidiously spreads out his newspaper beneath him” (132).

When Augusto does finally meet the woman, Eugenia, with whom he is

infatuated, the humor of the situation again becomes apparent. Franz points out that

Augusto “views her through the rose-colored glass with which a schoolboy might see his

first object of infatuation” (138). The incongruity provokes laughter since Augusto’s

“fastidiousness, the rigidity of his routine, and the age of his mother at her death all

suggest that he is middle-aged” (138). Franz continues: “The appearance of juvenile

behavior in such a man is intensely comic because it strikes us as totally absurd to find a

single, glaring item of vitality in a person who is otherwise all stagnation and routine. It 57

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is as if we had momentarily caught him out of character” (138). Franz also points out “as

in the case of Don Quijote, Augusto’s collision with the everyday world is bound to be traumatic” (139).

Franz also discusses the humor related to the scholar Sánchez Paparrigóulos.

First of all, the name is comical because

Like Sancho Panza, whose name is funny because it combines that of a line of kings (Sancho: seven of Spain and two of Portugal) and a vulgar term for a large stomach (panza), the scholar’s name constitutes the same combination. Sánchez refers to the identical line of kings (Sancho) while Paparrigópulos is partially formed from a second vulgar term for the stomach (barriga). Even funnier, however, is the fact that the great historian, who has assumed the burden of resurrecting the “días de Gloria” of the national past, reduces the kingly name of Sánchez to a mere S. (apparently ignorant of its historic significance), while retaining the absurd designation for “belly.” (151-2)

It is a credit to Franz’s skills of observation to have made the above connection, a point which the average reader would surely overlook. Franz continues discussing other humorous points concerning the scholar Paparrigópulos, for example, the fact that he believes that “ensalada de burros is a cure for mental disorders” (152). This character is also writing a book about the psychology of Spanish women, a book based only on women of past centuries “whom he may safely learn about through the reading of books”

(152). He also believes that the only value of the great literary and artistic masterpieces

(Shakespeare, Dante, Velásquez) is that they have inspired many books of criticism.

When Augusto goes to him for advice, the roles of counselor and counseled are reversed, as the scholar feels the need to unburden his unhappiness before Augusto. Some of

Franz’s analysis of this section is difficult to follow and seemingly unrelated directly to the topic of humor, but perhaps his purpose is to show a continuum between the tragic and the comic. Franz perceptively observes that the comical aspect of the scholar is 58

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related to “his self-imprisonment in the false ivory tower of art-for-scholarship’s sake”

(157), and that “in Paparrigópulos we are all seen to be searching for a scrap of eternity in

such a desperate fashion that our clumsy efforts inspire laughter in the uncomprehending

social world. And this laughter grotesquely points up to us our utter loneliness, the

realization of which is so unbearable that we lash out like Paparrigópulos in a blind self-

defense” (158).

The laughter in Niebla at times serves as a prelude to tragedy, as Victor Goti

anticipates when he states that laughter for laughter’s sake frightens him because it is

usually the forerunner of tragedy. Thus, when Eugenia betrays Augusto a few days

before their wedding, running away with her Don Juan-like lover, it is not love which

hurts Augusto, but rather “the idea of being made the substance of a colossal joke in

which everyone has participated: ‘es la burla, la burla, la burla…han querido

demostrarme…¿qué sé yo?...que no existo’” (162). Thus, Victor’s prophecy has been

fulfilled: “laughter has been but the prelude to tragedy” (162).

Victor’s response to his friend’s humiliation is to advise him “of the need to stand

back from himself and laugh along with the others” (163). Augusto, however, does not

yet possess the ability to laugh at himself; thus, he decides to commit suicide. First,

though, he must discuss his decision with Unamuno, his creator, who informs him that

since he does not really exist, it is not possible for him to kill himself. Franz states that

for Augusto at this point, “the notion of non-existence becomes comically absurd” (164).

Augusto vows that he will commit suicide no matter what Unamuno says and that he will

point out to Unamuno that he himself is “but a dream of God’s” (164). In the end,

Augusto eats himself to death while parodying Descartes, “Edo, ergo sum” (‘I eat, 59

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therefore I am.’). The last word, however, belongs to Orfeo, Augusto’s dog and author of

the “Oración fúnebre por modo de epílogo.” For Orfeo, the death of his master is absurd

since he had never considered this possibility, and, unable to bear life without his master,

he also dies. Franz states: “Here the novel ends, leaving the reader to conclude that no

one can guarantee anything about existence, or eternity, or God. If, in his living, man

needs these things, he can only take possession of them through faith. And faith, like

Augusto’s final joke on Unamuno, is absurd” (167).

Franz considers Niebla to be the most humorous of Unamuno’s work. He

observes that the novel begins with a humorous tone in the prologue and that humor is

also discussed “theoretically both in the prologue and in the body of the novel” (167).

The reader is warned to be aware of plays on words and also advised that “he will witness

a grotesque brand of humor, synthesized from a combination of comic and tragic events”

(167). At times, the reader is presented with humorous appearances which then turn out

to be sobering realities, “and with this demonstration he becomes aware of the

provisional and often erroneous nature of every conceptualization made about life” (168).

It is also the case, as the prologue promises, that the reader finds “all his sacred

shibboleths—God, Reason, Science, Truth—mocked in vengeance for their conspiracy to

deny man satisfaction of his will to live” (168). Another reason that Franz feels that

Niebla is the most comical of Unamuno’s work is that it “goes considerably beyond the scope suggested in the ‘Prólogo’ and includes practically all of the same techniques and

effects of humor found in the totality of Unamuno’s novel” (168). Although it is true that

Niebla incorporates many of the techniques found isolated in other works, still, it remains

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difficult to concede completely that the humor in Niebla surprasses that of Amor y

pedagogía.

In the conclusion of his dissertation, Franz discusses Unamuno’s techniques of

humor, admitting that they are quite limited. One technique consists of repeated errors in

judgment by the characters. The repetition of the same error becomes humorous to the

reader and frequently results in irony when one character says something but really

means the opposite or when the narrator comments on the actions or words of one of the

characters. This irony at times “degenerates into open sarcasm” (185). Word play is also

employed as a technique of humor. The characters and the narrator coin new words by

removing prefixes and suffixes from existing ones. This creates a new reality since “with

each mutation, significant new patterns appear which demonstrate the extremely tentative

nature of every attempt to capture the élan vital of life” (185).

There are several other techniques of humor in Unamuno’s work. The

incongruity of the use of static concepts to describe vital acts also contributes to the

creation of humor. The characters reveal their lack of authenticity when they employ

sterile concepts related to their profession to describe everything (186). This technique is

closely related to another which “humorously points up the discrepancies between

chaotic life and the orderly theories man so laboriously conceives about it” (186). Many

of Unamuno’s characters inconvenience themselves “by acting in accord with

speculations rather than according to the lessons taught by direct experience” (186). Also

important is Unamuno’s use of parody. The narrator at times mimics the previous actions of the characters; at other times the characters “re-enact the deeds of various historical

figures who themselves have already becomes ‘types’” (187). The last technique 61

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mentioned by Franz involves the “unmasking of adult posturing to reveal the faces of

small children beneath” (187). When this happens, “our laughter at suddenly discovering

the child within the adult leads to strong sense of identification with the character” (187).

Humor serves several functions in Unamuno’s work. First, “the inclusion of

numerous ‘flat’ humorous ‘types’ allows the protagonist to stand out in great relief as an

authentic human being” (188). Humor also serves as the necessary preliminary step for

“presentation of the serious” (188). Franz finds that the humor “relaxes the reader so that

he may better endure his confrontation with Unamuno’s great preoccupation: the

certainty of human death” (188). The last function of humor is as a component of

creating “situations and behavior which are true-to-life” (189). Because humor exists in

everyday life, its presence is indispensable in fiction which supposedly deals with the

“flesh and blood” man, who “through the novelist, reveals the ‘alma de su alma’” (189).

Franz also insightfully argues that humor may somewhat compensate for the lack of a

historical setting, physical description, and other realistic elements in Unamuno’s nivola.

Thus, in this type of novel, “humor—in addition to its other functions—symbolizes the

continuing presence in life of all those nuances in emotion…which were present in the

realism of Paz en la guerra” (190). Using the categories of humor described above, Franz

has astutely described the various functions of humor in the novels that he discusses in

his dissertation and has pioneered the study of humor in Unamuno. Although several

critics had previously made passing comments about this facet of Unamuno’s writing,

Franz is the first to focus on it as a central theme, or, what he calls a third mood in

Unamuno. His insights truly serve as a point of departure for further studies, which is the

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In 2006 Franz published Unamuno’s Paratexts: Twisted Guides to Contorted

Narratives. In this book, the critic applies to Unamuno’s fiction the ideas of Porqueras-

Mayo, author of El prólogo como género literario, and those of Gerard Genette in his

book Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. Although the focus is not on humor per se,

it belongs in this section on criticism because Franz concludes (as was implied in his

dissertation) that one of several functions of the paratexts in Unamuno’s work is to

ameliorate the seriousness, the tragic aspect of his fiction. Thus, he states that “…my

marshaling of evidence leads to a unmistakable conclusion that the paratextual material in

Unamuno’s narratives counteracts and successfully reverses much of the pessimistic and

‘tragic’ dimension created by the narratives’ central texts” (11), thus providing a balance

for the tragic events of the narrative.

Franz observes that although Unamuno does not use pseudonymous authors for

the titles of his fiction, he does use pseudonymous prologuists and epiloguists:

Because the prologues attributed to such paratextualists as Fulgencio Entrambosmares (Amor y pedagogía), Victor Goti (Niebla) and the transcribers of Nuevo mundo and Abel Sánchez, one easily detects a hyperbolic, almost parodic foregrounding of the ideas and expository voicing of Miguel de Unamuno […]. The hyperbolic-parodic nature of the paratexts creates an intermediate zone in which they are neither slavish mouthpieces for the author’s own idea nor an entity totally separate from them. Unamuno, therefore, does not sheepishly use his paratexts to dissociate himself from the controversial content of his central texts, […]. (29)

This perspective provides a much-needed balance between those who see Unamuno’s

complete personal evolution in his characters and those who have avoided completely

any identification of Unamuno’s novels with his own development.

Franz also questions whether psycho-biographical interpreters who apply a

“Freudian, Jungian, or Lacanian lens” have the “necessary flexibility to see around the 63

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parodic distortion that Unamuno has inserted in order to allay his own anxieties about the

reader’s detection of autobiographical perceptions” (30). With this comment, the critic

raises a good question since often a critic applies his particular lens to a literary work

with what might be referred to as tunnel vision, and the narrative becomes distorted or

important facets are left unexplored in order to make it fit into a specific preconceived

parameter. Franz continues in this vein:

It seems to me that Jung’s focus on developmental processes, Freud’s mechanisms for seeing behind conscious manipulation and Lacan’s insight into self-projections in the process of personal definition give the critic a means of getting beyond Unamuno’s many masks and distortions. However, to move beyond them without an even more deliberate consideration of the mechanisms and semiotics of the distortions themselves is to wipe out a great deal of Unamuno’s narratives as art. The form and discourse of the story itself is just as important as its psychic or allegorical dimensions, and we await a study that shows how Unamuno’s particular language is a key to unlocking the underlying psychological process of his fiction. (30-1)

Thus, the critic calls attention to the importance of studying a literary work in its totality,

correctly asserting that all facets of a story contribute to its creation. In the case of

Unamuno, his masks and distortions play an indispensable role in the story.

Consequently, if one’s only goal is to go beyond them, their function and significance

will inevitably be lost. Certainly, the language used by Unamuno’s characters reveals a

great deal about their personal psychology, and it makes sense that an analysis of this

language would reveal more about the “underlying processes of his fiction” than would

an application of any external psychological theory.

Other points that Franz makes concern the open-endedness of Unamuno’s fiction,

the authorship of his prologues, and the idea that everything is a game (54). Thus, “in

such a play of prologuist identities, both avowing and rejecting the authorly embrace, it is

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difficult to decide who is in charge of the prologue, the author or an (to various degrees) autonomous prologuist” (54). This frequently creates an understated humor which causes the reader to smile at his own confusion. The paratexts can also create contradictory situations. For example, when the prologue to the 1935 edition to Niebla was placed at

the end of a later edition of the novel, the account of the post-mortem life of Augusto

Pérez contradicts that of the implied author “Unamuno’s” post-prologue which states that Augusto is dead” (54). For Franz, this is “a powerful message, coming as it does

after the dog Orfeo’s epilogue to the effect that Augusto’s ‘novel’ of struggle has been

eternalized in the animal’s thoughts and barks” (54). At the end of Niebla, when

Augusto’s housekeepers discover that Orfeo has died, this situation

does not merely serve to underline some metaphysical and metacritical concepts—the need for the “other,” God’s dependence on his creatures, and the author’s creation of his characters in order to plant his own existence in the reader—already visible in the narrative, but also to reintroduce the note of creative playfulness upon which Victor and his “nivola” predicate that the hope for eternal life may depend. (94)

The idea of “creative playfulness” merits further attention since it provides the modus

operandi for much of Unamuno’s fiction and contributes a great deal to his understated

humor. As Franz concludes in his discussion on the paratexts of Niebla, “If dogs can talk

about metaphysics, there is a good deal about life’s possibilities that we have not yet

discovered” (94).

Franz, like Vauthier, has noticed the plurivalency in Unamuno’s metaphysics and

believes that the writer “deliberately sets out to show how each narrative pulls in many

directions on multiple diegetic levels” (59). Such separation “is what spurs Unamuno to

so much free association and dissection of bifurcating word etymologies in his novelistic

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prologues” (59). Interestingly, and similar to the theory expressed by Vauthier (discussed

above), Franz finds in Paz en la guerra the beginnings of the disjointed type of narrative that became Unamuno’s hallmark starting with Amor y pedagogía. This refers to the

announcement, also a kind of paratext, of printing errors (“Advertencia”) that functions

as the prologue to the first edition of Paz en la guerra. In this “Advertencia” Unamuno

explains that a number of mistakes found in the text are due to “unusual circumstances of

the work’s acceptance for publication and printing” (60). Later in the ‘Advertencia,’

Unamuno requests that the reader go through and correct the errors before reading the

novel” (69). Franz correctly sees this involvement of the reader as a precursor to the characteristic which “will become explicit in the dedication …to Amor y pedagogía and will forevermore be a self-acknowledged constant in Unamuno’s subsequent fictional creation” (60). It is also related to Unamuno’s humor since the reader cannot help but smile when asked to complete such a task. Franz observes that the reader confronts a similar situation in Victor Goti’s prologue to Niebla when the fictional prologuist “tacitly

tells all unqualified readers to skip the entire narrative if they are not prepared to deal

with a humor that will make them vomit all of the ideas they previously have swallowed”

(64). The prologuist also “implies that the unorthodox nivola form may not be for them

either” (64).

Franz correctly observes that Unamuno does not distinguish between expository

and fictional writing since all writing is for him “fundamentally fiction or poetry, and

when the prologuist is commenting on the text, he or she becomes a novelistic character

wrestling with the same problems of narrative experience that beset the metafictional

characters whose ontological identity he or she is trying to explain” (65). The prologuist 66

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“would say the same about the fictionalized prologuist and the corresponding ontological

(and fictional) identity of the reader” (65). For example, the third edition (1935) prologue to Niebla (1914) “creates a continuation of the saga of Augusto Pérez […] in

which the character appears to ‘Unamuno’ in a dream and this same ‘Unamuno’ resists

the character’s beckoning that the ‘author’ bring him to life for a sequel” (66). Franz

perceives the irony implicit in writing the new prologue in this way: “‘Unamuno’ (and

Unamuno) has already brought him to life, thus anticipating the process of unclosurable

continuations later made famous in the bracketed interpolations and progressive additions

found in the 1927 (Spanish-language) version of Cómo se hace una novela”14 (66, note

added). Franz parenthetically adds that “in the post-prologue to the third edition, we

know for sure that the prologuist to the first edition was really ‘Unamuno’” (66).

Throughout his book, Franz insightfully differentiates a fictional “Unamuno” from the

real one and also reveals the detailed reading he has done of Unamuno’s fiction. The

critic also perceptively observes that “the real Unamuno would not argue with his

character, but that the fictional ‘Unamuno’ would” (78).

Unamuno at times employs fictional transcribers (a Cervantine device, as

Unamuno, a major scholar of Cervantes, knew very well). For example, the statements of

such a transcriber at the beginning of Nuevo mundo, Abel Sánchez and La novela de don

Sandalio parody the “serious writing of criticism and history and thus take on some of the

serious intent of the genres being parodied […]. The brief prologue-like paragraph by

Angela that is inserted into the first page of San Manuel Bueno, mártir also gains verisimilitude by parodying the methodology of a biographer […]” (79). Franz believes that the anonymous prologues to the first edition of Amor y pedagogía or that of Victor 67

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Goti to the first edition of Niebla serve to create “a (temporarily) believable base from

which to launch criticisms of Unamuno’s and ‘Unamuno’s’ art of the novel” (79). For

the critic,

This base must be believable because the author of both works ultimately wishes his allegory to launch a plurality of possible interpretations not only of the fictional world but of the phenomenic one as well. However, the fact that the prologuist is fictional immediately erases the generic distinction between fiction, one the one hand, and theoretical or explicitly philosophical content, on the other. (79-80)

Without doubt, one of the functions of Unamuno’s fictional prologues is to provide the

first instance of the blurring of genres. Franz concludes this section with the somewhat

puzzling statement that “…when a fictive allographic text is coupled to a text that is also

fiction, the product paradoxically turns out to be a sense of reality, because the ‘real’

reality is thereby eliminated” (80).

Unamuno’s use of apocryphal endnotes creates yet another way to blur the line

between genres. As Franz points out, since Paz en la guerra focuses on real historical

events, it would make sense to include notes; however, there are none. On the other

hand, abundant notes appear in Niebla, “a particularly improbable location, as the work is deliberately isolated, at least in appearance, from events in the real world” (85). Franz

complains that the “bracketed notes to Cómo se hace una novela fail to annoy only a

reader interested in the life of the exiled Unamuno or capable of perceiving the

autogeneration of narrative implied by the juxtaposition of the 1926 and 1927 texts” (84).

Furthermore, Teresa,15 which is not at all historical, “is overwhelmed with quasi- historical notes” which “require a reader both accustomed to literary scholarship and prepared to recognize its parody ultimately put to a serious purpose” (84-5). The critic

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concludes that Unamuno “deliberately transgresses generic conventions to insert notes

where they are least expected, and, if there is no justification whatsoever, he will

transform the narrative into a history in order to playfully rationalize the note he has inserted” (85). Thus, the inclusion or exclusion of notes demonstrates another manifestation of Unamuno’s playfulness and sense of humor. The insights described above have important implications for the present study.

Another manifestation of this strategy can be found in the fact that some editorial notes are really “pseudo-editorial notes, in actuality attributable to an auctorial ‘author’ or another character” (87). Franz finds this unsettling because it destabilizes “the authority over the state and presentation of the text” (87). Genette maintains that such

destabilization is compounded when one considers that not only does the authority pass

“to a fictional character, but that, in some instances, the character, too, is an author”

(329). Franz continues his analysis:

In Niebla, Don Sandalio, and Teresa, this character is no other than the novelist- poet “Unamuno.” The reader presumes that outside this “Unamuno” stands a look-alike historical author named Unamuno and that, beyond Unamuno there exist an infinite variety of “Unamunos” in the mind of the books’ readers. This mise-en-abyme creates a situation in which authority is forever deferred […], authority never comes to rest on anyone, and consequently everyone is free to concoct his or her own overlay of attributions. This situation may fit in well with Unamuno’s practice of manufacturing metaphysical optimism out of infinite play, but it also reminds one of the psychologist’s judgment that a child, left without a clear structure of parental authority, will react with terror when abandoned to face apparent chaos. (88)

While it may be true that no ultimate authority can be found in Unamuno’s fiction, the

freedom granted to the reader to “concoct his or her own overlay of attributions” does not

necessarily lead to the terror of the child who suddenly discovers that he/she has been

abandoned. Rather, it may be a further illustration of the ongoing creative activity with 69

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which Unamuno continually plays, the never-ending potential to create. Everyone is, at

once, both author and character.

Although Genette does not consider epilogues to be paratextual since they are in

most cases a continuation of the narrative text, Franz suggests that Unamuno’s epilogues

are “a special case because either they do not continue the text or they clearly perform

other functions that are not narrative” (89). Unamuno uses the word “epilogue” in only

four of his narratives and in all of these the “added material is more metatextual than

narrative” (89). The original edition of Amor y pedagogía has two epilogues, one

formally called “Epílogo,” the other “Apuntes para un tratado de cocotología.” Franz

explains that the “transition to the ‘Apuntes’ is carried out via the device of an ‘authorial’

statement in the first epilogue to the effect that the publisher has asked the ‘author’ for

added text, and he has received it from the obliging Entrambasmares” (92). The critic

then observes that “it is not in the ‘Apuntes’s explanations of origami that we find the

epilogue function carried out, but in the philosophical comments that justify particular

folds in the paper that are necessary to produce the birds” (92). The second edition of the

novel has an additional epilogue called “Apéndice” consisting of drawings and comments

on the swastika symbol, which Franz views as “a comparison between the deadly plans of

Avito Carrascal to create a genius and the even more tragic ideas of Hitler to produce a

master race” (92). While it is quite plausible that the inclusion of this material does serve

as a technique by which Unamuno expresses a premonition about Nazi Germany, it is

also the case that the swastika symbol dates back to antiquity.16 Whatever his intentions

may have been, Unamuno nevertheless concludes this appendix in a humorous vein,

stating that the novel might now be suffering from “apendicitis” (93). 70

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Even San Manuel Bueno, mártir can be seen in a different light upon examining

the paratexts. In the epilogue, the transcriber “Unamuno” explains how he transformed into the present narrative the manuscript left by Angelina Carballino. Franz observes that

“with this explanation, the reader acknowledges that the text is not a biography but a

novel, actually twice a novel, first because it is the imaginative creation of Angela, who,

in her prologue paragraph admitted ‘dreaming’ her biography into being and, second,

because ‘Unamuno’ is reconfiguring a dream that Angela had previously textualized”

(95). In other words, multiple layers of fiction as well as lack of definite authority reduce

its tragic quality. However, only the reader who pays close attention to the paratexts will

be able to see the work from this perspective. The playfulness of Unamuno is

particularly evident when “Unamuno” asks the reader “if the present work reminds him

or her of other narratives, such as Niebla, by this same ‘Unamuno’” (95). At the end of

the epilogue, “Unamuno” calls San Manuel Bueno, mártir a “relato novelesco” and says that “a well-structured fictional reality like that of Manuel Bueno is more phenomenically convincing than his own historic reality” (95). Franz agrees with this assessment since

“Unamuno” himself “is but a character and his duration in the reader has lasted only the time necessary to read the two pages of his epilogue” (96). Once again, “Unamuno” is winking at the reader (95).

The problem of authorship also plays a role in Don Sandalio and is directly

related to the paratexts. The epiloguist “Unamuno” does not believe that it makes much

difference whether Don Sandalio or Felipe wrote the story because “if Sandalio wrote it

from another’s imagined perspective, he is novelizing, and if Felipe wrote it as a

biography, he is really basing the analysis of Sandalio’s motivations on those that 71

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influence Felipe himself” (96). In other words, “all biography is really autobiography,

and all autobiography is a novel” (96). The situation becomes increasingly complex, as

expressed by Franz in the following excerpt:

The novelist who writes such a novel, is by the performance act of novelizing his own fantasies, creating the novel of his own life, and the writer who describes another’s act of creating a novel is also novelizing himself by performing his description (carrying out the necessary thoughts and pen movements) for the possible creation of a text by still another party or narratee that the reader, in turn, will recreate in accord with his or her own dispositions and needs. “Unamuno” may or may not be the novelist describing Sandalio’s or Felipe’s creation of a novel, but at some place along the line he will have been one of the “readers” and therefore he will, for the time being, be the novelist mentally recreating the conveyed situation in accord with his own needs and abilities. Every reader is a “novelist” and every novelist “novelizing” recreates himself. (96-7)

Franz observes that the epilogue of Don Sandalio functions as the place in the narrative

where the reader is able to finally bring together “all of the difficult but well-placed clues

in the novella that ‘Don Sandalio,’ the ‘letter-writer,’ the ‘unknown reader’ of

‘Unamuno’s’ previous novels, ‘Unamuno,’ and the actual ‘reader’ are continually and

simultaneously performing these creative acts” (97). This act of creation helps to

produce the open-endedness of the work, which in turn reflects away from any tragic

events that occur in the novel.

According to Franz, the pre-texts of Unamuno also serve a definite purpose.

Unamuno’s letters “are intended for a public with the same love of words, willingness to

grapple with an enthymeme or a chiasmus, and the same longing for immortality […].

They are on the same high discursive level as the narratives themselves” (103), and

“where their level is less elevated, they mesh well with the choppy, groping speech that

Unamuno places in the mouth of his characters” (103). Two of these pre-texts (Manual

de quijotismo and Don Quijote en Fuerteventura) of projected works are, like Cómo se 72

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hace una novela, diary-narratives of Unamuno’s exile. They are “ironic, even comic in

tone, and appear to herald the comic vein that […] has seldom received serious

exploration in studies of Cómo se hace una novela” (108). This is described as

a new type of Unamunian humor, a synthesis of irony, sarcasm, indignation, and unrestrained cholera designed to shake loose hope and action within the confines of Miguel Primo de Rivera’s dictatorial Spain. It could not be any clearer that both planned works—one perhaps apocryphal, the other still unpublished except for brief extracts—are evidence of a deep involvement with Unamuno’s metaphysics of play and Don Miguel’s belief that the survival of both his fictional “author” and the real author is dependent on the reader’s internalization and continued nurturing of the novelist’s most vital conflicts. (108)

This comical and non-tragic side of Cómo se hace una novela will be examined in detail

in the following chapters of the present study.

Franz reaches the following conclusions in his study on the paratexts in

Unamuno’s fiction:

The key trope of the Sentimiento trágico is not the chiasmus, but the comparison or antitheses, introduced by the phrase “y sin embargo,” which show that, for every positive consideration, there is a corresponding negative. The central narrative text of the novels is no more encouraging, suggesting that Unamuno—in a way akin to that of later theorists like Benjamin, Bloom, de Man, and Derrida— finds in both life and textualized living a type of “original brokenness.” Eugenio Rodero perishes due to a disease that denies his conviction that human beings are not limited by the deadly “facts” adduced by reason. The despairing Apolodoro commits suicide. Augusto is either killed by “Unamuno” or takes his own life in rebellion against his limited freedom. Joaquín’s only “eternal life” is a hope that his envy will last forever. Gertrudis unconvincingly repents of her crusade to endure through a manipulation of others. Raquel and Carolina resign themselves to the unhappy conclusion that the fullest life possible is one built on earthly power. The invincible Alejandro Gómez slits his veins upon realizing that his long-suffering wife is no longer at his side to assuage his mortality. Manuel Bueno, a partial Christ-figure, dies a reactionary and a liar, only to be beatified through a testimonial fraud. The letter writer in Don Sandalio is able to conserve his fantasies by a fearful refusal to look at the facts. Emeterio finds happiness in drowning his quest for meaning in wealth and earthly domesticity. Ricardo and Liduvina enter the monastic life, sublimating their failure to achieve transcendence through sexual rapture and the creation of life. There is doubtless an equivalent positive side to all of these narratives. The point is that, in the 73

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central text, Unamuno never obscures the grounds for a pessimistic response. The paratexts, however, by their open-ended dialogy with both each other and the attached central text, overwhelm the negative parts of the central text’s dialectic. (112-3)17

The description that Franz gives of Unamuno’s characters as possessing “original brokenness” indicates that the critic does not by any means deny the tragic element in

Unamuno’s work. Interestingly, however, he argues that the paratexts not only neutralize the tragic, but actually dominate it. Just as he did in his dissertation on the humor in

Unamuno, in his book on the paratexts in Unamuno’s fiction, Franz has shown a great

ability to read deeply and between the lines. The present study intends to expand on

many of the ideas presented by this critic.

Conclusions from the Survey of Criticism. The criticism studied in this chapter

indicates that although the vast majority of critics tend to focus on the tragic and

philosophical components in Unamuno’s work, several in this group have studied the

Basque writer with great insight and at times have unknowingly identified characteristics

associated with the irony and humor found in his work. Within this group, however, only

a few give more than a cursory recognition of this aspect of his work. There exists, nonetheless, an even smaller group who have focused on the humorous and non-tragic side of Unamuno. These critics have done an excellent job in their analyses and shown indisputably that this side of Unamuno merits much more attention than it has received.

Although all of the critics whose work is surveyed in this chapter have helped to form the groundwork of the present study, the ideas presented by Franz and Olson will be of particular relevance to the following chapters.

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NOTES

1 In “Rereading Amor y pedagogía: Unamuno as Baroque Stylist, Comic Satirist and Anti‐machista,” Janet Pérez succinctly summarizes the views that several critics have expressed concerning Unamuno’s work: “Corvalán suggests that Unamuno’s struggle against nineteenth‐century novelistic paradigms qualifies him as a precursor of the French ‘new novel.’ Manuel Durán considered Unamuno within the then‐ emerging traditions of European Modernist experimentation, while Ildefonso Manuel Gill affirmed that within a few years of publication, Niebla formed part of Europe’s novelistic vanguard. Gillet placed the rebellious literary character in the broader context of European literature and Díez situates Unamuno’s novels within the context of contemporary European aesthetic movements from the turn‐of‐the‐century to postwar Existentialism. These and a handful of others anticipate present‐day re‐evaluations of the Generations of 1898 and 1927 which attempt to view works without the isolationist ‘blinders’ imposed under Franco, but given their broad focus, few provide stylistic analyses or close readings of the text” (50‐ 1). Pérez’s observation is correct that much of the criticism related to the literary/philosophical movements of modernismo, la vanguardia, and existencialismo has not been based on “close readings of the text,” nor are they directly related to Unamuno’s use of humor, and it is for these reasons that criticism related to these movements will not be emphasized in the present study. Pérez insightfully concludes her article with a vision of Unamuno work much more closely attuned to the purpose of the present study: “I agree with Navajas that Unamuno anticipates reception aesthetics and the open text, but would point out that his concern with readers produces devices intended to force active participation in textual co‐creation as attested by numerous prologues and asides addressing the lector and techniques obliging readers to contribute to the interpretive process in various ways (e.g., the ‘dispute’ between author and character as to Augusto’s suicide). Unamuno’s philosophical essays openly demanded that readers re‐examine the bases for their beliefs, discarding received ideas and automatic assumptions; his fiction demands no less. Amor y pedagogía, a complex palimpsest of genres and conceptismo, of Baroque style and thoroughly modern humor—an elaborate spoof despite underlying seriousness—can be read gravely only a risk of missing half the fun” (63).

2 Marina, the mother of Apolodoro, secretly has him baptized and calls the child Luis when Don Avito is not present.

3 The three periods into which Valdés divides Unamuno’s work represent a specific philosophical perspective and literary attitude. The first period is “a quiet attitude of contemplation where the powerful yo‐will was abandoned as he became engrossed in the intuition of the totality of existence. Very often it was the landscape that stirred an evocation of this feeling for the overwhelming continuity of existence. Of necessity this literary creation is highly metaphorical” (16). The second perspective represents the formulation of “the problem of immortality in terms of the personal yo” (33). It is during this period that commentators developed an interest in Unamuno’s work “and by a concentrated selective process make him a late Romantic, at best a distant echo of Kierkegaard” (23). In this stage he also formulates his theory of the tragic sense of life, “born in the pattern opposition between intellect and will and results in an awareness of death that gives an authentic perspective to the person yo” (33). The last perspective is what Valdés calls “the re‐creation of the yo’s thought in other yos.” In this period, the focus is no longer on man’s work as the anonymous contribution as seen in the first stage, “but rather as a unique work of the personal yo” (34). Valdés explains that the philosophical basis of this stage “lies in the idea that during a personal yo’s life there is another yo created in the minds of the other yos” (34). The critic points out that the three perspectives do not pertain rigidly to specific dates since and that often the beginnings of the subsequent stage manifest themselves in works of the previous period (34).

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4 In Niebla, for instance, the protagonist Augusto Pérez, in the throes of existential anguish after being rejected by a woman, dies by eating himself to death. “Y entonces recordó haber leído varias veces que los condenados a muerte en las horas que pasan en capilla se dedican a comer. ‘¡Es cosa—pensaba—de que nunca ha podido darme cuenta!...Aquello otro que nos cuenta Renán en su Abedessa de Jouarre se comprende… Se comprende que una pareja de condenados a muerte, antes de morir, sientan el instinto de sobrevivirse reproduciéndose, pero ¡comer!... Aunque sí, sí, es el cuerpo que se defiende. El alma, al enterarse de que va a morir, se entristece o se exalta; pero el cuerpo, si es un cuerpo sano, entra en apetito furioso. Porque también el cuerpo se entera. Sí, es mi cuerpo, mi cuerpo el que se defiende. ¡Como vorazmente, luego voy a morir!” (288‐9).

5An example of such a character is Don Fermín in Niebla. He is the uncle of Eugenia (the girl to whom Augusto is attracted). In his dissertation, Franz describes Don Fermín as an extraordinary character and “not only does the ancient gentleman wear a fez atop his head and peer at the world through smoked glasses, but he addresses Augusto in a strange tongue which the narrator is unable to transcribe for us, ‘— (Aquí una frase en esperanto que quiere decir: ¿Y usted no cree conmigo que la paz universal llegará pronto merced al Esperanto?)’” (135). Franz points out that “Since Augusto does not know Esperanto, Don Fermín’s opening statement might seem to be spoken in any exotic language—most likely Berber, Turkish or Persian, because the fez and smoked glasses suggest the garb of countries where these languages are spoken. The first words he speaks are also vaguely reminiscent of the bizarre rhetoric of an Oriental eunuch. However, neither Augusto nor we can take any of this illusion seriously, because the man is a Spaniard sitting in the middle of an apartment building in rainy Northern Spain. He begins to explain that he has discovered the ‘enigmáticas leyes’ which govern life and that, in effect, he possesses ‘ideas particulares sobre casi todas las cosas…’” (135).

6 “Apuntes para un tratado de cocotología” appears after the “Epílogo” of Amor y pedagogía. This “treatise” is a hilarious parody of science on the proper way to make paper birds. As Unamuno explains at the beginning of the “Apuntes,” “Empezaré diciendo que la historia de la cocotología, como la de todo lo existente, posible y concebible, se pierde en la noche de los tiempos, y acudiré al Larousse a ver qué dice de ella. Y como es de suponer que no diga nada, consideraré a las pajaritas de papel como un juego infantil y haré la historia de los juegos infantiles y de todos los juegos en general. Con esto bien puede llenarse otro tomo” (173‐4).

7 San Manuel Bueno, mártir is written in the voice of Angela who is writing down what she remembers about the priest Manuel Bueno. In the last chapter of the narrative, Unamuno enters and asks, “¿Cómo vino a parar a mis manos este documento, esta memoria de Angela Carballino? He aquí, lector, algo que debo guardar en secreto” (80). Teresa is written in the voice of Rafael, novio of the dead Teresa. Unamuno explains at the beginning how he received the text, “Hará cosa de año y medio recibí de una pequeña villa, cuyo nombre, fiel a una promesa, que estimo sagrada, no he de revelar, una carta de un muchacho herido de mal de amor y de muerte, de amor de muerte y de muerte de amor. Sólo me es permitido dar su nombre de pila: Rafael y el de la muchacha que muerta poco hacía le llevaba a morir, y era Teresa, como en general firmaba las cartas que me escribió, y ella la Teresa de Rafael” (37). La novela de don Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez will be studied in the present investigation.

8 The use of the conditional is found when Unamuno speculates, in the retranslation of the narrative, what he would have had the protagonist Jugo de la Raza do when he sets off to look for another copy of Balzac’s novel after having burned his own. In this way, he makes changes to the new edition.

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9“Miguel de Unamuno tenía seis años cuando murió su padre. Apenas escribió sobre él; no lo recordaba. Sin embargo, en Niebla, recreó el dramático suicidio de un padre. En este texto inédito que se encuentra en la Casa Museo Unamuno sobreviene de nuevo la misma tragedia. Tal vez sea un relato ‘nivolesco.’ Más probablemente se trata del desahogo autobiográfico del narrador, poeta y ensayista que descubre el ‘horizonte de mi historia íntima’ del que ‘arranca mi conciencia.’ Sin duda, la pieza clave para esclarecer ‘el misterio inicial de mi vida,’ golpeada por el suicidio del padre.” (http://www.lamaquinadeltiempo.com/temas/filosofia/unamuno1.htm)

10 In Niebla, Augusto’s friend Victor Goti describes to Augusto the novel he is presently writing, “Pues le he oído contar a Manuel Machado, el poeta, el hermano de Antonio, que una vez que llevó a don Eduardo Benot, para leérselo, un soneto que estaba en alejandrinos o en no sé qué otra forma heterodoxa. Se lo leyó y don Eduardo le dijo: ‘Pero ¡eso no es soneto!...’ ‘No, señor’—le contestó Machado, ‘no es soneto, es sonite.’ Pues así es como mi novela no va a ser novela, sino…,¿cómo dije?, navilo…, nebulo, no, no nivola, eso, ¡nivola! Así nadie tendrá derecho a decir que deroga las leyes de su género… Invento el género e inventar un género no es más que darle un nombre nuevo, y le doy las leyes que me place. ¡Y mucho diálogo!” (200).

11Olson continues his analysis of this idea asserting that Julia “realizes that her husband’s revenge has been more terrible and more intelligent than killing her and the Count would have been. In humiliating her lover, making him lie by denying their relationship, Alejandro has, in fact, annihilated whatever reality it once had. He therefore is actually successful in controlling the world of facts through his control of words” (107).

12 Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo, polígrafo español, nació en Santander (1856‐1912). Azorín, (José Martínez Ruiz), escritor español, nació en Monóvar (1873‐1967). Benito Pérez Galdós, escritor español, nació en Las Palmas de Gran Canaria (1843‐1920).

13 Jaume Balmes, presbítero y filósofo español, nació en Vich (1810‐1848). Ramón de Campoamor, popular poeta español (1817‐1901).

14 The 1927 version of Cómo se hace una novela is a retranslation of the French version. This point will be studied in detail in Chapter IV.

15 For example, the following note for Rima 1: “En el ultimo verso de esta Rima me llegó la última palabra escrita como la pongo: des‐azón. Con ello quería su autor, mi discípulo, restaurar a este vocablo toda su fuerza originaria, expresando el hecho de no llegar una cosa a sazón, de venir antes de tiempo o después de él. Y aun respecto a la palabra sazón, hay que hacer notar que en la Rima 44, y al final también de ella, está empleada en su sentido propio, o sea el de ‘sembradura,’ ya que satio, onis, significa el acto de sembrar.” (155)

17 Eugenio Rodero is the protagonist of Nuevo mundo; Joaquín of Abel Sánchez; Gertrudis of La tía Tula; Raquel of Dos madres; Carolina of El marqués of Lumbría; Alejandro Gómez of Nada menos que todo un hombre; Ricardo and Liduvina of Una historia de amor.

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CHAPTER III

THEORY

In this chapter the theory of laughter and humor of the philosopher Henri

Bergson1 will be examined. Though not all components of his theory may be applicable

to Unamuno’s fiction, his work merits attention in the present study because of his

insightful analysis of the topic. Bergson was a contemporary of Unamuno,2 and the two shared the belief of reality as a dynamic creative force rather than lifeless ideology put to words. Marías explains this aspect of Bergson’s philosophy:

La filosofía de Henri Bergson se acerca a la realidad de la vida con una actitud distinta de la usual, instalándose en la propia movilidad, en el proceso no ya realizado y cumplido, sino en su mismo realizarse. La intuición intenta la vida desde dentro de ella, no matándola previamente para reducirla a un esquema conceptual espacializado. La realidad de la vida es algo dinámico, un impulso vital o élan vital. Y esta evolución es creadora, porque la realidad se va haciendo en una continuidad viva, no se compone de elementos dados, y solo después de consumada puede intentar el pensamiento componerla con elementos inmóviles y dados, como si se quiere recomponer un movimiento con una serie de estados de reposo. Esto pone a Bergson en contacto con la filosofía de la vida, que tiene en él uno de sus más claros y fecundos antecedentes.3 (377-8, note added) In the same volume as his Introducción a la metafísica, Bergson includes (after the study

on metaphysics) three essays on laughter, or, as he explains, “o más bien sobre la risa

especialmente provocada por lo cómico” (47), originally published in the Revue de Paris.

In the “Prefacio del autor” Bergson explains the purpose of the essays:

Su objeto era determinar las principales categorías de lo cómico, y reunir la mayor cantidad posible de hechos, a fin de determinar unas cuantas leyes generales. Su forma rehuía de cualquier discusión teórica o crítica de sistemas. ¿Debía ahora agregar un examen de los trabajos que al mismo asunto se refieren y hacer comparaciones entre mis conclusiones y las de quienes me precedieron? Tal vez mi tesis hubiera ganado así en solidez; mas en cambio, mi exposición se

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habría sido excesivamente complicado, y este volumen habría resultado desproporcionado a la importancia del argumento. He resuelto, por lo tanto, reproducirlos tal como aparecieron, limitándome solamente a recordar las principales investigaciones realizadas sobre lo cómico durante los últimos treinta años. (47)

The main ideas of the essays as well as their relevance to the present study will be

summarized in this chapter. Although Bergson employs examples from theater to

illustrate many of his points, much of his theory can be equally applied to other literary

genres.

In “Ensayo primero,” subtitled “de lo cómico en general, —lo cómico en las

formas y en los movimientos—fuerza de expansión de lo risible,” Bergson focuses on

describing some of the general characteristics of comedy. The first point that he makes is

that the comical is something uniquely human:

Podrá un paisaje ser hermoso, sublime, insignificante o feo, pero nunca será ridículo. Cuando reímos a la vista de un animal, es porque hemos sorprendido en él una actitud o una expresión humana. Un sombrero nos hace reír, por la forma que los hombres le dieron, por el capricho humano en que se moldeó, y no porque el fieltro o la paja de que se compone susciten por sí mismos nuestra risa. (49)

In addition, there exist certain conditions necessary in order to provoke laughter, one of

them being la insensibilidad which nearly always accompanies laughter: “Diríase que lo

cómico se puede producir sólo cuando es recibido por una superficie espiritual pulida y

tranquila. Se medio natural es la insensibilidad. El peor enemigo de la risa es la

emoción” (50). The philosopher adds that it is possible for us to laugh “de una persona

que, verbigracia, nos inspire piedad y aún afecto” (50). However, in this case “será

menester que olvidemos por unos instantes ese cariño y hagamos callar esa piedad” (50).

Thus, “para producir todo su efecto, lo cómico exige algo así como una momentánea

anestesia del corazón, para dirigirse a la inteligencia pura” (50). Unamuno’s characters 79

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usually do not evoke much sympathy from the reader, and the idea expressed by Bergson

above may be applicable to characters such as Apolodoro, Don Avito, and Don Fulgencio

in Amor y pedagogía as well as protagonists in Unamuno’s other novels. The same

might be said of the anonymous letter-writer of La novela de don Sandalio, Emeterio of

Un pobre hombre rico, and Jugo de la Raza of Cómo se hace una novela. In particular,

the nameless state of the protagonist of La novela de don Sandalio makes it nearly

impossible for the reader to identify with him. It should be noted, however, that not all of

Unamuno’s characters with whom the reader does not identify are comical.4 In other

words, although la insensibilidad may be a necessary condition of humor, it does not

necessarily always result in a comical situation. Another characteristic of humor

according to Bergson is that “nuestra risa es siempre la risa de un grupo” (50). He

explains this idea further when he asserts that laughter, “Por muy espontánea que

parezca, siempre esconde un prejuicio de asociación, sino de complicidad con otros

rientes reales o imaginarios.” Bergson then asks: “¿Cuántas veces no se ha dicho que en

un teatro la risa del espectador es tanto más frecuente cuanto más llena está la sala?

¿Cuántas veces no se ha hecho notar que muchos efectos cómicos que se refieren a las

costumbres y a ideas de una sociedad particular, no pueden traducirse a otro idioma?”

(50-1). That verbal comedy is typically untranslatable into other languages will be

discussed in more detail below.5

Two closely related characteristics of humor are those of rigidity and distraction.

Bergson maintains that indispensable to humor is a certain rigidity that produces a mechanical effect, which he describes as “la rigidez mecánica que se nota allí donde hubiésemos querido ver despertarse en el hombre su agilidad y su flexibilidad” (51). He 80

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offers as a simple example the case where a man trips on something in his path, causing

passersby to laugh because “los músculos no han logrado ejecutar otro movimiento

cuando las circunstancias así lo exigían” (51). This same rigidity can be found not only

on the physical level, as in the above example, but also in a person’s mental attitude:

Pensemos, pues, en un espíritu que esté siempre con la mente en lo que hizo con antelación, y jamás en lo que está haciendo, como una melodía cuyo acompañamiento se retardara. Supongamos que por virtud de una cierta elasticidad de los sentidos y de la inteligencia, siga viendo lo que ya no existe, escuchando lo que ya ha callado, hablando de lo que ya no viene al caso; que el individuo se amolde, en fin, a una situación pretérita e imaginaria, en vez de adaptar su actitud a la realidad del momento. Entonces el asiento de lo cómico estará en la persona misma, y de ésta lo recibirá todo, materia, forma, causa y ocasión. (52)

One of the most notable features of Unamuno’s characters is their inability to adapt

to the circumstances in which they find themselves, and often their obliviousness to their

surrounding becomes a source of amusement to the reader. This is also closely linked to

the overly intellectual characters in Unamuno’s work, who live only in the world of ideas

and are far from being un hombre de carne y hueso.

A mentally rigid person is also usually distraído, and distraction “en realidad,

aunque no nos lleve a la fuente misma de lo cómico, nos coloca en una corriente de

hechos y de ideas procedentes de hechos y de ideas procedentes directamente de esa

fuente, poniéndonos sobre una de las grandes pendientes naturales de lo cómico” (52).

Bergson explains in detail the theory of the relation of distraction to comedy:

El simple hecho de la mera distracción ya nos hace reír. Pero esa distracción nos parecerá más ridícula si hemos seguido su nacimiento y su desarrollo, si conocemos su origen y podemos rehacer su historia. Pongamos el ejemplo concreto, de un individuo dado a la lectura de novelas de amor o de caballería, el cual, atraído y fascinado por sus héroes, vaya paulatinamente, día a día, concentrando en ellos sus ideas y su voluntad. Acabará por moverse entre nosotros como un sonámbulo; sus acciones serán distracciones, y éstas, empero, 81

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serán debidas a una causa real y conocida. Ya no son ausencias, puras y simples, sino que encuentran su explicación en la presencia del individuo en un ambiente imaginario, pero exactamente definido. Es cierto que una caída es una caída; pero es bien distinto caerse en un pozo por torpe distracción, que caerse por mirar una estrella. ¡Es enorme la profundidad de la fuerza cómica cuando lo novelesco se une a un espíritu soñador! (52)

Interestingly, the idea of la caída recurs in Unamuno’s work, most often in the form of giving in to temptation rather than a physical fall. The struggle to resist as well as the eventual “fall” both produce humor. Bergson continues:

Estas almas soñadoras, estos extraviados, estos locos que tan extrañamente razonan, nos mueven a risa al herir en nosotros las mismas cuerdas, al poner en juego el mismo mecanismo interior que la víctima de una burla o el paseante que resbala en la calle. Ellos también son andarines que caen, ingenuos a los que se les chasquea, corredores que persiguen un ideal y tropiezan contra las realidades, cándidos soñadores acechados por la vida maligna. Mas, son ante todo unos grandes distraídos que tienen sobre los demás la superioridad de su distracción, sistemática, organizada alrededor de una idea central y cuyas malandanzas se hallan unidas por la misma inflexible lógica con que la realidad corrige los sueños, suscitando así en torno, por efectos que van sumándose unos a otros, una risa que va extendiéndose al infinito. (52-3)

Certainly in Amor y pedagogía, Don Avito’s preocupation with creating a genius exemplifies a person who follows a dream but remains completely blind to the reality of his circumstances.

At times the French philosopher contrasts the tragic character with the comic one, explaining that

Mientras un personaje de tragedia no modificará su conducta aunque llegue a enterarse del juicio que nos merece, y podrá, en cambio perseverar en ella, aun enteramente consciente de lo que es y del horror que nos inspira, un hombre ridículo, apenas advierte su ridiculez, procurará modificarse, al menos exteriormente. […] Desde ya podemos afirmar que sólo en este sentido es dable decir que la risa castiga las costumbres, porque nos impulsa a esforzarnos por aparentar lo que debiéramos ser, lo que sin duda algún día llegaremos a ser. (54)

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Bergson argues that the comical “es todo incidente que llama nuestra atención sobre la

parte física de una persona en el momento en que nos ocupábamos de su aspecto moral,”

using as an example “un orador que estornuda en el momento más patético de su

discurso” (64). He develops this idea further by explaining the transition from tragedy to

comedy:

Es por eso que el poeta trágico busca evitar todo lo que pudiese llamar nuestra atención sobre la materialidad de sus personajes. No bien se infiltra la preocupación del cuerpo, puede temerse una intervención de lo cómico. Y por esto los héroes de tragedia no beben, ni comen, ni se calientan a la lumbre, y hasta evitan sentarse. Tomar asiento durante una dicción de versos, llevaría al recuerdo de que se posee un cuerpo. Napoleón, buen psicólogo por momentos, había notado que el mero hecho de sentarse equivale a pasar de la tragedia a la comedia. (65)

It is true that the physical component of existence seems to play an indispensable role in comedy. Again, Unamuno’s concern for el hombre de carne y hueso provides the foundation for the creation of comical situations; for example, as Bretz points out, in

Niebla Augusto Perez’s concern over getting wet is comical. Bergson adds: “No conozco

nada mejor para interrumpir una escena trágica; cuando se habla sentado todo degenera

en comedia” (65). It is true that in Un pobre hombre rico, for example, the protagonist

regularly attends tertulias whose main objective is the exchange of jokes, and later in the

narrative, much of the humor centers around card games.

The second essay, subtitled “Situaciones cómicas y palabras cómicas,” focuses on

“las actividades y las situaciones” (71). The first point in this essay is that comedy has

its roots in childhood games:

Si en los juegos del niño éste revuelve muñecas y títeres por medio de hilos, ¿no serán estos mismos hilos, si bien afinados por el uso, los en que se anuda toda situación cómica? Partiendo, pues, de los juegos del niño, recorramos el proceso insensible por el cual agranda sus fantoches, los anima y los lleva, en fin, a ese 83

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estado de indecisión última en que no dejando de ser muñecos, son, a pesar de todo, seres vivientes. Tendremos de este modo personajes de comedia, en los cuales nos será posible comprobar la ley deducida de nuestros anteriores análisis, la ley con que definiremos las situaciones de farsa en general: Lo cómico está en cualquier arreglo de hechos y sucesos, que incrustados unos en otros nos den la ilusión de la vida y la sensación nítida de un ensueño mecánico. (71)

Many comical scenes, says the philosopher, are based on the same principle as the children’s toy la caja de sorpresa. He explains that the jack-in-box “es el conflicto entre

dos porfías, de las que la puramente mecánica acaba por ceder ante la otra y nos proporciona así un entretenimiento. Un entretenimiento del mismo género se da el gato cuando juega con el ratón y lo deja escapar para agarrarlo de un zarpazo” (72). Bergson then extends this idea to the theater, “Pasando ahora al teatro, tendríamos que empezar por el guiñol. El comisario se presenta en escena y recibe al instante, como es lógico, un garrotazo que lo hace caer al suelo. Se incorpora y un nuevo garrotazo vuelve a tumbarlo. Se levanta y cae” (72). The philosopher expands on this principle to include

un resorte moral, una idea que después de expresada, permanece por un momento comprimida para volver a manifestarse de nuevo; una ola de palabras que se arroja y se estrella contra un dique y al punto se rehace con redoblada vehemencia. En éste, como en el anterior ejemplo, tendremos la imagen de una f uerza que porfía y de otra terquedad que la combate. Pero habremos salido del guiñol y entrado en la comedia propiamente dicha, por lo que esta imagen no será ya tan material. (72)

Thus, Bergson concludes that repetition contributes to comedy: “Ajustémonos

más aún a la idea del resorte que se estira, se encoge y vuelve a estirarse. De su esencia

obtendremos la repetición, que es uno de los procedimientos más comunes de la comedia

clásica” (72). Unamuno also utilizes this technique, for example, when Don Avito’s

inner voice tells him at various times throughout the novel: “Has caído, Avito, has

caído.” In Un pobre hombre rico, too, Unamuno repeats certain word-plays throughout

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the narrative. For example, vacante reappears innumerable times and in varying

contexts. When the protagonist learns that the woman whom he has loved for years is

now a widow and therefore available, he flees the scene, “pensando en el vacante” (89).

For Bergson, repetition can be not only “una palabra o una frase repetida por un personaje, sino una situación, una combinación de hechos, que con pequeñas variantes, se

reproducen en muchas circunstancias, cortando la marcha cambiante de la vida” (78). He

observes that this method is used extensively in contemporary farce: “Uno de los más conocidos, consiste en llevar un grupo de personajes a través de los más diversos ambientes, y hacer renacer allí, en circunstancias siempre diferentes, una misma serie de

hechos y desgracias cuya correspondencia sea mutuamente simétrica” (78). Whatever technique is used, Bergson stresses that the objective remains the same in all cases,

“conseguir lo que llamamos mecanización de la vida” (81). This idea is reiterated throughout all of Bergson’s essays on laughter.

Perhaps the most relevant to the present study in this essay is the last section, that which deals with “palabras cómicas.” The philosopher immediately makes a distinction between comedy which is expressed through words and that which is created by language itself: “Haya tal vez algo de artificio en querer encuadrar en una categoría especial lo cómico de las palabras, dado que la mayoría de los efectos cómicos estudiados hasta aquí son provocados por la intervención de palabras. Pero débese distinguir entre lo cómico expresado por las palabras y el creado por el lenguaje” (82). One of the principal differences, maintains Bergson, is that the former can be translated to another language while the latter cannot: “El primero puede traducirse a otro idioma, aun perdiendo gran parte de su relieve al pasar a otra sociedad distinta por hábitos, por literatura, y sobre todo 85

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por asociaciones de ideas. El segundo, por lo general, no puede traducirse, porque todo

lo que es se lo debe a la construcción de la frase o la selección de palabras” (82).

Bergson continues explaining this point: “El lenguaje no traduce ciertas distracciones de

los hombres o de los sucesos, sino que destaca las distracciones del lenguaje mismo, el

cual resulta así cómico por sí mismo” (82). The philosopher concludes that distraction

also plays an indispensable role in comedy based on languages, just as it does in other

types of humor: “El juego de palabras resulta cómico, porque indica siempre una

distracción momentánea del lenguaje” (87).

Certainly Unamuno’s word-play falls into the category of the untranslatable. For

instance, in Un pobre hombre rico one of the characters misunderstands the word

subconsciente and repeatedly says subcociente instead. It would be nearly impossible for

a translator to reproduce the same idea in a different language. Unamuno also invents

words, but since most often his inventions are based on words that exist in Spanish, it is

precisely the relationship between the existing word and the new one that makes it funny.

Even in the case of cognates, for example, the Spanish novela and the English “novel,”

the neologism nivola derived from the Spanish produces a comical effect not found in

one formed from the English equilavent.6 It may be for this reason that most critics who

write in English do not attempt to translate nivola. Also, although Olson suggests that

the reason that Amor y pedagogía was not translated into other languages until ninety-

four years after it was first published was because it was not taken seriously, the delay may be better explained by the fact that its humor made it extremely challenging to translate.

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Bergson also establishes a difference between lo cómico and lo ingenioso. First

he points out that “ni la persona que habla debe ser el motivo de la risa” (82). He

explains this further: “Estoy por creer que una palabra resulta cómica cuando nos reímos

de quien la dice, e ingeniosa cuando nos reímos de un tercero o de nosotros mismos”

(82). However, the philosopher immediately concedes that “lo más común es que no nos sea posible distinguir si la palabra es cómica o ingeniosa, resultando sencillamente risible” (82). Nevertheless, in spite of the audience’s inability to make this distinction, he

then describes in more detail what he means by ingeniosa:

Empecemos por distinguir dos significados de la palabra “ingenuo,” uno más amplio que el otro. En el sentido más amplio podríamos llamar ingenio a cierto dramático modo de pensar. En lugar de tratar las ideas como símbolos indiferentes, la persona de ingenio las ve, las escucha, y sobre todo hace que dialoguen entre ellas como si fueran personajes; hace que salgan a la escena y sale él también en parte. (82)

Based on this, Bergson sees something of a poet in every “persona de ingenio, como todo

buen lector tiene un algo inicial de comediante” (82-3). He then explains the other

definition of ingenio:

Cuando, en cambio, el ingenio consiste generalmente en ver las cosas sub specie theatri, es explicable que tienda a una cierta forma del arte dramático, es decir, a la comedia. De ahí, un concepto más exacto, el más interesante para la teoría de la risa. Entonces llamaremos ingenio a aquella disposición que tiende a trazar como de pasada algunas escenas de comedia, pero tan ligera, discreta y rápidamente, que todo haya terminado cuando apenas empecemos a notarlo. (83)

According to the philosohper, “Se toma una metáfora, una preposición, un razonamiento,

se vuelve contra el que fue su autor o pudo serlo, y así se le hace manifestar lo que no

dijo, acabando por quedar preso entre las redes del lenguaje” (83).

Another technique involved in the creation of comedy based on language is what

Bergson refers to as transposición, which for him is “al lenguaje corriente como la 87

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repetición es a la comedia” (87). Transposition here refers to a change in register of

language: “Basta combinar los hechos de manera que una escena determinada se

reproduzca entre idénticos personajes en circunstancias distintas, o entre distintos

personajes en circunstancias idénticas; haciendo repetir, por ejemplo, a los criados, en

lenguaje menos pulido, una escena ya acaecida entre sus amos” (87). The philosopher continues developing this point:

Imaginémoslas transportadas por un artificio a un nuevo medio, sin perder la relación existente entre ellas, o, en otros términos, si les exigimos que se expresen en otro estilo o se transporten a un tono completamente distinto, será el lenguaje el que dará lugar a la comedia, el lenguaje resultará lo cómico. No hace falta presentar las dos significaciones de la misma idea, es decir, es la transpuesta y la natural. Conocemos la significación natural, porque es evocada instintivamente por nuestra memoria, así que el esfuerzo de la invención cómica debe ser aplicado sólo y exclusivamente a la otra significación. Y no bien nos la presentan, la suplimos nosotros con la primera significación, la significación natural. (87-8)

One of the rules of comedy, then, originates in the passage cited above: “Se logrará un

efecto cómico siempre que se traslade a otro tono la significación de una idea” (88).

Bergson affirms that the examples of comedy based on the transposition of tone are almost infinite: “Tantos y tan distintos son los medios para realizar esta transposición, tan rico en variedad de tonos es el lenguaje, por tal número de fases puede pasar lo cómico, desde la más grotesca bufonada hasta las más elegantes formas de la ironía y del humor, que renunciamos a la tarea de enumerarlas todas” (88). He does, however, observe that it is possible to distinguish between “dos tonos extremos, el solemne y el familiar, y por el simple traslado de uno de estos tonos al otro, conseguir los mayores efectos. De ahí dos direcciones contrarias de las fantasías cómicas” (88).

For Bergson, parody results from the transposition from a formal to a familiar tone: “Cuando la transposición se realiza de lo solemne a lo familiar, da lugar a la 88

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parodia, cuyo efecto se extenderá hasta aquellos casos en que se expresa una idea en

términos familiares cuando debiera ser expresada en otro tono” (88). Without doubt,

parody is one of the principal techniques used by Unamuno, who at time even parodies

himself. Bergson believes that it was this type of transposition “que sugirió a algunos

filósofos, y especialmente a Alejandro Bain,7 la idea de una definición de lo cómico por

la degradación. A juicio de ellos lo ridículo se produce ‘cuando una idea elevada se presenta como mediocre’” (88, note added). He is quick to add, however, that degradation is only one posible result of the technique of transposition: “la degradación no es sino una de los aspectos de la transposición, y ésta no es más que uno de los medios por los que puede suscitarse la risa” (88). Bergson, however, does not seem to be a proponent of humor based on the degradation of others and suggests that comedy be sought through other means: “Siendo los medios muchos más, el origen de la risa debe buscarse en más alto paraje. Y sin que sea preciso ir tan lejos, fácilmente se advierte que si consigue lo cómico con la transposición de lo solemne a lo familiar, de lo mejor a lo peor, aún podrá lográrselo en mayor grado con transposición inversa” (88).

When the transposition of the familiar to the formal is realized, exaggeration is one of the possible results: “Cuando se habla de cosas pequeñas como si fueran grandes, se dice en términos corrientes que se ‘exagera.’ La exageración resulta cómica toda vez que se prolonga y especialmente cuando es sistemática, apareciendo entonces verdaderamente como un procedimiento de transposición” (88). Bergson observes that some writers even define comedy as exaggeration: “Tan grande es su vis (sic) cómica que algunos definieron lo cómico por la exageración, así como otros lo habían definido por la degradación” (88). For the philosopher, however, both are only components of a larger 89

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category of humor, but he does recognize the importance of exaggeration as a medium of

the comical: “Pero una forma por demás singular es la exageración, de la que ha nacido el

poema heroicómico, género un tanto gastado, es cierto, pero cuyos resabios se hallan en

cuantos son propensos a la exageración metódica. Esto mismo podría decirse de la

fanfarronada que nos hace reír más de una vez por su aspecto heroicómico” (88-9).

Many instances of humor in Unamuno’s work have their origin in exaggeration.

Bergson distinguishes two main forms of transposition from the familiar to the

formal, “según que se efectúe sobre el ‘tamaño’ o sobre el ‘valor’ de los objetos” (88).

When the effect is related to size, the result is exaggeration (discussed above). The

effect related to value is seen, for example, when a writer gives “forma honorable a una

idea que no lo es, hablar de un oficio bajo o de una escabrosa conducta en términos de la

mayor respectability, resulta, por lo general, cómico” (89). The philosopher uses an

English word here, he explains, “porque la cosa misma es muy británica” (89) and

examples of this can be found throughout British literature. At times, explains Bergson,

“bastará una sola palabra, siempre que ella nos deje vislumbrar un sistema de

transposición ya corriente en cierto medio o nos muestre la inmoralidad como una

organización moral. Recordaré tan sólo esta advertencia de un alto funcionario que en

una novela de Gogol reconviene a un subalterno, ‘Robas demasiado para un funcionario

de tu categoría’” (89).8 In summary, there exist two extremes: “lo grandísimo y lo

pequeñísimo, lo mejor y lo peor, y entre ambos términos puede realizarse la transposición

en uno u otro sentido. Reduciendo paulatinamente esta distancia, se lograrían términos

entre los cuales el contraste sería cada vez menos duro mientras los efectos cómicos de la

transposición serían cada vez más sutiles” (89). 90

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Bergson considers humor and irony to be contrasting results of transposition. He

suggests that the transposition may transition “de lo real a lo ideal, de lo que es a aquello

que debiera ser” (89) and “también puede hacerse la transposición en las dos direcciones

inversas” (89). Next, the philosopher explains:

Algunas veces será suficiente expresar lo que debiera ser, simulando creer que esa es la realidad, y en esto consiste la ironía; otras, en cambio, se describirá minuciosamente lo que es, fingiendo creer que realmente así deberían ser las cosas. Esto es el procedimiento usado más frecuentemente por el humor, que por esta definición viene a ser el reverso de la ironía. Una y otro son formas de la sátira; pero mientras que la ironía es de carácter oratorio, en el humor hay un aspecto científico. (89)

Judging by the above definition, Unamuno makes use of both humor and irony. Bergson

continues his distinction between the two:

La ironía se acentúa dejándose exaltar cada vez más por la idea del bien que debería existir, y de ahí que la ironía pueda caldearse por dentro hasta transformarse en una especie de elocuencia reprimida. En cambio el humor, se recarga para descender cada vez más hacia lo hondo del mal y anotar sus particularidades con una indiferente frialdad, cada vez mayor. (89)

Bergson affirms that many writers “han manifestado que al humor agradan los términos

concretos, los detalles técnicos y los hechos exactos” (89), but, he concludes, “eso no

sería un rasgo accidental del humor, sino su misma esencia” (89). The philosopher

believes that “Todo humorista es un moralista que se oculta bajo el disfraz del sabio, algo

así como un anatomista que realizara disecciones solamente con el fin de provocar

nuestra repugnancia hacia algo, mientras que el humor, en el estricto sentido de la

palabra, tal como aquí la empleamos, es una verdadera transposición de lo moral a lo

científico” (89). In this sense, Unamuno more closely approaches the profile of a

humorist. One of the characteristics of Amor y pedagogía, for example, is its scientific

basis, and although the writer makes fun of it, the burla is realized with detailed scientific 91

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accuracy. Without a foundation of such knowledge, it would have been difficult for

Unamuno to create such a humorous narrative.

“Ensayo tercero,” subtitled “Los carácteres cómicos,” consists of an analysis of

comical fictitious characters. This, says Bergson, is “el capítulo más importante de

nuestra obra” (91). Several of the characteristics of comedy studied above are reiterated in this final essay, but they are applied specifically to the characters that inhabit the pages of literature. For example, an isolated and distracted personality as well as inability to evoke the empathy of the reader are seen as essential for a comical character, “[…] desde

donde el prójimo ya no logra conmovernos, empieza la comedia. Y empieza con lo que

podríamos definir ‘la rigidez contra la vida social.’ Resulta cómico todo personaje que

siguiendo automáticamente su camino, no se cuida de tomar contacto con sus semejantes.

De ahí la risa que debe enmendar su distracción y sacarlo de su enajenamiento” (91).

Without doubt, many of Unamuno’s characters fit the above description. Bergson especially emphasizes the incompatibility of laughter and emotion:

Hemos visto que lo cómico se dirige a la inteligencia pura: la risa y la emoción son incompatibles. Mostradme un defecto, todo lo leve que deseéis; si me lo señaláis de manera que despierte mi simpatía, mi temor o mi compasión, todo habrá acabado y ya no podré reírme. Presentadme, en cambio, un vicio grave y hasta repelido por todos; si con artificio lográis que no me conmueva, acabaréis por volverlo cómico. Con esto, no quiero decir que entonces el vicio será cómico, sino que a partir de entonces podrá llegar a serlo. Es indispensable que no me conmueva. Es la única condición realmente necesaria, aunque no sea suficiente. (93)

Many examples of characters whose defects fail to evoke the reader’s sympathy can be

found in Unamuno’s narratives. For example, Augusto Pérez in Niebla, troubled soul

that he is, is laughable. His problems are so extreme and exaggerated that the reader

simply does not find him real and thus does not become emotionally involved with him. 92

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The same can be said of Apolodoro, the “genius” son of Don Avito as well as the

characters in La novela de don Sandalio and Un pobre hombre rico. Even though the

reader recognizes that a character is socially handicapped, his problems do not evoke the

reader’s sympathy.

Bergson nevertheless acknowledges the difficulty that a writer confronts when he

attempts to create a character que no conmueva:

El problema es complejo. Para resolverlo totalmente deberíamos engolfarnos en un nuevo orden de investigaciones; deberíamos hacer el análisis de la simpatía artificial que llevamos al teatro; establecer en qué oportunidad aceptamos y en qué otra rehusamos participar en alegrías y pesares imaginarios. Existe el arte de acallar nuestra sensibilidad, adormecerla y hacerla soñar, como se hace con una persona magnetizada. Pero existe también el de entibiar nuestra simpatía en el preciso momento en que podría manifestarse, de manera que por seria que sea la situación no se la pueda tomar en serio. (93)

Unamuno masterfully accomplishes this in the death scenes in many of his novels. The deaths of Augusto in Niebla as well as that of Apolodoro not only fail to arose any sense

of grief but prove to be comical. Bergson considers this to be an ability of which the

writer remains unaware: “Este último arte dispone de dos procedimientos que el autor

cómico aplica más o menos inconscientemente” (93). One of the techniques referred to

above “consiste en aislar en el espíritu del personaje el sentimiento que se le aplica, para

hacer de éste, algo así como un estado parasitario, cuya existencia resulte independiente”

(93). He then adds that in “la emoción que nos deja insensibles y que está destinada a

ser risible, hay siempre una rigidez que no le permite entrar en relación con lo demás del

alma en la cual se desarrolla. En un momento dado, podrá provocarse esta rigidez por

medio de movimientos de títeres y suscitar entonces la risa, pero nuestra simpatía había

sido ya reducida de antemano: ¿cómo ponerse al unísono con un espíritu que no lo está

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consigo mismo?” (93-4). Certainly one of the characteristics of many of Unamuno’s

characters is their lack of self-knowledge, which creates an often comical dissociative

state between their inner life and their actions. They are so out-of-touch with themselves

that many of them question their very existence. Bergson summarizes this section

reaffirming that “un carácter, bueno o malo, pero siempre insociable, podrá llegar a ser

risible. […] Cualquier situación por grave o leve que sea, podrá hacernos reír, siempre que nos sea presentada por el autor de manera que no nos conmueva. La insociabilidad del personaje, y la insensibilidad del espectador, son, en fin, las dos condiciones indispensables” (95). Another technique (discussed previously) that is used by writers to avoid emotional involvement between audience and character is the automatismo found in comical fictional entities:

Nada hay esencialmente cómico, sino lo que viene ejecutado automáticamente. Se refiere a un defecto o a una buena cualidad, cómico existe cuando el personaje se abandona sin saberlo, involuntario el ademán, inconsciente la palabra. Toda distracción es risible, y cuanto más profunda sea ella, tanta mayor altura alcanzará la comedia. No se podría imaginar en el mundo nada más cómico que una distracción sistemática como la de Don Quijote: es lo cómico mismo sacado lo más cerca posible de su origen. Cualquier otro personaje, por consciente que puedan ser todas sus palabras, y todos sus actos resultará cómico si existe en él un aspecto de su personalidad que él mismo desconoce, y por donde se escapa a sí mismo. Sólo por ese aspecto es por lo que nos mueve a risa. (95)

When Don Avito ends up attracted to Leonicia’s friend instead of the woman he had scientifically determined to be the best mother to his genius-to-be, it exemplifies the state described above. Because he supposedly has planned everything scientifically, it is comical to see him experience spontaneous physical attraction to someone. Also, Don

Sandalio’s attempts to avoid human contact are equally laughable when he ends up at the casino to avoid being alone.

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La vanidad, though perhaps not an essential trait of a character of comedy, is

found frequently in the personalities of comical fictional entities, and its relationship to

fear of ridicule makes it relevant to the present study. Bergson describes vanity as the

“defecto más superficial y más profundo a la vez” (103). He explains further:

A pesar de no ser casi un vicio, gravitan a su alrededor todos los vicios, y los que, al refinarse, tienden a volverse exclusivamente agentes capaces de satisfacerla. Fruto de la vida social, no es más que una admiración de sí misma, fundada en la admiración que supone suscitar en los demás. Es más natural, más universalmente innata que el mismo egoísmo, pues éste suele ser derrotado por la Naturaleza, mientras que sólo la reflexión nos permitirá vencer a la vanidad. Nadie, según creo, es modesto de nacimiento, siempre que no se la quiera llamar modesta (sic) a una cierta timidez exclusivamente física y que está más próxima al orgullo de lo que a primera vista aparenta. La verdadera modestia no puede ser más que el resultado de una reflexión sobre la vanidad, naciendo del espectáculo de las ilusiones ajenas y del temor al propio extravío. Tiene algo de una circunspección científica de lo que acerca de uno pensarán los otros. Formada de correcciones y retoques, es, en una palabra, una virtud adquirida. (104)

Bergson makes an important point when he suggests that although a timid person may not

appear to be vain, such timidity may be closer to pride. Unamuno’s characters do not

seem to be vain in the usual sense, but their extreme shyness may be a symptom of the

pride to which the philosopher refers above. The Basque writer affirms this connection

in a letter to “Francisco Bermejo y compañeros” in which he discusses the protagonist of

Nada menos que todo un hombre, “el caso de espíritu que quise revestir en mi Alejandro

Gómez, el plebeyo lleno de cinismo, henchido de confianza propia, locamente enamorado

de una mujer, pero, en el fondo, tímido y vergonzoso, y por timidez—que es orgullo, no

queriendo confesar, como si de una debilidad se tratase, toda la violencia de su pasión”

(qtd. in Olson 109). Perhaps Emeterio in Un pobre hombre rico begins to acquire the

modesty described by Bergson, but, as observed above, most of Unamuno’s characters

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lack the introspection necessary to develop it; thus, they possess only a type of false

modesty. Most importantly, however, Bergson explains:

No es nada fácil indicar el punto en que el cuidado de la modestia se aparta del temor al ridículo. Este temor y aquel cuidado, tienen, sin duda, un origen común. La teoría de la risa recibirá una enorme luz de un estudio completo de las ilusiones que llevan consigo la vanidad y el ridículo. Nos haría ver cómo la risa cumple con matemática regularidad una de sus funciones esenciales, la de hacer que el amor propio se despierte y, atrayéndolo a su plena conciencia, haga que los caracteres alcancen al mayor grado posible de sociabilidad. Nos haría ver, también que la vanidad, a pesar de ser hija de la vida social, resulta un estorbo para la sociedad, como ciertos venenos que segregados constantemente por nuestro organismo, acabarían por intoxicarle si otras secreciones no sobrevivieran a neutralizar sus consecuencias. La risa cumple sin cesar un trabajo de este género. Es por eso que podría decirse que la risa es el remedio específico de la vanidad y que la vanidad es el defecto esencialmente risible. (104)

If vanity can be defined as the essential concern of a person overly preoccupied with

himself, but not simply egotistical, as Bergson distinguishes above, then certainly

Emeterio of Un pobre hombre rico fits such a description. Later, as he learns to laugh at himself, the laughter itself seems to dissolve his vanity, thus serving as the remedio

described by Bergson.

In the last essay, Bergson not only continues describing the causes of laugher, but

also dedicates some space to manifestations of the comical, one of the principal ones

being that of the absurd. First, he clearly distinguishes cause from effect:

“El absurdo, que se halla en lo cómico, no es un absurdo cualquiera, sino un absurdo bien

definido. Nunca engendra lo cómico, sino se deriva de él. Es efecto, y no causa; efecto

particularísimo en el cual está reflejada la naturaleza especial de la causa que lo provoca”

(106). The philosopher also affirms: “Acepto que el buen sentido consiste en saber

recordar, pero más aún en saber olvidar. Es el espíritu que se esfuerza en adaptarse y a

volverse a adaptar incesantemente, cambiando de idea al variar de objeto; es una 96

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movilidad de la inteligencia regulada por la movilidad da las cosas; es la movilidad

continua de nuestra atención en la vida” (106-7).

This effort to adapt to constant change coincides with Unamuno’s view of life as

an ongoing creative process. And, as Unamuno does so frequently, Bergson turns to Don

Quijote to illustrate his point:

He aquí a Don Quijote que marcha a la guerra. Como ha leído en sus libros que a todo caballero se le enfrentan gigantes con quienes debe combatir, necesita un gigante. Esta idea es como un recuerdo privilegiado que tomó asiento en su espíritu, y allí sigue al acecho, inmóvil, a la espera de una oportunidad para saltar fuera y hacerse carne en algo: es un recuerdo que tiene necesidad de materializarse. El primer objeto que se le presente, cualquiera que sea, aunque no tenga sino un muy lejano parecido, tomará todo el aspecto de esos gigantes que los libros le hicieron concebir. Por lo tanto, allí donde nosotros vemos molinos de viento, Don Quijote verá gigantes. Esto es cómico y absurdo. Pero no es un absurdo vulgar. (107)

The philosopher observes that in the above is found “una inversión verdaderamente rara del sentido común, y que consiste en pretender amoldar los objetos a las ideas y no las ideas a los objetos” (107). This consists, he says, “en que uno vea delante de sí mismo lo que piensa, en vez de pensar en lo que ve” (107). He then explains how common sense usually functions: “Al sentido común hace menester que todos los recuerdos permanezcan en su lugar. El recuerdo apropiado responderá entonces de inmediato al llamamiento de la actualidad, y servirá para su dócil interpretación” (107). He notes how this differs from the process seen in Don Quijote:

En Don Quijote ocurre lo contrario: un grupo de recuerdos manda sobre todos los demás, y hasta se impone a la misma persona. En tal caso será la realidad que tendrá que plegarse a la imaginación, y, para darle cuerpo, tendría que reducirse a servir. Forjada que sea la ilusión, Don Quijote arrolla muy razonablemente, aceptando todas sus consecuencias, actuando con la precisión y la seguridad del sonámbulo que ejecuta su sueño. Es éste el origen del error, y es ésta la lógica especial que rige el absurdo. Ahora, pues, ¿esta lógica es exclusiva de Don Quijote? (107) 97

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Bergson immediately answers his own question:

El personaje cómico, ya lo hemos visto, peca siempre por terquedad espiritual o característica, por automatismo o por distracción. En la base de lo risible hay una clase de rigidez que obliga a seguir rectamente la senda, sin oír ni querer oír. Muchas escenas cómicas del teatro de Moli re podrían reducirse a este sencillísimo tipo: Un personaje llevado por su idea y que ella constantemente retorna, a pesar de todas las interrupciones. El paso del que no quiere escuchar al que no quiere ver, y por último, al que sólo ve lo que le place es insensible. El obstinado acaba por amoldar las cosas a su idea, en lugar de ajustar ésta a las cosas. Todo personaje risible sigue, pues, el camino de ilusión que acabamos de describir. Don Quijote nos muestra el tipo general del absurdo risible. (107)

Certainly, many of Unamuno’s fictional entities can be characterized by their desire to mold the world to their ideas. This is true of Don Avito when he refuses to see the reality of what he is doing to Apolodoro and also in the case of the letter writer in La novela de

Don Sandalio when he insists on maintaining the ideal image of Don Sandalio that he has created.

Bergson also discusses a type of madness related to the comical. Although he grants that true madness is not a laughable matter, he feels that there exists a certain kind of locura which is a manifestation of comedy:

¿Existe un nombre apropiado para esta inversión del sentido común? La hallamos, crónica o aguda en ciertas manifestaciones de la locura, y se parece en más de un punto a la idea fija. Pero, por ser enfermedades, ni la locura ni la idea fija, nos moverán nunca a risa. Nos inspiran piedad, y ya sabemos que hay incompatibilidad entre la risa y la emoción. Para que una locura sea risible, deberá ser una locura que pueda conciliarse con la salud general del espíritu, una locura normal, si se nos permite la expresión. (107)

Unamuno, too, categorizes madness, identifying two different types. For him, what

Bergson refers to as locura normal would most likely be the kind found in a person who is truly alive in every moment and manifests the creative energy of life. Bergson describes this as the kind of madness found in dreams: 98

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Pues bien; existe un estado normal del espíritu, cabal imitación de la locura, en el cual hay asociaciones de ideas idénticas a las de la alineación mental y una lógica singular como la de la idea fija: el estado del sueño. Si nuestro análisis es acertado, podremos resumirlo en el teorema siguiente: “El absurdo risible es de la misma naturaleza que el de los sueños.” (107)

Akin to Unamuno, Bergson asserts that one of the characteristics of laughter is that it

provides a sort of liberation from logic, or at least from normal, rigid logic. Again, the philosopher associates this directly with the dream state:

Mostraré ante todo, un cierto relajamiento de las reglas del razonamiento. Los razonamientos que nos hacen reír, son aquellos que, no obstante saber que son falsos, podríamos considerarlos verdaderos al oírlos en sueños. Son una imitación del verdadero razonamiento, lo suficientemente aproximada como para engañar a un espíritu adormecido. No son del todo ilógicos, pero tienen lógica sin tono, por cuya razón nos inhibe del trabajo mental. Muchos rasgos de ingenio son razonamientos tan abreviados, que nos dan sólo el punto de partida y la conclusión. Estos juegos de espíritu marchan hacia el juego de palabras, a medida que más superficiales se van haciendo las relaciones que ellos establecen entre las ideas. Paulatinamente acabaremos por prescindir del significado de las palabras que oímos, para prestar sólo atención a su sonido. ¿No podrían, acaso, aproximarse al sueño esas escenas tan cómicas en que un personaje va repitiendo al revés las frases que otro le dice al oído? (108)

Interestingly, Bergson also perceives word-play as dream-like logic. This logic seems to be connected to the kaleidoscope of ideas that come together in a dream, creating an interconnection between ideas that would not normally exhibit any sort of interrelationship.

The second manifestation of humor is what Bergson refers to as obsesiones cómicas, which are also closely tied to the obsessions that occur in dreams. These he describes with the following analogy:

¿A quién no le ha pasado de tener una misma visión en varios sueños sucesivos que tomaba en cada uno de ellos una significación simpática, de manera que estos sueños sólo mantenían entre sí ese punto de contacto? En el teatro y en la novela, los efectos toman a veces esta forma especial; algunos de ellos son ecos de sueños. Y tal vez pudiéramos decir lo mismo de los estribillos de muchas 99

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canciones: se repiten, con obstinación, siempre iguales al final de todas las estrofas y siempre con significado distinto. (108)

Again, although Unamuno does not explicitly relate the obsessions of his characters to

dreams, his fictional entities definitely are marked by comical obsessions (which will be

studied in detail in another chapter of the present study). Bergson continues explaining

this point: “No es raro advertir en el sueño un crescendo especial, una excentricidad que

se va acentuando a medida que aquél avanza en su desarrollo. Una primera concesión

arrancada a la lógica, lleva al arrastre una segunda, que a su vez arrastra otra más

importante, y así sucesivamente hasta el absurdo final” (108). The philosopher later

clarifies the connection between the relaxing of logic and dreams: “Cuando el personaje

cómico sigue sistemáticamente su idea acaba por pensar, hablar y obrar como en sueños.

¿Y qué es el sueño sino un reposo?” (110). In other words, Bergson seems to be using

the analogy of a dream so that his reader may better understand the state of mind that he

describes.

Also related to the idea of rest is Bergson’s definition of comedy as relaxation or

a respite from the work of adaptation to society:

Decíamos que en la base de lo risible hay una continua tendencia a dejarse resbalar por una pendiente que es casi siempre la de la costumbre; cesa uno de adaptarse y readaptarse a la sociedad; descansa de la atención que exige la vida. Se parece uno a un distraído. Es una distracción más de la voluntad que de la inteligencia, pero distracción al fin, y en consecuencia, pereza. Rompiendo con las conveniencias como antes había roto con la lógica, se cree uno entregado a un juego, y aquí también nos sentimos al punto impulsados a aceptar la invitación a la pereza. Asociándonos al juego, descansamos de la fatiga de vivir. (110)

However, Bergson is quick to warn, the respite can only be momentary: “Hace como un

padre que, olvidándolo todo, participara en las diabluras de su hijo, pero que

recobrándose en seguida procediera a corregirlo” (110). Thus, Bergson sees comedy as 100

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having a corrective function: “La risa es, ante todo, una corrección, porque, al humillar,

produce una penosa impresión en la persona sobre la que recae” (110). He explains that

laughter has its origins as

un mecanismo que la Naturaleza—o lo que viene a ser lo mismo, una antiquísima costumbre de la vida social, ha montado en nosotros. Y es un mecanismo que funciona de por sí, sin tener tiempo de pararse para ver dónde va. La risa castiga ciertos defectos, casi de la misma manera en que la enfermedad castiga ciertos excesos, hiriendo a inocentes y respetando a culpables, con la mirada puesta siempre a un resultado general, en la imposibilidad de examinar por separado cada caso. (111)

Thus, the philosopher does not believe that laughter is always fair, “y repito que no debe ser tampoco buena” (111). He concludes that laughter at times “Tiene la misión de intimidar humillando, y no la llenaría si la Naturaleza, en previsión de este efecto, no hubiera proveído hasta al mejor de los hombres, de un pequeño fondo de maldad, o por lo menos, de malicia” (111).

Bergson, in the last paragraphs of his final essay on laughter, uses the ocean as a metaphor for laughter:

Luchan así las olas sin cesar en la superficie del océano, mientras que en el fondo reina una profunda paz. Al chocar entre sí, al empujarse unas a otras, las olas buscan su equilibrio. Una blanca, alegre y sutil espuma, dibuja el vaivén de sus contornos, y de cuando en cuando, al retirarse la ola, algo de esta espuma queda sobre la arena de la playa. Un niño que juega cerca de allí, corre presuroso a cogerla, y se asombra al no hallar un instante después sino unas pocas gotas de agua en la palma de su mano. Y es un agua bastante más salada y bastante más amarga que la de la ola que la dejó. Tal como esta espuma brota la risa. Anota en lo externo de la vida social las revoluciones superficiales. Diseña por un instante la movilidad de esos sacudimientos. También ella es una espuma a base de sal, y centellea como la espuma del licor. Se le llama alegría. Pero el filósofo, a recogerla para saborearla, hallará a veces una buena dosis de amargura en una bien reducida cantidad de materia. (111)

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The above passage is reminiscent in some ways of Unamuno’s theory of intrahistoria, in

which the routine of daily life is the underlying calm which endures throughout the

surface upheaval of wars and revolutions. Although the Basque writer does not directly

connect intrahistoria with the origin of humor, the characters of his novel Paz en la

guerra (set during the last of the Carlist Wars) do exhibit at times a sense of humor and joyfulness even in the midst of war, so much so that Franz included this novel in his

dissertation on humor in Unamuno (discussed in Chapter II).

In conclusion, several components of Bergson’s theory on laughter prove relevant

to the present study. For example, fictional characters with whom the audience does not

identify, along with a certain social rigidity which isolates and impedes them from adapting to society, inhabit many of Unamuno’s narratives, thus contributing to the

humor of the novel. This is also closely tied to the comedy described by Bergson that

originates in characters whose ability to adapt to society has been compromised, a defect

seen in many of Unamuno’s fictional entities. Unamuno also masterfully creates fictional

characters que no conmueven, a technique which the French philosopher considers to be

extremely difficult. Bergson also emphasizes the comical effects caused by the

repetition of the same error or the same situation, another technique of which Unamuno

makes frequent use. The French philosopher’s assertion concerning the untranslatability

of humor from one language to another also has particular relevance to the present study

since much of Unamuno’s humor has its origins in language itself.

Other parallels may be drawn between Unamuno’s humor and Bergson’s theory

on laughter. For instance, Bergson explicitly opposes the use of degradation of others to

produce comical situations, and Unamuno, though he most definitely utilizes parody 102

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(including self-parody) and irony (both techniques described by Bergson as forms of transposición), does not resort to degradation or outright cruelty to create comedy.

Bergson also ties together vanity, pride, and timidity, suggesting that shy self-conscious characters are really vain rather than truly modest, and many of Unamuno’s characters exhibit such false modesty. The comical manifestations of the obsessive and the absurd observed by Bergson also abound in the Basque writer’s work and will be studied comprehensively in following chapters of this study. Finally, however, it is important to keep in mind, that although several components of Bergson’s theory may coincide with certain characteristics found in Unamuno’s work, the inclusion of such theory in the present study by no means implies that Unamuno attempted to mold his novels to this or any other ideology.

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NOTES

1 In Historia de la filosofía (1986), Julián Marías offers the following information about Bergson: “Con Bergson nos salimos ya del siglo XIX para entrar en el XX. Sus raíces y la primera etapa de su formación están en la pasada centuria; pero tanto su vida como el sentido último de su filosofía pertenecen ya a nuestra época o, por mejor decir, son un típico momento de transición, como el resto de la filosofía de ese tiempo: un paso más en el camino de la superación del positivismo para volver a la nueva metafísica. Henri Bergson nació en París en 1859, y murió en los primeros días del mes de enero en 1941. Fue profesor de filosofía en el Liceo de Angers, en el de Clermont‐Ferrand, en la Universidad de esta ciudad, en el Collѐge de France, la más alta institución francesa. En los últimos años, la ancianidad lo obligó a una vida retirada” (377‐8).

2Marías points out that Unamuno “por razones históricas, por su pertenencia a una determinada generación, está inmerso en el irracionalismo que he señalado reiteradamente. Como Kierkegaard, como William James, como Bergson, cree que la razón no sirve para conocer la vida; que al intentar aprehenderla en conceptos fijos y rígidos la despoja de su fluidez temporal, la mata. Por supuesto, estos filósofos hablan de la razón pura, de la razón físico‐matemática. Esta convicción hace que Unamuno se desentienda de la razón para volverse a la imaginación, que es, dice, la facultad más sustancial. Ya que no se puede apresar racionalmente la realidad vital, va a intentarlo imaginativamente, viviéndola y previviendo la muerte en el relato. Al darse cuenta de que la vida humana es algo temporal y que se hace, algo que se cuenta o se narra, historia, en suma, Unamuno usa la novela—una forma original de novela, que puede llamarse existencial o, mejor todavía, personal—como método de conocimiento. Esta novela constituye un ensayo fecundísimo de aprehensión inmediata de la realidad humana, insuficiente, desde luego, pero sobre la cual podría operar una metafísica rigurosa, que no se encuentra en Unamuno” (380).

3 Marías continues his observations of Bergson, “Pero hay que hacer observar que Bergson entiende la vida más en un sentido biológico que en un sentido biográfico e histórico, con lo cual no toca la peculiaridad más esencial de la vida humana. El pensamiento de Bergson necesita completarse en este sentido para alcanzar plena eficacia. Y, por otra parte, es también menester superar el carácter de irracionalidad que amenaza toda intuición. La filosofía es saber riguroso y, por tanto, concepto y razón. Esta razón tendrá que pensar el nuevo objeto que es la vida, en toda su fluidez y movilidad, y será distinta de la razón científica y matemática; pero siempre deberá ser razón. Esto lo ha visto con plena claridad Ortega, y por eso cuida de hablar siempre de una razón vital” (378).

4The protagonist of Abel Sánchez is an example of such a character as is that of San Manuel Bueno, mártir.

5A Spanish translation of Bergson’s essays has been used in the present study. Bergson originally wrote in French.

6Olson, however, has coined the adjective nivolesque though he continues to use nivola as the noun form. (The Great Chiasmus: Word and Flesh in the Novels of Unamuno)

7Alejandro Bain (1818‐1903) was a Scottish philosopher and educator.

8Nikolai Gogol (1809‐1852) was a Ukrainian‐born Russian writer.

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CHAPTER IV

THE NON-TRAGIC

The following is one of three chapters that discuss the various types of humor

found in Unamuno’s fiction. Turning first to what is meant by “tragic,” in order to more

clearly outline the “non-tragic,” in the Oxford Concise Dictionary of Literary Terms,

Chris Baldick explains that tragedy in literature is

a serious play (or, by extension, a novel) representing the disastrous downfall of a central character, the protagonist, most often leading to his death. The most tragic cases display a disproportion in scale between the protagonist’s initial error and the overwhelming destruction with which it is punished. The tragic effect usually depends on our awareness of admirable qualities—manifest or potential—in the protagonist, which are wasted terribly in the fated disaster. (260)

Bergson, who contrasts the tragic character also in order to more clearly define the

comical one, emphasizes that one of the principal traits of a tragic figure is the inability to change his/her behavior, even if aware of the inevitable demise that will be his/her fate by

continuing on the present path. On the other hand, a comic figure will at least attempt to

change his/her fate, though perhaps only superficially (see Chapter III). Thus, this

ability, or at least the intention, to bring about change may be essential to what

distinguishes the tragic from the non-tragic. The possibility of change is intimately tied

to the creation of hope, which in turn is related to lack of closure, one of the techniques

that Unamuno uses to play with his readers, as will be demonstrated below.

Departing from the premise asserted by both Franz and Olson that much of

Unamuno’s work is characterized by a lack of closure, which thereby creates hope, the

techniques that Unamuno uses to reduce the sense of tragedy will be examined. The non-

tragic is not necessarily humorous in the sense that it provokes laughter, but its 105

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pervasiveness throughout Unamuno’s work indicates that it complements other functions

and levels of humor. In addition and just as important, lack of closure serves as of the

techniques employed by Unamuno to play with the reader. Thus, the open-endedness of

much of his work further exemplifies la burla and el engaño in which Unamuno

continuously engages. The writer confirms the relationship between the non-tragic and

lack of closure when he states that Dante’s Divine Comedy is comedy precisely because

there is hope: “La del Dante era comedia, y no tragedia, porque había en ella esperanza”

(Cómo se hace una novela 166); and in his extensive study of Unamuno, Las mascaras de

lo trágico (1996), Pedro Cerezo Galán suggests that Unamuno searches for hope through

creation: “No en vano asentaba Unamuno la creación en el temple de la incertidumbre.

Para que haya esperanza, aunque sea intrépida y a la desesperada, se necesita no cerrar la puerta a la posibilidad, y mantener en vilo el ‘quizá,’ como una interrogación y un portillo sobre la nuda facticidad” (842). As discussed previously, Franz also maintains that one of the results of Unamuno’s paratexts is a reduction of the sense of tragedy, so much so that hope becomes the predominant motif. One of the purposes of this chapter, then, is to examine in detail this particular function of the paratexts.

As Franz and Olson point out, the language used by Unamuno, especially the recurrence of the chiasmus, also contributes to the non-tragic side of the writer. Both the paratexts and the chiasmus serve to create an ongoing story, that is, they contribute to a lack of closure. Since tragedy implies a definitive ending, the lack thereof effectively enables hope. Franz reiterates that lack of closure creates hope when he observes that

“the contradictory but endlessly reiterated strands produce a ceaseless dialogue that leaves the reader without closure. This lack of closure creates a space for hope” 106

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(Unamuno’s Paratexts 17). When Thomas Mermall studied the mystical rhetoric of

Unamuno’s La agonía de cristianismo in his article “Unamuno’s Mystical Rhetoric” and

later in “The Chiasmus: Unamuno’s Master Trope,” he concluded that the chiasmus serves as Unamuno’s main trope, functioning as his major linguistic and rhetorical resource for generating contradiction and paradox (246). Olson later uses Mermall’s conclusions as a point of departure for his own study:

Starting from the notions of paradox and the topos being all things, Mermall sought to show how Unamuno’s entire rhetorical process upholds the modernist version of that topos, and concluded that the purpose of the paradoxes and contradictions in his discourse is not nihilistic, but intended to shake his readers from complacency and make them aware how problematic knowledge and existence are. The function of chiasmus in carrying out this purpose is made clear in a chiasmus of Mermall’s own devising. He asserts that Unamuno’s rhetoric “engages the great topics of philosophical discourse, creating truth from doubt and doubt from truth.” (3) The chiasmus, according to Mermall, is an open form, which Unamuno uses to “avoid closure, sustain tension, dissociate terms, undermine identities, generate perpetual contradiction and affirm the eternal struggles between reason and faith” (246). When

Unamuno inverts an expression, he seems to be saying that two apparently opposing statements may be equally valid; thus, they may neutralize the comedy/tragedy dichotomy. Closely related to the chiasmus is the constant presence of cajas chinas in

Unamuno’s work. For Olson, “both are instances of what Unamuno had called ‘formas enchufadas unas en otras,’ forms embedded or enclosed in one another, and both imply a fundamental symmetry…the boxes might be regarded as a three-dimensional version of the chiasmus” (15). Certainly, multiple levels of fiction and of meaning are pervasive in

Unamuno’s work. How Unamuno uses the techniques discussed above to reduce the tragic sense in specific novels will be examined below.

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Cómo se hace una novela

This novel utilizes several literary techniques that serve to take away much of the sense of tragedy inherent in the novel.1 The caja china imagery here consists not only of a large number of boxes, but also several sets of boxes. One of the sets comprises the several layers of fiction/reality found in the novel. First of all, the fictional character

Jugo de la Raza is reading a novel and supposedly, when he finishes the novel, he will die along with the protagonist of the story. In addition to these two levels of fiction, that is, the fictional character reading fiction, the “novel” also contains factual (autobiographical) information about Unamuno’s real life in exile in France. By combining varying levels of discourse, Unamuno has blurred the line between fiction and reality and raised questions in the mind of the reader about the relationship between the two:

He dicho que nosotros, los autores, los poetas, nos ponemos, nos creamos, en todos los personajes poéticos que creamos, hasta cuando hacemos historia, cuando poetizamos, cuando creamos personas de que pensamos que existen en carne y hueso fuera de nosotros. ¿Es que mi Alfonso XIII de Borbón y Habsburgo- Lorena, mi Primo de Rivera, mi Martínez Anido, mi Conde de Romanones, no son otras tantas creaciones mías, partes de mí, tan mías como mi Augusto Pérez, mi Pachico Zabalbide, mi Alejandro Gómez y todas las demás criaturas de mis novelas? Todos los que vivimos principalmente de la lectura y en la lectura, no podemos separar de los personajes poéticos o novelescos a los históricos. Don Quijote es para nosotros tan real y efectivo como Cervantes o más bien éste tanto como aquél. (129)

This commentary occurs twelve pages before the reader even meets the protagonist of the novel, Jugo de la Raza. Thus, the reader begins to question whether or not he/she has embarked on the reading of a novel or a work of another genre. And, in fact, on the previous page, Unamuno has somewhat prepared the reader for this by asking the same question rhetorically: “[…] ¿no son, en rigor, todas las novelas que nacen vivas, autobiográficas y no es por esto por lo que se eternizan?” (128). He then answers the 108

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question affirmatively: “Sí, toda novela, toda obra de ficción, todo poema, cuando es vivo, es autobiográfico. Todo ser de ficción, todo personaje poético que crea un autor

hace parte del autor mismo. Y si éste pone en su poema un hombre de carne y hueso a

quien ha conocido, es después de haberlo hecho suyo, parte de sí mismo” (128).2 By immediately blurring the line between fiction and reality,3 Unamuno simultaneously

begins to blur the line between comedy and tragedy since it raises the possibility that this

boundary, too, may not be so clearly defined.

Before Unamuno finally introduces the reader to Jugo de la Raza, he states that

several months earlier he had thought about writing a novel about his experience in exile,

“Porque había imaginado, hace ya unos meses, hacer una novela en la que quería poner la

más íntima experiencia de mi destierro, crearme, eternizarme bajo los rasgos de

desterrado y de proscrito” (133). He then proposes how he is going to go about writing

it: “Y ahora pienso que la mejor manera de hacer esa novela es contar cómo hay que

hacerla. Es la novela de la novela, la creación de la creación. O Dios de Dios. Deus de

Deo” (133-4). Perhaps Unamuno included the Latin translation to show that the same

word can take on different forms depending on its function within the sentence.

Unamuno then describes how he came up with his protagonist:

Habría que inventar, primero, un personaje central que sería, naturalmente, yo mismo. Y a este personaje se empezaría por darle un nombre. Le llamaría U. Jugo de la Raza; U. es la inicial de mi apellido; Jugo el primero de mi abuelo materno y el del viejo caserío de Galdácano, en Vizcaya, de donde procedía; Larraza es el nombre, vasco también—como Larra, Larrea, Larrazábal, Larramendi, Larraburu, Larraga, Larreta…y tantos más, de mi abuela paterna. Lo escribo la Raza para hacer un juego de palabras— ¡gusto conceptista! aunque Lazarra signifique pasto. Y Jugo no sé bien qué, pero no lo que en español jugo. (134)

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After this dizzying array of names and explications, it is unlikely that the reader feels

prepared to read a tragedy. As Bergson observes, one of the differences between tragedy and comedy is that the comic protagonist more often than not represents a particular type of person, whereas a tragic hero is always unique: “A ningún poeta trágico se le ocurrirá

nunca agrupar alrededor de su héroe unos personajes secundarios que sean, diremos así,

copias simplificadas de aquél. El protagonista de una tragedia es una individualidad

única en su especie” (101). Thus, that Unamuno’s character could just as easily be

identified by any one of the many names that he proposes does not point to the concept of

a tragic hero.

When Jugo de la Raza feels bored one day he goes for a walk and finds a book in

a used bookstore “que apenas ha comenzado de leer, antes de comprarla, le gana

enormemente, le saca de sí, le introduce en el personaje de la novela—la novela de una

confesión autobiográfica romántica, le identifica con aquel otro, le da una historia, en fin”

(135). When he discovers the following words in one of the passages, “Cuando el lector

llegue al fin de esta dolorosa historia se morirá conmigo” (136), he vows to never touch it

again. Nevertheless, like Avito Carrascal in Amor y pedagogía who promises himself to

marry the appropriate woman to create the perfect child but immediately finds himself

falling in love with a friend of the woman that he originally had in mind, Jugo de la Raza

cannot resist continuing to read the book:

Pero el pobre Jugo de la Raza no podía vivir sin el libro, sin aquel libro; su vida, su existencia íntima, su realidad, su verdadera realidad estaba ya definitiva e irrevocablemente unida a la del personaje de la novela. Si continuaba leyéndolo, viviéndolo, corría el riesgo de morirse cuando se muriese el personaje novelesco, pero si no lo leía ya, si no vivía ya más el libro, ¿viviría? Y tras esto volvió a pasearse por las orillas del Sena, pasó una vez más el ante el mismo puesto de libros, lanzó una mirada de inmenso amor y de horror inmenso al volumen 110

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fatídico, después contempló las aguas del Sena y… venció. ¿O fue vencido? Pasó sin abrir el libro y diciéndose: “¿Cómo seguirá esa historia?, ¿cómo acabará?” Pero estaba convencido de que un día no sabría resistir y de que le sería menester tomar el libro y proseguir la lectura, aunque tuviese que morirse al acabarla. (137)

After this passage, the narrative returns to Unamuno’s life in exile in Hendaya, on the

border between France and Spain, from where the writer can see his native country, but

still is prohibited from crossing the border:

Y en tanto a la vista tantálica de mi España vasca, viendo salir y ponerse el sol por las montañas de mi tierra. Sale por ahí, ahora un poco a la izquierda de la Peña de Aya, las Tres Coronas, y desde aquí, desde mi cuarto, contemplo en la falda sombrosa de esa montaña la cola de caballo, la cascada de Uramildea. ¡Con qué ansia lleno a la distancia mi vista con la frescura de ese torrente! En cuanto pueda volver a España iré, Tántalo liberado, a chapuzarme en esas aguas de consuelo. (125)

The location of the town, like the dilemma experienced by Jugo de la Raza because of his identification with the character of the novel, also reflects an undefined boundary.

The blurring of the line between fiction and reality also exists on the literary level.

The text is full of references to books that really exist, such as Dante’s Divine Comedy and Balzac’s La piel de la zapa, the novel which Jugo de la Raza is reading. Having a

fictional character read a real, existing book (but which is also fiction, making it

metafiction) raises the level of complexity of the novel, and because it is also the same

book/novel that Unamuno’s reader is reading, it is a metanovel. Also intercalated

throughout the novel are excerpts from letters that the real Italian philosopher/politician

José Mazzini wrote in exile to the widow of another Italian exile, Judit Sidoli. In one of

these letters, Mazzini responds to Judit’s request that he write a novel: “Me es imposible

escribirla. Sabes muy bien que no podría separarme de ti, y ponerte en un cuadro sin que

se revelara mi amor… Y desde el momento en que pongo mi amor cerca de ti, la novela 111

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desaparece” (127). For Unamuno, having Mazzini’s letters seems to have been extremely

important, as he expresses when he affirms that “Mazzini es hoy para mí como Don

Quijote; ni más ni menos. No existe menos que éste y, por lo tanto, no ha existido menos

que él” (130). Here again the writer is mixing fiction with reality, and the reader may

question how a real person such as Mazzini can be equated with the fictional character

Don Quijote.

Embedded in the information about Unamuno’s life at the time, the reader finds

an anecdote related to censorship. Unamuno remarks that with all the censorship “cabría

escribir un libro que sería de gran regocijo si no fuese de congojoso bochorno. Lo que,

sobre todo, temen más es la ironía, la sonrisa irónica, que les parece desdeñosa. ‘!De

nosotros no se ríe nadie!’—dicen” (140). He then relates the story of a young recruit or

draftee, “despierto y sagaz, avisado e irónico, de carrera civil y liberal, y de los que

llamamos de cuota” (140). The captain of this soldier’s regiment

le temía y le repugnaba, procurando no producirse delante de él, pero una vez se vio llevado a soltar una de esas arengas patrióticas de ordenanza delante de él y los demás soldados. El pobre capitán no podía apartar sus ojos de los ojos y de la boca del despierto mozo, espiando su gesto, ni ello le dejaba acertar con los lugares comunes de su arenga, hasta que al cabo, azorado y azorado (sic), ya no dueño de sí, se dirigió al soldado diciéndolo: “qué, ¿se sonríe usted?” y el mozo: “no, mi capitán, no me sonrío,” y entonces el otro: “sí, ¡por dentro!” (140)

In addition to the obvious political commentary, the above story illustrates the fear of ridicule that Mary Bretz refers to in her discussion of Unamuno’s belief in the importance

of being able to laugh at oneself (discussed in Chapter II). The anecdote also functions as

another layer of the cajas chinas since it forms yet another narrative level.

Another characteristic of Cómo se hace una novela that contributes to its lack of

closure are the paratexts. Franz observes that this is “the only one of Unamuno’s novels 112

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with an allographic preface, where Jean Cassou’s ‘Retrato de Unamuno’ offers a view of

Unamuno that is markedly different from that offered by the author in his prologue” (51).

In his preface, Cassou states that Unamuno

no tiene ideas: es él mismo, las ideas que le dan los otros se hacen en él, al azar de los encuentros, al azar de sus paseos por Salamanca donde encuentra a Cervantes y a Fray Luis de León, al azar de esos viajes espirituales que le llevan a Port Royal, a Atenas o a Copenhague, patria de Sören Kierkegaard, al azar de ese viaje real que le trajo a París donde se mezcló, inocentemente y sin asombrarse ni un momento, a nuestro carnaval. (94-5).

For Cassou, the lack of Unamuno’s own doctrine and the ideas of others that he has

randomly assembled mean that the latter “no ha escrito más de comentarios; comentarios al Quijote, comentarios al Cristo de Veláquez, comentarios a los discursos de Primo de

Rivera. Sobre todo comentarios a todas esas cosas en cuanto afectan a la integridad de

don Miguel de Unamuno, a su conservación, a su vida terrestre y futura” (97). Cassou

also comments ironically on Unamuno’s hobby of making paper birds: “¿Y no atribuye

también la mayor importancia transcendental a ese arte de las pajaritas de papel que es su

triunfo?” (100) as well as his propensity for jugueteos filológicos: “¿Todo ese

conceptismo lo expresarán, lo prolongarán más esos jugueteos filológicos?” (100). The

novel also contains paratexts at the end, though not exactly in the usual form of

epilogues. That is, after the supposed end of the novel, indicated by “Terminado el

viernes 17 de junio de 1927 en Hendaya, Bajos Pirineos, frontera entre Francia y España”

(196), Unamuno later added seven dated entries, the first of which begins, “¿Terminado?

¡Qué pronto escribí esto! ¿Es que se puede terminar algo, aunque sólo sea una novela, de

cómo se hace una novela? Hace ya años, en mi primera mocedad, oí hablar a mis amigos

wagnerianos de melodía infinita. No sé bien lo que es esto, pero debe de ser como la vida

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Many examples of the blurring of definite lines can be found in the narrative.

Unamuno addresses Cassou directly in his “Comentario” that follows Cassou’s retrato:

“¡Ay, querido Cassou! con este retrato me tira usted de la lengua y el lector comprenderá que si lo incluyo aquí, traduciéndolo, es para comentarlo” (103). Though Unamuno does not explicitly refute Cassou’s assertion that he does not have his own ideas, he recreates the accusation with a chiasmus: “Dice luego Cassou que yo no tengo ideas, pero lo que creo que quiere decir es que las ideas no me tienen a mí” (110). The writer also comments on Cassou’s assertion that he writes only commentaries:

¿Comentario? Cassou dice que no he escrito más que comentarios. ¿Y los demás, qué han escrito? En el sentido restringido y académico en que Cassou parece querer emplear ese vocablo no sé que mis novelas y mis dramas sean comentarios. Mi Paz en la Guerra, pongo por caso, ¿en qué es comentario? Ah, sí, comentario a la historia política de la guerra civil carlista de 1873 a 1876. Pero es que hacer comentarios es hacer historia. Como escribir contando cómo se hace una novela es hacerla. ¿Es más que una novela la vida de cada uno de nosotros? ¿Hay novela más novelesca que una autobiografía? (114)

Here Unamuno reiterates the lack of a definite division between life and fiction, thus manifesting the ongoing creativity characteristic of his work. The opportunity for re- creation brings with it hope for a new beginning, thus reducing the consequences of a tragic end. Unamuno also blurs the line between author and reader when he describes the mutual dependence that they have on each other:4

Cómo se hace una novela, ¡bien! pero ¿para qué se hace? Y el para qué es el porqué. ¿Por qué o sea para qué se hace una novela? Para hacerse el novelista. ¿Y para qué se hace el novelista? Para hacer el lector, para hacerse uno con el lector. Y sólo haciéndose uno el novelador y el lector de la novela se salvan ambos de su soledad radical. En cuanto se hacen uno se actualizan y actualizándose se eternizan. (209) 114

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This, of course, is related to the blurring of the line between fiction and reality. The reader is necessary to create the writer and vice versa. The same may be said of the father/son relationship, as expressed by Unamuno’s telling of an incident when he discovered that his father could speak French:

Descubrí al padre ¡papá!—hablando una lengua de misterio y acaso acariciándome en la nuestra. Pero, ¿descubre el hijo al padre? ¿O no es más bien el padre el que descubre al hijo? ¿Es la filialidad que llevamos en las entrañas la que nos descubre la paternidad, o no es más bien la paternidad de nuestras entrañas la que nos descubre nuestra filialidad? “El niño es el padre del hombre” ha cantado Wordsworth, pero, ¿no es el sentimiento ¡qué pobre palabra!—de paternidad, de perpetuidad hacia el porvenir, el que nos revela el sentimiento de filialidad, de perpetuidad hacia el pasado? ¿No hay acaso un sentido oscuro de perpetuidad hacia el pasado, de preexistencia o sobre-existencia? (189)

The above goes beyond the concept of one generation creating the subsequent one, suggesting the likelihood that they mutually create each other. Thus, there is also a mixing of temporal planes.

Cassou also comments on Unamuno’s blurring of literary genres and the readers who may agree with the point of view expressed in his work, wondering (in Unamuno’s words) “si admitirán mis obras erizadas de desorden, ilimitadas y monstruosas, y a las que no se les puede encasillar en ningún género—‘encasillar,’ classer, y ‘género,’ ¡aquí está el toque!—y habla de cuando el lector está a punto de ponerse de acuerdo—nous mettre d’accord—con el curso de la ficción que presento” (115). For Unamuno, agreeing with what a writer expresses through his work holds no importance whatsoever: “Pero, ¿y para qué tiene el lector que ponerse de acuerdo con lo que el escritor le dice? Por mi parte cuando me pongo a leer a otro no es para ponerme de acuerdo con él. Ni le pido

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[…] ni estoy siempre conforme conmigo mismo y suelo estarlo con los que no se conforman conmigo. Lo propio de una individualidad viva, siempre presente, siempre cambiante y siempre la misma, que aspira a vivir siempre—y esa aspiración es su esencia, lo propio de una individualidad que lo es, que es y existe, consiste en alimentarse de las demás individualidades y darse a ellas en alimento. En esa consistencia se sostiene su existencia, y resistir a ello es desistir de la vida eterna. Y ya ven Cassou y el lector a qué juegos dialécticos tan conceptistas—tan españoles—me lleva el proceso etimológico de ex-istir, con- sistir, re-sistir y de- sistir. Y aun falta in-sistir, que dicen algunos que es mi característica: la insistencia. Con todo lo cual creo a-sistir a mis prójimos, a mis hermanos, a mis co-hombres, a que se encuentren a sí mismos y entren para siempre en la historia y se hagan su propia novela. ¡Estar conformes! ¡Bah! hay animales herbívoros y hay plantas carnívoras. Cada uno se sostiene de sus contrarios. (115-6).

When Unamuno says that even he does not agree with himself, he confirms the ever- changing nature of the world. Later on in the novel, the writer similarly plays with the word problema:

Y no me saltes diciendo, lector mío ¡y yo mismo, como lector de mí mismo! que en vez de contarte, según te prometí, cómo se hace una novela, te vengo planteando problemas, y lo que es más grave, problemas metapolíticos y religiosos. ¿Quieres que nos detengamos un momento en esto del problema? Dispensa a un filólogo helenista que te explique la novela, o sea, la etimología de la palabra problema. Que es el sustantivo que representa el resultado de la acción de un verbo, proballein, que significa echar o poner por delante, presentar algo, y equivale al latino proiicere, proyectar, de donde problema viene a equivaler a proyecto. Y el problema, ¿proyecto de qué es? ¡De acción! El proyecto de un edificio es proyecto de construcción Y un problema presupone no tanto una solución, en el sentido analítico, o disolutivo, cuanto una construcción, una creación. Se resuelve haciendo. O dicho en otros términos, un proyecto se resuelve en un trayecto, un problema en un metablema, en un cambio. Y sólo con la acción se resuelven problemas. (195)

The juegos dialécticos in which Unamuno uses different forms of the same root illustrate how something can change, yet maintain the same form. This characteristic is related to the creation of hope, the non-tragic, since when something takes on a new form it also

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possesses a new life. Furthermore, when Unamuno asserts that “cada uno se sostiene de

sus contrarios,” he expresses the reality of the existence of the comic along with the

tragic.

Cómo se hace una novela is also one of four of Unamuno’s novels (along with

San Manuel Bueno, mártir, Un pobre hombre rico, and La novela de Don Sandalio) with an epigraph, which also may be considered a type of paratext. The epigraph to

Cómo se hace una novela is a quotation from the Confessions of Saint Augustine (bk X,

ch. 33, 50), “Mihi quaestio factus sum” (83). Franz interprets the quote as a suggestion

“that the self inevitably becomes the starting point for all human inquiry” (42). He also

observes that no Unamuno novel contained an epigraph until the 1926 (French) version

of Cómo se hace una novela and suggests that “the appearance of epigraphs at this time is

tied to Unamuno’s 1924-1930 French exile and his extensive reading of French works”

(40). The critic adds that

An epigraph above all is an intertext. It sets up the broader context in which the work is intended to be read. It appears that the epigraph to Cómo se hace una novela—the sketchiest, most formalistic, and conceptual of Unamuno’s narratives—signals that the work is to be read, not as a story, nor as an exemplum of novel writing (an “exemplary novel,” as Unamuno would term such fiction in the prologue to his Tres novelas ejemplares) but as an exercise in philosophy. Indeed, Olson’s diagnosis of a deliberate contradiction between the “closed” ending of the 1926 version, and the decidedly “open” version of the progressive set of 1927 “endings” points toward a dialectic in which the reader is left hanging to make weighty epistemological and ontological decisions. (41)

It is significant the French version was not as open-ended as the 1927 Spanish version

and suggests that Unamuno purposefully chose to change it when he retranslated it in

1927. It also raises questions about the original and to what extent Cassou, when he

translated it into French, rewrote what Unamuno had left for him to translate. Also

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interesting is Unamuno’s choice of language in the epigraphs which precede the novels

(Latin (Cómo se hace una novela, French (La novela de don Sandalio), and Spanish (San

Manuel Bueno, mártir).

Related to this point, in Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation, Gerard Genette

defines the epigraph as “a signal (intended as a sign) of culture, a password of intellectuality” (160). He adds that “while the author awaits hypothetical newspaper

reviews, literary prizes, and other official recognitions, the epigraph is already, a bit, his

consecration. With it, he chooses his peers and thus his place in the pantheon” (160).

This coincides with the idea of the mutual creation of reader and writer so prevalent in

Unamuno’s work since only a reader of certain intellectual capacity will understand the epigraph. This is, of course, just one of the ways that the writer both chooses and creates his reader.

Genette also classifies epigraphs according to their function. For instance, the purpose of one type of epigraph is to comment on—sometimes authoritatively—and thus elucidate and thereby justify not only the text but also the title of the book (156). The

critic describes the second possible function of the epigraph as “undoubtedly the most

canonical: it consists of commenting on the text, whose meaning it indirectly specifies or

emphasizes […] more often, the commentary is puzzling, has a significance that will not be clear or confirmed until the whole book is read” (157-8). According to him,

the third function is more oblique […] very often the main thing is not what it says but who its author is, plus the sense of direct backing that its presence at the edge of a text gives rise to—a backing that in general, is less costly than the backing of a preface and even of a dedication, for one can obtain it without seeking permission, with a great many epigraphs the important thing is simply the name of the author quoted. (158-9)

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In Unamuno’s Paratexts Franz mentions only the third of Genette’s categories,

that is, the function in which the name of the author carries more weight than the

meaning of the quotation and convincingly argues that this function does not apply to

Unamuno:

This is not the case with the epigraphs of Unamuno, where the principal thought expressed in the epigraph points only to the idea around which the attached narrative is supposed to cluster. This brings up the question of whether Unamuno uses epigraphs in order to create a locus of meaning when the work itself lacks adequate focus. Only in Cómo se hace una novela does the epigraph appear to be used in this way, for the text itself exhibits various competing motifs: autonomy, history as fiction, the creation of a self-imprisoning person, the farce of the Primo de Rivera dictatorship, and literature as a confluence of intertexts. Despite this singular use of the epigraph to orient a disobedient text, it must be admitted that not even here does Unamuno resort to an epigraph at the conclusion of his work. This unanimous preference for the “introductory” epigraph over the “terminal” one suggests that Unamuno avoids forcing upon the reader any authorial conclusiveness. (43-4)

Although Franz does not explicitly discuss Unamuno’s epigraphs in terms of Genette’s

second function, which comments on the text itself in a puzzling manner, such use of the

epigraph possibly best describes its use in Unamuno’s fiction. Also significant to the

present study is his predilection for the introductory epigraph rather than the “terminal”

one as a technique to avoid complete closure.

Franz also comments on the accuracy with which Unamuno quotes the epigraphs

that precede the novels. This, the critic maintains, is significant since “accuracy is not

always a hallmark of Unamuno’s quotation” (44). He observes, for example, that “in Del

sentimiento trágico de la vida and La agonía del cristianismo the quotes are often altered

or taken out of context so that they may fit Unamuno’s own uses” (44). Franz also

suggests that Unamuno probably purposely erred at times: “In many articles, Unamuno admits to quoting from memory, and this inevitably leads to some inaccuracies, some 119

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 doubtless deliberate, since he had one of the keenest and most orderly of memories” (44).

If Unamuno did deliberately change quotations to make them better conform to what he wished to express, it coincides with the idea of re-creation through the act of rewriting.

Still, Franz perceptively observes:

We would perhaps expect a higher degree of error in a work arising in a situation of political exile or in that of an equally turbulent post-exile, but such error is not the case with Cómo se hace una novela, written in France, or in San Manuel Bueno, mártir or La novela de Don Sandalio, both of which the author claims to have written in a matter of weeks and which, in any case, were written with Spain in crisis. (44)

The accuracy of the epigraphs to these novels remains puzzling considering, as Franz points out above, that Unamuno is not particularly known for his accurate quotations.

The critic turns again to Genette, observing that

Genette points out that it sometimes is meaningful to assume that the epigrapher qua fictional entity (as opposed to either the real author of the epigraph or the author of the novel) is the protagonist, for this assumption can give rise to a fuller and more complex reading of the epigraph. For example, if either “Unamuno” or “U. Jugo de la Raza” is seen as the epigrapher of Cómo se hace una novela, the epigraph’s mention of a “project” or a “problem” suggests the epigrapher’s own renovelizing of life’s already intertextualized experiences in the same way that the character of La peau de chagrin did while reading the text of his mysterious parchment. (44)

A separate narrative level, or set of cajas chinas, exists in the novel, related to the fact that Unamuno, two years after writing the original, is translating it from French back into Spanish. When he decided to publish it, he never retrieved the original from

Cassou, stating that

cuando al fin me resuelvo a publicarlo en mi propia lengua, en la única en que sé desnudar mi pensamiento, no quiero recobrar el texto original. Ni sé con qué ojos volvería a ver aquellas agoreras cuartillas que llené en el cuartito de la soledad de mis soledades de París. Prefiero retraducir de la traducción francesa de Cassou y es lo que me propongo hacer ahora. Pero, ¿es hacedero que un autor retraduzca una traducción que de alguno de sus escritos se haya hecho a otra lengua? Es una 120

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experiencia, más que de resurrección, de muerte, o acaso de re-mortificación. O mejor de rematanza. (88)

Since a translation never can turn out to be the same as the text in the original language,

Unamuno creates something new by not retrieving the original that he had written in

Spanish. And by translating the French translation, there exists a double re-creation of

the original. On the other hand, the writer also expresses the idea of a double death since

“El que pone por escrito sus pensamientos, sus ensueños, sus sentimientos los va

consumiendo, los va matando. En cuanto un pensamiento nuestro queda fijado por la

escritura, expresado, cristalizado, queda ya muerto y no es más nuestro que será un día

bajo tierra nuestro esqueleto” (89). In other words, the written word is dead.

Nevertheless, what a person writes down does not necessarily have to remain

dead. It can be brought back to life by the reader “porque el que lee una novela puede

vivirla, revivirla—y quien dice una novela dice una historia, y el que lee un poema, una criatura—poema es criatura y poesía creación—puede recrearlo” (89). For Unamuno, the

writer can also be the reader who rejuvenates the work:

Entre ellos el autor mismo. ¿Y es que siempre un autor, al volver a leer una pasada obra suya, vuelve a encontrar la eternidad de aquel momento pasado que hace el presente eterno? ¿No te ha ocurrido nunca, lector, ponerte a meditar a la vista de un retrato tuyo, de ti mismo, de hace veinte o treinta años? El presente eterno es el misterio trágico, es la tragedia misteriosa de nuestra vida histórica o espiritual. Y he aquí por qué es trágica tortura la de querer rehacer lo ya hecho, que es deshecho. En lo que entra retraducirse a sí mismo. Y sin embargo… (89)

Thus, in order to create his past, Unamuno needs to retranslate himself:

Sí, necesito vivir, para revivir, para asirme de ese pasado que es toda mi realidad venidera, necesito retraducirme. Y voy a retraducirme. Pero como al hacerlo he de vivir mi historia de hoy, mi historia desde el día en que entregué mis cuartillas a Juan Cassou, me va a ser imposible mantenerme fiel a aquel momento que pasó. El texto, pues, que dé aquí, disentirá en algo del que, traducido al francés,

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apareció en el número de 15 de mayo de 1926 del Mercure de France. Ni deben interesar a nadie las discrepancias. Como no sea a algún erudito futuro. (90)

Here again exists la burla as Unamuno makes fun of scholars who pick at every detail since they are only ones for whom the writer believes the discrepancies between the two versions will present any problem.

The above appears in the Prólogo to the 1927 edition of the novel. In fact,

Cassou’s “Retrato de Unamuno” was the prologue to the original version of the narrative,

but as Franz points out in Unamuno’s Paratexts, the “Retrato” “is demoted to the status of

a mere second prologue in the expanded 1927 version” (68). In his retranslation,

Unamuno adds the commentary to Cassou’s portrait of him, “which is a prelude to all of the bracketed, partially expository additions the 1927 Spanish-language version of the narrative will add” (68). For the critic, the addition of Unamuno’s commentary on

Cassou’s portrait of him “far more than illustrating once more the unclosurability of the nivola form, the ‘Comentario’ allows Unamuno to effectively rewrite Cassou, not only

amending most of what his friend says, but actually intensifying the encomiums through

a brilliant display of making Cassou’s comments appear limited and trivial compared to

his own” (68). It is true that Unamuno’s “Comentario” at times is characterized by

sarcasm as he wittily responds to Cassou:

Dice Cassou que mi obra no palidece. Gracias. Y es porque es la misma siempre. Y porque la hago de tal modo que pueda ser otra para el lector que la lea comiéndola. ¿Qué me importa que no leas lector, lo que yo quise poner en ella, si es que lees lo que te enciende en vida? Me parece necio que un autor se distraiga en explicar lo que quiso decir, pues lo que nos importa no es lo que quiso decir, sino lo que dijo, o mejor lo que oímos. Así Cassou me llama además de salvaje— y si esto quiere decir hombre de la selva, me conformo—paradójico e irreconciliable. Lo de paradójico me lo han dicho muchas veces y de tal modo que he acabado por no saber qué es lo que entienden por paradoja los que me lo han dicho. Aunque paradoja es, como pesimismo, una de las palabras que han 122

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llegado a perder todo sentido en nuestra España de la conformidad rebañega. ¿Irreconciliable yo? (109)

Franz’s remark that Unamuno attempts to rewrite Cassou rings true. By commenting on

Cassou’s description of him, he not only re-creates the French writer’s portrait of him,

but also parodies himself since one of Cassou’s complaints is Unamuno’s tendency to

comment on everything. The idea of rewriting also fits in with Vauthier’s theory

(discussed in Chapter II) that with Amor y pedagogía Unamuno was attempting to rewrite

the history of Spain (77). The act of re-creation involved with producing a new version

of a written text also coincides with the idea of the lack of closure since it represents

endless possibilities, that is, infinite versions of the text.5 If everything can be rewritten,

so can a tragic end, thus creating hope for the future.

Franz argues that the reason for the existence of the “Comentario” (which appears

after both the “Prólogo” and Cassou’s “Retrato de Unamuno”) is explained only in the

“Prólogo,” and although this explanation may be necessary for the reader’s

comprehension of the present volume’s form, “no sooner do we arrive at the

‘Comentario’ than we encounter at its conclusion a more specific account of how the

original text has been augmented and the observation that the reader will best perceive

the narrative’s new structure by visualizing its widening spheres of meta-commentaries as a series of Japanese boxes” (72). Unamuno explains:

Y ahora paso a retraducir mi relato de cómo se hace una novela. Y como no me es posible reponerlo sin repensarlo, es decir, sin revivirlo, he de verme empujado a comentarlo. Y como quisiera respetar lo más que me sea hacedero al que fui, al de aquel invierno de 1924 a 1925 en París, cuando le añada un comentario lo pondré encorchetado, entre corchetes, así: [ ]. (120)

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Without doubt, the cajas chinas multiply in number as the reader realizes that Unamuno

plans to comment not only on Cassou’s portrait of him, but also on his own previous

work. Franz speculates that Unamuno chose to describe the new textual format in two

stages

seemingly because the prologue and the “Comentario” are on different diegetic levels. The prologue comments on the “Comentario,” but the “Comentario” cannot say anything about the prologue because the “Comentario” is actually its compositional antecedent and cannot know the former document. The shorter explanation (that of the prologue) for the 1927 narrative’s form is a subsequent commentary upon the more detailed account offered in the previously conceived but later situated “Comentario.” It is nearly impossible to believe that the fiery reaction of the “Comentario” […] was written after the almost scholarly conclusion of the prologue—“Voy a traducir éste (i.e., Cassou’s ‘Retrato de Unamuno’) y a comentarlo luego brevemente.” (89)

The above explanation seems plausible, as Franz supports his point of view when he

perceptively observes that the difference in tone that does not coincide with the actual

order in which the “Prólogo” and the “Comentario” appear in the narrative, therefore

suggesting that they are not in chronological order. Finally, at the end of his

“Comentario” Unamuno offers the following description of what the reader may expect:

Con esto de los comentarios encorchetados y con los tres relatos enchufados, unos en otros, que constituyen el escrito va a parecer éste a algún lector así como esas cajitas de laca japonesas que encierran otra cajita y ésta otra y luego otra más, cada una cincelada y ordenada como mejor el artista pudo, y al último una final cajita… vacía. Pero así es el mundo, y la vida. Comentarios de comentario y otra vez más comentarios. ¿Y la novela? Si por novela entiendes, lector, el argumento, no hay novela. O lo que es lo mismo, no hay argumento. Dentro de la carne está el hueso y dentro del hueso el tuétano, pero la novela humana no tiene tuétano, carece de argumento. Todo son las cajitas, los ensueños. Y lo verdaderamente novelesco es cómo se hace una novela. (121)

Once again, Unamuno presents the idea of a never-ending series of possibilities based on continuous creation. Also, by not offering a definitive plot, the writer plays with the reader, encouraging him/her to actively participate in its making. As expressed in the 124

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above quotation, the cajas chinas are practically limitless in Cómo se hace una novela,

not only in the paratexts but also in the main text as well.

Another technique used by Unamuno to avoid closure is the chiasmus and many

are found throughout the novel. For example, when Unamuno emphasizes the close relationship between an autobiography and a novel since they both nacen vivas, he adds:

“Y que no choque mi expresión de nacer vivas, porque: a) se nace y se muere vivo, b) se

nace y se muere muerto, c) se nace vivo para morir muerto, y d) se nace muerto para

morir vivo” (128, emphasis added). Olson has suggested that “the frequent presence of

lacquer-box structures in Unamuno’s work may be due to a profound longing to give

three-dimensional ‘body’ to the syntagmatic linearity of texts, which is that of language

itself” (173). The same may be true for the chiasmus: by playing with an expression and

transforming it, Unamuno attempts to breathe life into it. Olson comments that the

“danger of the domination of flesh-and-blood reality by words and ideas is particularly

great if one’s relation to the word is nearly passive” (173). Thus, when Unamuno says,

“Y que no choque mi expresión nacer vivas […],” he may desire the opposite effect, that

is, he may want the reader to experience a shock, to jolt the reader from his/her passive

acceptance of dead words. By bringing words to life, closure can be avoided and hope

can be created.

Other examples of chiasmi abound in the novel. For instance, when Unamuno

discusses the making of history, he also employs this technique. He states that “Con

sucesos, sucedidos, se constituyen hechos, ideas hechas carne. Pero como lo que me

propongo al presente es contar cómo se hace una novela y no filosofar o historiar, no debo distraerme más y dejo para otra ocasión el explicar la diferencia que va de suceso a 125

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hecho, de lo que sucede y pasa a lo que se hace y queda” (131, emphasis added). Later,

he asks, “¿Seré como me creo o como se me cree?” (133, emphasis added,). In this case,

he is discussing the making of his own story: “¡Mi novela!, ¡mi leyenda! El Unamuno de

mi leyenda, de mi novela, el que hemos hecho juntos mi yo amigo y mi yo enemigo y los

demás, mis amigos y mis enemigos, este Unamuno me da vida y muerte, me crea y me

destruye, me sostiene y me ahoga” (133). The writer admits that he

había imaginado, hace ya unos meses, hacer una novela en la que quería poner la más íntima experiencia de mi destierro, crearme, eternizarme bajo los rasgos de desterrado y de proscrito. Y ahora pienso que la mejor manera de hacer esa novela es contar cómo hay que hacerla. Es la novela de la novela, la creación de la creación. O Dios de Dios. Deus de Deo. (134, emphasis added)

Interestingly, Unamuno does not create a dichotomy when he refers to creation. He does,

however, include the Latin, in which the form changes according to the grammatical

function that the word has in the sentence. Toward the end of the novel the lack of

dichotomy is again notable when the topic is creation: “Y como no hay nada más que

comedia y novela, que piense que lo que le parece realidad extra-escénica es comedia de comedia, novela de novela, que el noúmeno inventado por Kant es lo de más fenomenal

que puede darse y la sustancia lo que hay de más formal. El fondo de una cosa es su

superficie” (176, emphasis added). This is what forms the cajas chinas.

Later in the narrative, Unamuno returns to the idea of “el fondo de una cosa es su

superficie” when he recounts an anecdote that he read in an article by Azorín in which he

describes how much he loved watches as a child, in particular when one of his relatives would open the face of his watch so that the young Azorín could see the workings beneath the surface. Then Azorín compares his viewing of the inner mechanism of the watch with the tendency of novelists to explain how they went about writing a particular 126

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 narrative: “Los novelistas que ahora hacen libros para explicar el mecanismo de su novela, para hacer ver cómo ellos proceden al escribir, lo que hace, sencillamente, es levantar la tapa del reló (sic)” (qtd. in Cómo se hace una novela 198), with which

Unamuno vehemently takes issue:

Lo primero, que la comparación del reló está muy mal traída y responde a la idea del “mecanismo de su ficción.” Una ficción de mecanismo, mecánica, no es ni puede ser novela. Una novela, para ser viva, para ser vida, tiene que ser, como la vida misma, organismo y no mecanismo. Y no sirve levantar la tapa del reló. Ante todo porque una verdadera novela, una novela viva, no tiene tapa, y luego porque no es maquinaria lo que hay que mostrar, sino entrañas palpitantes de vida, calientes de sangre. Y eso se ve fuera. Es como la cólera que se ve en la cara y en los ojos y sin necesidad de levantar tapa alguna. El relojero, que es un mecánico, puede levantar la tapa del reló para que el cliente vea la maquinaria, pero el novelista no tiene que levantar nada para que el lector sienta la palpitación de las entrañas del organismo vivo de la novela, que son las entrañas mismas del novelista, del autor. Y las del lector identificado con él por la lectura. (199)

It is clear from Unamuno’s response that he disagrees with Azorín and that what the

Basque writer attempts to do in Cómo se hace una novela differs greatly from the new genre of writing described by Azorín. The importance of the inner workings being apparent on the surface also helps to explain the use of chiasmi, which bring together opposing concepts.

The chiasmi occur in various contexts. After describing the attempts of the

Spanish government to get him to move away from the border, Unamuno comments:

Por debajo de esos incidentes de policía, a la que los tiranuelos rebajan y degradan, la política, la santa política, he llevado y sigo llevando aquí, en mi destierro de Hendaya, en este fronterizo rincón de mi nativa tierra vasca, una vida íntima de política hecha religión y de religión hecha política, una novela de eternidad histórica. Unas veces me voy a la playa de Ondarraitz, a bañar la niñez eterna de mi espíritu en la visión de la eterna niñez de la mar que nos habla de antes de la historia o mejor de debajo de ella, de su sustancia divina, y otras veces, remontando el curso del Bidasoa lindero, paso junto a la isleta de los Faisanes, donde se concertó el casamiento de Luis XIV de Francia con la infanta de España 127

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María, hija de nuestro Felipe IV, el Habsburgo, y se firmó el pacto de Familia— ‘!ya no hay Pirineos!’, se dijo, como si con pactos así se abatiera montañas de roca milenaria, y voy a la aldea de Biriatu, remanso de paz. (184-5, emphasis added)

For Unamuno, there existed little difference between politics made religion and religion

made politics since both are the work of those who believe that they can (re)move

mountains by simply signing a political pact. In this case, one could just as easily be the

other. Unamuno also suggests the blurring of the line between politics and literature:

Pero hay otro mundo, novelesco también; hay otra novela. No la de la carne, sino la de la palabra, la de la palabra hecha letra. Y ésta es propiamente la novela que, como la historia, empieza con la palabra o propiamente con la letra, pues sin el esqueleto no se tiene en pie la carne. Y aquí entra lo de la acción y la contemplación, la política y la novela. La acción es contemplativa, la contemplación es activa; la política es novelesca y la novela es política. (192, emphasis added)

Here the writer once more creates an ambiguous situation of not knowing where one ends and the other begins; thus, with no definite boundaries, there can exist neither beginning nor tragic end. Another chiasmus appears in one of the bracketed comments that

Unamuno added when he was retranslating the novel from the French version. In this case, his ridiculing remarks concern a group of young poets known as the Generación del

’27, who greatly admired the work of Luis de Góngora:6

Y ahora, en el número de la Gaceta Literaria en que los jóvenes culteranos de España rinden un homenaje a Góngora y que acabo de recibir y leer, uno de esos jóvenes, Benjamín Jarnés, en un articulito que se titula culteranamente “Oro trillado y néctar exprimido,” nos dice que “Góngora no apela al fuego fatuo de la azulada fantasía, ni a la llama oscilante de la pasión, sino a la perenne luz de la tranquila inteligencia.” ¿Y a esto le llaman poesía esos intelectuales? ¿Poesía sin fuego de fantasía ni llama de pasión? ¡Pues que se alimenten del pan hecho con ese oro trillado! Y luego añade que Góngora, “no tanto se propuso repetir un cuento bello cuanto inventar un bello idioma.” Pero, ¿es que hay idioma sin cuento ni belleza de idioma sin belleza de cuento? (169, emphasis added)

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Unamuno criticizes the infatuation that this group of poets had for Góngora for their lack

of understanding that form is content and content is form, that is, the depths and the

surface are one and the same.

Another non-tragic component of Cómo se hace una novela is Unamuno’s use of

el espejo in the narrative. The first time he refers to the mirror is in the “Comentario”

when he is describing what it is like to read about himself in Cassou’s portrait of him: “Y

ahora repasando el Retrato de Cassou y mirándome, no sin asombro, en él como en un

espejo, pero en un espejo tal que vemos más el espejo mismo que lo en él espejado […]”

(104). In other words, what Unamuno sees reflected in Cassou’s portrait is Cassou’s image of Unamuno, the Unamuno created by Cassou. This means that just as the reader

and the author create each other, Unamuno has been recreated by Cassou. Such an act of

re-creation fits in with the ever-changing quality of the world presented in much of

Unamuno’s work.

Other examples of the use of the mirror are found in the novel. At one point,

Unamuno refers to his wife as his “espejo de santa inconciencia divina” (161). This

occurs in the context of his description a significant past event:

En un momento de suprema, de abismática congoja, cuando me vio en las garras del Angel de la Nada, llorar con un llanto sobrehumano, me gritó desde el fondo de sus entrañas maternales, sobrehumanas, divinas, arrojándose en mis brazos: “¡hijo mío!” Entonces descubrí todo lo que Dios hizo para mí esta mujer, la madre de mis hijos, mi virgen madre, que no tiene otra novela que mi novela, ella, mi espejo de santa inconciencia divina, de eternidad. (161, emphasis added)

In this case, the mirror reflects the nature of the relationship that Unamuno has with his wife, that is, he sees himself in her. Thus, they have created and, probably, re-created

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each other. The espejo recurs later in the novel when Unamuno describes his family home:

Era que había en mi casa paterna de Bilbao una sala de recibo, santuario litúrgico del hogar, a donde no se nos dejaba entrar a los niños, no fuéramos a manchar su suelo encerado o arrugar las fundas de los sillones. Del techo pendía un espejo de bola donde uno se veía pequeñito y deformado, y de las paredes colgaban unas litografías bíblicas, una de las cuales representaba ¡me parece estar viendo!—a Moisés sacando con una varita agua de la roca como yo ahora saco estos recuerdos de la roca de la eternidad de mi niñez. (188, emphasis added)

Here the distortion caused by the mirror receives emphasis. The images reflected in such a mirror are not true to the original object, thus corresponding to a change in form.

Cómo se hace una novela is particularly rich in the techniques that Unamuno

employs in his narratives to reduce the impact of the tragic component. As discussed

above, his use of paratexts and chiasmi both contribute to the creation of a mood beyond

the tragic or contemplative. The writer accomplishes this by blurring the lines between established genres as well as those between author and reader. Also indispensable to the making of a never-ending novel are the cajas chinas, which serve to create a three- dimensional quality in the work and suggest continuation/repetition beyond the visible.

Finally, the reader becomes uncertain whether he/she is reading a novel, an autobiography, or a historical narrative, which, for Unamuno, differ little from each other. Although the non-tragic facet of this narrative does not always provoke outright laughter, it no doubt may often cause the reader to smile, at times at his own confusion, at times at the acknowledgement of hidden truth revealed by Unamuno’s juegos.

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La novela de don Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez (1930)

This epistolary novel exhibits some of the same characteristics as Cómo se hace una novela. In this novel, too, the reader observes a blurring of established lines between self and other, expressing the idea of mutual creation, and also lack of closure. The novel opens with a very brief “Prólogo” (only half a page in length) in which Unamuno explains that he had received recently from an unknown reader “copia de parte de una correspondencia que tuvo con un amigo suyo y en que éste le contaba el conocimiento que hizo con un don Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez, y le trazaba la característica del don

Sandalio” (29). In the first sentence, Unamuno advises the reader that the story is incomplete since he has in his possession only a “copia de parte” of the correspondence.

This incomplete state is reiterated in the second paragraph of the “Prólogo:”

“Sé—me decía mi lector—que anda usted a la busca de argumento o asuntos para sus novelas o nivolas, y ahí va uno en estos fragmentos de cartas que le envío. Como verá, no ha dejado el nombre del lugar en que los sucesos narrados se desarrollaron, y en cuanto a la época, bástele saber que fue durante el otoño e invierno de 1910. Y sé que no es usted de los que se preocupan de situar los hechos en lugar y tiempo, y acaso no le falte razón.” (29)

Thus, the reader begins with the knowledge that he/she will not have access to the complete story, leaving it open-ended. Also, the letters, coming from a friend of this unknown reader, create doubt as to who the true author is and increase the likelihood of distortion of the facts since the information is now far removed from its original source.

Thus, the reader has been warned that he is reading an incomplete re-creation of the original events. An additional layer of significance is that Unamuno is quite likely poking fun at those (critics and others) who take seriously his invention of the nivola.

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Except for the brief prologue and a slightly longer epilogue, La novela de Don

Sandalio consists only of the anonymous letters written to a “Felipe.” However, in her

article “La novela de Don Sandalio: Un tablero epistolar para jugar con Unamuno”

(1999), Ana Rueda perceptively observes that there exists a

yuxtaposición del ajedrez y el carteo, “duelos” ambos que se basan en la rigurosa ley de la alternancia, en el intercambio de piezas, y en la figuración de un “tú,” sea confidente epistolar o contrincante ajedrecístico. La configuración de la novela como tablero epistolar es fundamental para entender la teoría del género novelesco que la novela esboza, así como los conflictos de la personalidad que interesan a Unamuno. Tal como los libros de ajedrez suelen contener combinaciones que nos permiten reconocer en su diseño el talento ajedrecístico de sus autores, Don Sandalio ofrece una particular combinación literaria que revela una faceta importante del talento artístico de Unamuno. (540).

Rueda’s hypothesis lends a depth to the novel of which most critics have remained unaware, and she convincingly demonstrates such a link between the epistolary form of the novel and the game of chess. She explains precisely how this complex relationship functions:

La correspondencia del ajedrecista es enviada al autor por un supuesto lector desconocido para que haga una novela de ellas, y está flanqueada por un Prólogo y por un Epílogo reveladores. Las cartas, manipuladas por el intermediario, son, a su vez, manipuladas por el autor implícito de Don Sandalio, “Unamuno,” quien transforma el material ofrecido—cartas íntimas—al presentarlas como cosa pública, es decir, como novela epistolar, sólo que sus palabras revelan que ha invertido la ecuación: “yo ya no necesito que mis lectores…me proporcionen argumentos para que yo les dé las novelas. Prefiero, y estoy seguro de que ellos han de preferirlo, que les dé yo las novelas y ellos les pongan argumentos.” Es así como escribir y leer se constituyen en el tercer “duelo” de este complejo esquema novelesco, que concede carecer de argumento. El lector queda colocado al otro lado del tablero de ajedrez que Unamuno dispone, y antes de mover pieza debe discurrir con cautela. (542)

Thus, as Rueda suggests, in this narrative, Unamuno may quite literally be engaged in a game with his reader. The critic also situates this narrative within a long literary tradition

of fascination with the game of chess: 132

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La complejidad y belleza del juego del ajedrez ha cautivado a escritores de todas las épocas y culturas, y continúa ejerciendo su atracción en escritores contemporáneos: Borges, Beckett, Arrabal, Nabokov, Faulkner, Saint-Exup ry, Unamuno. A la abundante literatura sobre el tema se une una larga tradición analítica y bibliográfica. España concretamente cuenta con joyas de la literatura ajedrecística, como el Libro de los juegos de ajedrez, dados y tablas, escrito en romance e ilustrado con bellas miniaturas, que se redacta en 1283 bajo Alfonso X. El rey justifica, con sabio optimismo, que sus súbditos practiquen el juego y que consulten sus reglas, cuando el juego no estaba visto con buenos ojos. El rey de Francia había prohibido jugar al ajedrez en su reino y la Iglesia Católica desdeñaba el juego por acaparar un tiempo que consideraba más provechoso si se empleara en alabar a Dios. A su vez, España puede vanagloriarse de ser el país en el que se imprime el primer tratado del ajedrez moderno, Repetición de amores e arte de axedrez. Juegos de partido, de Ramírez de Lucena (c. 1497). La novela de Unamuno debe verse en esta tradición que afirma el sentido lúdico de la cultura. (539)

Interestingly, Rueda seems to confirm that the sense of playfulness so pervasive in

Unamuno’s work also belongs to a certain cultural tradition.

The writer of the letters which compose the main text of the novel is another of

Unamuno’s protagonists who attempts to resist doing something (like Don Avito in Amor

y pedagogía and Jugo de la Raza in Cómo se hace una novela) but simply cannot help but succumb to temptation at some point. In this case, the character has fled the city in order to avoid all contact with human beings. For that reason, he writes Felipe, the supposed recipient of all of the letters:

Ya me tienes aquí, querido Felipe, en este apacible rincón de la costa y al pie de las montañas que se miran en la mar; aquí, donde nadie me conoce ni conozco, gracias a Dios, a nadie. He venido, como sabes, huyendo de la sociedad de los llamados prójimos o semejantes, buscando la compañía de las olas de la mar y de las hojas de los árboles, que pronto rodarán como aquélla. (30)

Nevertheless, at one point this character can no longer withstand total solitude and he

goes to a casino, reluctantly revealing his need for contact with other human beings: “He

sucumbido. Me he hecho socio del casino, aunque todavía más para ver que para oír. En

133

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 cuanto han llegado las primeras lluvias. Con mal tiempo, ni la costa ni el monte ofrecen recursos, y en cuanto al hotel, ¿qué iba a hacer en él? ¿Pasarme el día leyendo, o mejor releyendo? No puede ser. Así es que he acabado por ir al casino” (32-3). The reference to the act of releyendo also is significant since it carries the idea of re-creation of the original lectura. This part of the novel also introduces the idea of parody and caricature when the protagonist goes to the reading room:

Paso un rato por la sala de lectura, donde me entrego más que a leer periódicos a observar a los que los leen. Porque los periódicos tengo que dejarlos en seguida. Son más estúpidos que los hombres que los escriben. Hay algunos de éstos que tienen cierto talento para decir tonterías, ¿pero escribirlas?, para escribirlas… ¡ninguno! Y en cuanto a los lectores, hay que ver qué cara de caricatura ponen cuando se ríen de las caricaturas. (33).

The above passage also expresses the idea of re-creation when the character comments on the facial expressions of those who laugh at the comics they are reading.

After making the acquaintance of Don Sandalio, a chess-player who frequents the casino, and based only on the scant information that the protagonist has about him, he proceeds to create his own version of him, just as in Cómo se hace una novela Unamuno refers to “mi don Quijote” (146) and just as Don Quijote creates Dulcinea, as he wants her, rejecting any reality wherein s/he is otherwise. However, once having created his own Don Sandalio, he fears contamination of his image by outside influences. Therefore, when Don Sandalio’s son passes away, the letter-writer does not wish to hear about it and cuts short the conversation with the person who brings him the news:

¿Qué pasó por mí? No lo sé, pero al oír esto me fui, dejándole con la palabra cortada, y sin importarme lo que por ello juzgase de mí. No, no quería que me colocase la historia del hijo de don Sandalio. ¿Para qué? Tengo que mantener puro, incontaminado, a mi don Sandalio, al mío, y hasta me le ha estropeado esto de que ahora le salga un hijo que me impide, con su muerte, jugar al ajedrez unos

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días. No, no quiero saber historias. ¿Historias? Cuando las necesite, me las inventaré. (42)

Later on, the protagonist reacts similarly upon learning that Don Sandalio has been incarcerated, once again leaving in the middle of receiving the message: “‘¡En la cárcel— me iba diciendo, en la cárcel! ¿Por qué?’ Y, en último caso, ¿qué me importa? Lo mismo que no quise saber lo de su hijo, cuando se le murió éste, no quiero saber por qué le han metido en la cárcel. Nada me importa de ello. Y acaso a él no le importe mucho más si es como yo me le figuro, como yo me le tengo hecho, acá para mí” (49).

Nevertheless, just as the letter-writer eventually sought human contact in the casino, he now realizes how this new event may affect him: “Mas, a pesar de todo, este suceso imprevisto cambiaba totalmente el giro de mi vida íntima. ¿Con quién, en adelante, voy a echar mi partida de ajedrez, huyendo de la incurable tontería de los hombres?” (49).

Thus, although he recognizes that the Don Sandalio of his creation may no longer exist, the letter-writer sees this only in terms of how it will affect him. Just as the protagonist identifies himself with the Don Sandalio that he has created, he also identifies strongly with another fictional creation, Robinson Crusoe:

¿Y no te acuerdas cuando leíamos aquel terrible pasaje del Robinsón de cuando éste, yendo una vez a su bote, se encontró sorprendido por la huella de un pie desnudo de hombre en la arena de la playa? Quedóse como fulminado, como herido por un rayo—thunderstruck, como si hubiera visto una aparición. Escuchó, miró en torno de sí sin oír ni ver nada. Recorrió la playa, ¡y tampoco! No había más que la huella de un pie, dedos, talón, cada parte de él. Y volvióse Robinsón a su madriguera, a su fortificación, aterrado en el último grado, mirando tras de sí a cada dos o tres pasos, confundiendo árboles y matas, imaginándose a la distancia que cada tronco era un hombre, y lleno de antojos y agüeros. ¡Qué bien me represento a Robinsón! Huyo, no de ver huellas de pies desnudos de hombres, sino de oírles palabras de sus almas revestidas de necedad, y me aíslo para defenderme del roce de sus tonterías. Y voy a la costa a oír la rompiente de las olas, o al monte a oír el rumor del viento entre el follaje de los árboles. ¡Nada de hombres! ¡Ni de mujer, claro! A lo sumo algún niño que no 135

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sepa aún hablar, que no sepa repetir las gracias que le han enseñado, como a un lorito, en su casa, sus padres. (31-1)

However, little by little, while Don Sandalio continues his prison term, the

protagonist must come to terms with the fact that his chess-playing partner no longer

exists as he had invented him:

Y si don Sandalio sale de la cárcel y vuelve al casino y en el casino al ajedrez ¿qué va a hacer si no? ¿cómo voy a jugar con él, ni cómo voy siquiera a poder mirarle a la cara sabiendo que ha estado encarcelado y sin saber por qué? No, no; a don Sandalio, a mi don Sandalio, le han matado con eso de haberle encarcelado. Presiento que ya no va a salir de la cárcel. ¿Va a salir de ella para ser el resto de su vida un problema?, ¿un problema suelto? ¡Imposible! (51)

It turns out that the letter-writer’s premonition is correct, for not only does the Don

Sandalio of his imagination die, but also the real Don Sandalio physically dies in jail.

Upon learning of his death, the protagonist expresses great surprise: “¡Y ahora llega,

Felipe, lo más extraordinario, lo más fulminante! Y es que don Sandalio… se ha muerto

en la cárcel” (54). At times, the protagonist doubts the reality of both the life and death

of Don Sandalio: “¿Pero es que mi don Sandalio vivió? Pues que ha muerto, claro es que

vivió. Mas llego a las veces a dudar de que se haya muerto. Un don Sandalio así no

puede morirse, no puede hacer tan mala jugada. Hasta eso de hacer como que se muere

en la cárcel me parece un truco. Ha querido encarcelar a la muerte. ¿Resucitará?” (55).

The doubts that he expresses illustrate both the interconnectedness between life and death

and also the recurring motif of life as a game. This also proves somewhat comical since

the reader may find it difficult to identify with the over-dramatic stance that the letter-

writer takes toward all events.

The emphasis on invention over true-life facts illustrates the degree to which the protagonist flees from reality and also the importance given to the idea of creation. The 136

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 letter-writer continues his monologue: “Ya sabes tú, Felipe, que para mí no hay más historias que las novelas. Y en cuanto a la novela de don Sandalio, mi jugador de ajedrez, no necesito de socios del casino que vengan a hacérmela” (42). What this narrator-protagonist seems to be lacking is the sense of mutual creation indispensable for full participation in life. What he creates is only for him; thus he remains isolated. He is, however, somewhat aware that others create him: “Al acabar las partidas me he ido a la playa, pero preocupado con una idea que te ha de parecer, de seguro, pues te conozco, absurda, y es la de qué seré, cómo seré yo para don Sandalio. ¿Qué pensará de mí?

¿Cómo seré yo para él?” (43). Rueda considers this to be turning point in the narrative because we know that letter-writer

ha superado los problemas de ajedrez para hacerle la partida a su contrincante. Paradójicamente, es este gesto de solidaridad hacia el otro lo que le permite disponerse para hacerle la “guerra.” Unamuno parece ir tras la integración de fuerzas simbólicamente opuestas en varios niveles a la vez. Los críticos han subrayado profusamente que Don Sandalio, un ser hecho a imagen y semejanza del corresponsal, es más un desdoblamiento o una proyección de éste que un enemigo, lo cual convierte a los jugadores en pseudo-contrincantes. Lo que sugerimos aquí es que Unamuno plantea el problema del ser y sus desdoblamientos a una escala mayor en su tablero epistolar, contraponiendo simbólicamente dos modalidades del ajedrez (problemas y partidas) y dos modos de involucrarse con los demás (escribir cartas, jugar al ajedrez), para descubrirle al lector las infinitas posibilidades que plantea el doble juego que ha inventado. (551)

Rueda’s unique perspective on the desdoblamiento in the novel provides further support for the strong link that she hypothesizes between the act of letter-writing and the game of chess, which she calls “dos diálogos silenciosos” (556). The critic also maintains that “el carteo, como el ajedrez, es una invitación a la solidaridad. Como puente entre dos seres aislados, puede reforzar la relación entre los epistológrafos siempre que aporte un entenderse sin oírse […]” (544-5). 137

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Thus, Don Sandalio, unlike many of Unamuno’s characters who create themselves through words, creates himself through the game of chess: “Para don

Sandalio, los peones, alfiles, caballos, torres, reinas y reyes del ejedrez tienen más alma

que las personas que los manejan. Y acaso tenga razón” (38). Just as a good reader loses

himself in a story, thus creating himself, the writer, and the novel, don Sandalio comes to

life when he plays chess:

Juega bastante bien, con seguridad, sin demasiada lentitud, sin discutir ni volver las jugadas, no se le oye más que: “¡jaque!” Juega, te escribí el otro día, como quien cumple un servicio religioso. Pero no, mejor, como quien crea silenciosa música religiosa. Su juego es musical. Coge las piezas como si tañera en un arpa. Y hasta se me antoja oírle a su caballo, no relinchar ¡esto nunca! sino respirar musicalmente, cuando va a dar un jaque. Es como un caballo con alas. Un Pegaso. O mejor un Clavileño; de madera como éste. ¡Y cómo se posa en la tabla! No salta; vuela. ¿Y cuando tañe a la reina? ¡Pura música! (38)

Thus, for Don Sandalio, jugar es crear, which fits in with Unamuno’s emphasis on life as a game, a sort of creative playfulness that pervades much of his work. What appeals to the letter-writer is Don Sandalio’s silent game, that is, he “obedece a una estrategia del silencio que nos puede antojar como un movimiento poco espectacular” (Rueda 540).

Don Sandalio’s way of playing contrasts sharply with others in the casino, “Jugadores de tresillo, de tute, de mus, jugadores también de ajedrez, pero con tarareos y estribillos y sin religiosidad alguna. No más que mirones aburridos” (56). Thus, one day when he plays chess with a different person, he complains: “Este consocio, antes mirón y ahora compañero de juego, resultó ser uno de esos jugadores que no saben estarse callados. No hacía sino anunciar las jugadas, comentarlas, repetir estribillos, y, cuando no, tararear alguna cancioncilla. Era algo insoportable. ¡Qué diferencia con las partidas graves, recogidas y silenciosas de don Sandalio!” (48).

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Although in Cómo se hace una novela Unamuno affirms the relationship between

commentary and creation, here he seems to be differentiating between commentaries that

are nothing more than tonterías and those which have their origin in an act of creation, which truly express the vivacity of life. Curiously, at this point in the narrative,

Unamuno introduces himself into the story, parenthetically adding: “(Al llegar acá se me ocurre pensar que si el autor de estas cartas las tuviera que escribir ahora, en 1930, compararía las partidas con don Sandalio al cine puro, gráfico, representativo, y las partidas con el nuevo jugador al cine sonoro. Y así resultarían partidas sonoras o zumbadas”) (48). Here again Unamuno shows the endless possibilities that exist; if the writer of the letters had lived in a different time, he would have created something different, as would Unamuno. Rueda astutely observes that “La nota revela no sólo el desdén, y la sorna, con que Unamuno describe el ajedrez vocinglero, sino también su preferencia implícita por un ajedrez grave y recogido, más en sintonía con el entenderse sin oírse […]” (545), similar, of course, to written correspondence.

The importance of invention as creation is developed in the embedded anecdote concerning a mutual friend of Felipe and the letter-writer, Pepe el Gallego who told the two men the following when he was translating a book on sociology:

“No puedo resistir estos libros sociológicos de ahora; estoy traduciendo uno sobre el matrimonio primitivo, y todo se le vuelve al autor que si los algonquinos se casan de tal manera, los chipeuais de tal otra, los cafres de este modo, y así los demás… Antes llenaban los libros de palabras, ahora los llenan de esto que llaman hechos o documentos; lo que no veo por ninguna parte son ideas… Yo, por mi parte, si se me ocurriera inventar una teoría sociológica, la apoyaría en hechos de mi invención, seguro como estoy de que todo lo que un hombre pueda inventar ha sucedido, sucede o sucederá alguna vez.” (47)

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The above quotation is directed to Felipe as preparation for something that happened to

the letter-writer, “inaudito, algo tan sorprendente, que jamás se le podría haber ocurrido

al más ocurrente novelista” (47). The unheard-of event turns out to be nothing more than

Don Sandalio’s not showing up one day for his usual game of chess, thus creating the

situation, referred to in the paragraph above, in which the letter-writer plays with a

different partner. Interestingly, the friend was working on a translation, that is, a re-

writing of a book that contains no ideas, only facts, to which the friend responds that he

would invent his own facts in support of any theory that he might invent. Here there

exists a blurring of the lines between facts, events, and inventions, which suggests the

existential notion that man “makes” himself in part through events of his own creation.

The “Epílogo” contains the suggestion that Unamuno might have invented Don

Sandalio, Felipe, and the unknown reader who supposedly sent him the letters:

He vuelto a repasar esta correspondencia que me envió un lector desconocido, la he vuelto a leer una y más veces, y cuanto más la leo y la estudio más me va ganando una sospecha, y es que se trata, siquiera en parte, de una ficción para colocar una especie de autobiografía amañada. O sea que el don Sandalio es el mismo autor de las cartas, que se ha puesto fuera de sí para mejor representarse y a la vez disfrazarse y ocultar su verdad. Claro está que no ha podido contar lo de su muerte y la conversación de su yerno con el supuesto corresponsal de Felipe, o sea consigo mismo, pero esto no es más que un truco novelístico. (65)

In other words, the entire narrative may be nothing more than an engaño, or (as in Cómo

se hace una novela) another pretext for self-creation. Rueda’s analysis supports this

possibility:

Estas irresoluciones entre el yo y el otro de los distintos planos que se barajan, hacen tablas con los géneros, que convergen en una curiosa ecuación: biografía equivale a autobiografía, que equivale a novela, que equivale a historia verdadera. Tal como ocurre al escribir una carta, al hablar de otro (biografía) se habla de un yo (autobiografía) y al novelar uno se crea a sí mismo, lo cual nos remite a la biografía o a la verdadera historia. (555) 140

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Therefore, concludes the critic, “La novela presenta una situación en que ninguno de los jugadores puede ganar la partida. A eso se llama en ajedrez ‘hacer tablas’” (555). She also suggests early on in her article that Unamuno, “más que querer ganar la partida, busca hacer tablas” (444).

The epilogue continues to reflect Unamuno’s ideas concerning creation and the type of readers that he has formed. First, he expresses the unceasing nature of creation:

Todo poeta, todo creador, todo novelador—novelar es crear, al crear personajes se está creando a sí mismo, y si le nacen muertos es que él vive muerto. Todo poeta, digo, todo creador, incluso el Supremo Poeta, el Eterno Poeta, incluso, Dios, que al crear la Creación, el Universo, al estarlo creando de continuo, poematizándolo, no hace sino estarse creando a Sí mismo en su Poema, en su Divina Novela. (65, emphasis added)

Finally, the writer ends the “Epílogo” with a burla of materialistic readers who, for

Unamuno, would not be considered true readers:

No faltará, a pesar de todo, algún lector materialista, de esos a quienes les falta tiempo material ¡tiempo material, ¡qué expresión tan reveladora!—para bucear en los más hondos problemas del juego de la vida, que opine que yo debí, con los datos de estas cartas, escribir la novela de don Sandalio, inventar la resolución del problema misterioso de su vida y hacer así una novela, lo que se llama una novela. (66)

This coincides with the ideas presented in Cómo se hace una novela that the essential

point of a novel is the act of creating it, and that the reader must also participate in its

creation. Unamuno demands an active reader, not one who passively waits for the writer

to give him all of the details. Therefore, because the reader participates in the process,

the reader and writer mutually create each other, and when Unamuno refers to lectores

míos, he means the indispensable readers who help to create him as well:

Pero yo, que vivo en un tiempo espiritual, me he propuesto escribir la novela de una novela—que es algo así (como sombra de una sombra,) no la novela de un 141

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novelista, no sino la novela de una novela, y escribirla para mis lectores, para los lectores que yo me he hecho a la vez que ellos me han hecho a mí. Otra cosa ni me interesa mucho ni les interesa mucho a mis lectores, a los míos. Mis lectores, los míos, no buscan el mundo coherente de las novelas llamadas realistas ¿no es verdad, lectores míos? mis lectores, los míos, saben que un argumento no es más que un pretexto para una novela, y que queda, ésta, la novela, toda entera, y más pura, más interesante, más novelesca, si se le quita el argumento. Por lo demás, yo ya ni necesito que mis lectores—como el desconocido que me proporcionó las cartas de Felipe, los míos, me proporcionen argumentos para que yo les dé las novelas. Prefiero, y estoy seguro de que ellos han de preferirlo, que les dé yo las novelas y ellos les pongan argumentos. No son mis lectores de los que al ir a oír una ópera o ver una película de cine—sonoro o no—compran antes el argumento para saber a qué atenerse. (68)

The repetition of mis lectores, los míos in the above passage emphasizes the importance that Unamuno places on the point of mutual creation and of “active” readers. Such interdependence contributes to the open-endedness of the narrative by blurring the line between the reader and writer and also anticipates reader response theory. If reader and writer continually create each other, the story itself must be endless. For Rueda,

Todas las combinaciones y jugadas están abiertas para el lector y para el novelista, que quedan a la espera de la repercusión de la jugada clave de Unamuno en la determinación del desenlace; desenlace abierto pero, no obstante, necesariamente pendiente de un mate. La voz autorial de Unamuno se escaquea de nuevo en el Epílogo, o sea, se sale de las casillas epistolares para dirigirse directamente a sus lectores, a los que arranca de una correspondencia íntima para invitarlos a una partida que es pública y a la vez privada. (557)

The ludic relationship that Unamuno maintains with his readers is clearly illustrated by his invitation to participate in this game. This is also a way of rejecting criticism; critics do not matter, but his readers do.

Interestingly, both Unamuno and the letter-writer show great confidence in the persons whom they have created. Unamuno expresses his certainty that his readers, the ones that he has created and in turn have created him, would never buy a copy of the plot of an opera or a movie before seeing it. That is, they would be present in the here and 142

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now to let the story unfold while simultaneously creating it. The letter-writer of the novel

asserts a similar confidence that he truly knows his Don Sandalio:

¿Qué hará don Sandalio, más solitario aún, en la celda de su prisión? ¿Se habrá resignado ya y habrá pedido un tablero de ajedrez y un librito de problemas para ponerse a resolverlos? ¿O se habrá puesto a inventar problemas? De lo que apenas me cabe duda, o yo me equivoco mucho respecto a su carácter—y no cabe que me equivoque en mi don Sandalio, es de que no se le da un bledo del problema o de los problemas que le plantee el juez con sus indagatorias. (51)

La novela de don Sandalio also has an introductory epigraph, “Alors une faculté

pitoyable se développa dans leur esprit, celle de voir la bêtise et de ne plus la tolérer”7 from G. Flaubert, Bouvart et Pécuchet (27). Franz correctly observes that the epigraph

illustrates

a motif that the work will echo repeatedly, as the unnamed letter writer informs his friend Felipe about the supposed intolerance of stupidity that the presumed epistolary novelist (the letter writer) in fact invents for his subject, the chess player Don Sandalio. This situation, too […] suggests a hidden problem of Idealist orientation, whether the letter writer’s perceptions or will are sufficient to infer a corresponding reality. (42-3)

Here Franz calls attention to a significant detail when he hypothesizes that the letter- writer has invented Don Sandalio’s intolerance of stupidity, that is, this characteristic is just part of the Don Sandalio of his own making although it is not insignificant that the letter-writer flees the city because of his own intolerance of human stupidity and is

originally attracted to Don Sandalio, believing he shares this intolerance. The critic is

also right to call into question whether the letter writer’s perceptions are trustworthy,

since some may be projections of his own ideas. In addition, taking into account the idea that the epigrapher may be a fictional entity (as discussed above in the section on Cómo

se hace una novela), the critic asserts that “equating the epistolary narrator with the act of

quoting from Flaubert similarly implores the epigraphee to pity the tragedy of both the 143

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 writer and his chess-playing subject in their mutual inability to adapt to the ubiquitous stupidity of the world” (45). Franz then discerns an additional layer of complexity:

If the epigrapher can be imagined to be a narrator like either the letter writer, his friend Felipe, or the unknown reader who passes on the letters to “Unamuno,” the epigraphee becomes equivalent to the novel’s narratee, and this narratee could be construed to be a diegetic simulacrum of the actual reader. Therefore, all of the sympathy that the epigrapher implores from the epigraphee becomes the obligation of the “reader.” If, however, the epigraph is seen as being addressed to an epigraphee who remains fully intradiegetic and without any association with the real reader, the latter can identify with the epigraphee only by evolving a sympathetic relationship with the epigraphic text. Given the literary strength of Unamuno’s epigraphs, both possibilities function, and the reader is left with the autonomy to read them in either way or in a playful, random manner. (45-6)

As Franz suggests above, even with the presentation of a simple quotation, Unamuno leaves the reader with several options, another example of the open-endedness pervasive throughout his work and the way in which he plays with the reader.

The use of chiasmi in the narrative also serves to avoid complete closure. The last names of Don Sandalio, which the protagonist learns only when he is summoned to court after his chess partner has been imprisoned, are Cuadrado y Redondo. The protagonist at this moment admits to the judge that he knows very little about his former adversary:

“Tuve que contestarle que ignoraba que don Sandalio tuviese o hubiese tenido una hija casada, así como ignoraba hasta aquel momento que se apellidase, de una manera contradictoria, Cuadrado y Redondo” (53). The self-contradictory nature of his names indicates the varying forms that one person may take on, further illustrated when the protagonist learns that Don Sandalio spoke of him frequently at home. This simply does not seem possible, and when the judge tells him this, he responds: “‘¿De mí?’ le he contestado todo sorprendido y casi fulminado. ‘¡Pero si me parece que no sabe cómo me llamo!, ¡si apenas existo yo para él!’” (53). The situation creates great confusion for the 144

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protagonist, who simply cannot believe that he could have had a place in Don Sandalio’s

life outside of the Casino: “Y aquí me tienes todo confuso por lo que se está haciendo mi

don Sandalio. ¿Volveré al casino? ¿Volveré a que me hieran astillas de las

conversaciones que sostienen aquellos socios que tan fielmente me representan a la

humanidad media, al término medio de la humanidad? Te digo, Felipe, que no sé qué

hacer” (53). Once again, the overreaction and indecisiveness of the letter-writer create a

comical scene.

Chiasmi occur in varying contexts throughout the narrative. For example, when

the letter-writer overhears a conversation in the hotel where he is staying, he comments in one of his letters:

Sigo preocupado, mi querido Felipe, con la tragedia de la tontería o más bien de la simplicidad. Hace pocos días oí, sin quererlo, en el hotel, una conversación que ésta sí que me dejó como fulminado. Hablaban de una señora que estaba a punto de morir, y el cura que la asistía le dijo: “Bueno, cuando llegue al cielo no deje de decir a mi madre, en cuanto la vea, que aquí estamos viviendo cristianamente para poder ir a hacerle compañía.” Y esto parece que lo dijo el cura, que es piadosísimo, muy en serio. Y como no puedo por menos que creer que el cura que así decía creía en ello, me di a pensar en la tragedia de la simplicidad, o mejor en la felicidad de la simplicidad. Y di luego en pensar si acaso mi don Sandalio no es un hombre feliz. (40, emphasis added)

In the example cited above, Unamuno uses the word felicidad as the opposite of

tragedia, which calls attention to another side of tragedy. That comicidad was not chosen

by the writer to express the opposite of tragedy supports the idea that the use of the

chiasmus helps to reduce the tragic aspect of the narrative, though not necessarily always

provoking laughter. Further on in the narrative, after the protagonist comes across an old

cabin in ruins, he remembers Don Quijote:

No sabes, Felipe, en qué estado de ánimo dejé las ruinas del viejo caserío. Iba pensando que acaso me convendría hacer construir en ellas una celda de prisión, 145

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una especie de calabozo, y encerrarme allí. O ¿no será mejor que me lleven, como a Don Quijote, en una jaula de madera, en un carro de bueyes, viendo al pasar el campo abierto en que se mueven los hombres cuerdos que se creen libres? O los hombres libres que se creen cuerdos, y es lo mismo en el fondo. ¡Don Quijote! ¡Otro solitario como Robinsón y como Bouvard y como Pécuchet, otro solitario, a quien un grave eclesiástico, henchido de toda la tontería de los hombres cuerdos, le llamó Don Tonto, le diputó mentecato y le echó en cara sandeces y vaciedades! (51-2, emphasis added)

Here Unamuno explicitly confirms that the two phrases are equivalent. On the other

hand, a chiasm does not always reflect equality of the two opposites, as indicated in the

following passage:

…Recuerda lo que tantas veces hemos comentado de Píndaro,8 el que dijo lo de: “!hazte el que eres!”, pero dijo también—y en relación con ello—lo de que el hombre es “sueño de una sombra.” Pues bien: los socios del casino no son sueños de sombras, sino que son sombras de sueños, que no es el mismo. Y si don Sandalio me atrajo allí fue porque le sentí soñar, soñaba el ajedrez, mientras que los otros… Los otros son sombras de sueños míos. (58, endnote and emphasis added)

In contrast to the earlier example, in this context Unamuno employs the chiasmus to affirm the difference between the two phrases in order to avoid confusion between them.

Although Rueda does not specifically mention Unamuno’s use of the chiasmus, her suggestion of the parallelism between the act of letter-writing with that of chess also implies the existence of opposing forces. She explains how the juxtaposition of these two activities leads to the exploration of opposites:

Al yuxtaponer el carteo a las partidas del ajedrez, ambas actividades se revelan como complementarias. Operan dentro de un sistema lógico y finito, pero que se abre a combinaciones ilimitadas. Su simetría es idónea para explorar las relaciones entre la presencia y la ausencia, lo privado y lo colectivo, la comunicación y la incomunicación, lo dinámico y lo sedentario, pero, sobre todo, el yo y el otro. Todas estas oposiciones entran en juego en la modalidad epistolar para constituirse en características propias. Jugar una partida es tan cosa de dos como lo es escribir una carta. (542-3)

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The chiasmus functions similarly when it unites opposites, at time confirming their likenesses, at other times emphasizing their differences.

In one of the dated entries, the letter-writer responds to a communication with

Felipe (unseen and permanently unknown to the reader) in which he calls attention to the absence of a feminine figure in the narrative:

Y en cuanto a esa indicación que me haces de que averigüe siquiera cómo es o cómo fue la hija de don Sandalio—cómo fue si el yerno de éste está viudo por haberse muerto la tal hija—y cómo se casó, no esperes de mí tal cosa. Te veo, Felipe, te veo venir. Tú has echado de menos en toda esta mi correspondencia una figura de mujer y ahora te figuras que la novela que estás buscando, la novela que quieres que yo te sirva, empezará a cuajar en cuanto surja ella. ¡Ella! ¡La ella del viejo cuento! Sí, ya sé, “¡buscad a ella!” (62)

Apparently, the protagonist has received some sort of feedback from the receiver of his letters, which contributes to the open-endedness of the narrative. Though the reference to

“la ella del viejo cuento” may be to nothing more than the daughter left behind upon the

death of Don Sandalio’s son-in-law, it may also hint at the existence of information

excluded from the novel, thus pointing out that the beginning of the novel is not the true

beginning of the story. The letter-writer, however, refuses to yield to Felipe’s request for

more information:

Pero yo no pienso buscar ni a la hija de don Sandalio ni a otra ella que con él pueda tener relación. Yo me figuro que para don Sandalio no hubo otra ella que la reina del ajedrez, esa reina que marcha derecha, como una torre, de blanco en negro y de negro en blanco y a la vez de sesgo como un obispo loco y elefantino, de blanco en blanco o de negro en negro; esa reina que domina el tablero, pero a cuya dignidad e imperio puede llegar, cambiando de sexo, un triste peón. Esta creo que fue la única reina de sus pensamientos. (62, emphasis added)

The protagonist does not budge from the image that he has created of Don Sandalio, a player of chess, nothing more, nothing less. Thus, the only female figure that inhabits his world is the queen of chess, a figure that dominates the chessboard, moving freely 147

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throughout the game.9 Rueda suggests that, “La elección del formato epistolario le

permite a Unamuno aprovecharse de toda una tradición literaria que glorifica la pasión

sobre el intelecto, sólo que la modifica al no convertir a la mujer, sino al juego del

ajedrez, en objeto de adoración. Este cruce entre pasión e intelecto es puesto al servicio de un tema propio: la pasión por el juego de la vida” (558).

The letter-writer continues to focus on the problem of the feminine figure, at times employing chiasmi to express himself:

No sé qué escritor de esos obstinados por el problema del sexo dijo que la mujer es una esfinge sin enigma. Puede ser; pero el problema más hondo de la novela, o sea del juego de nuestra vida, no está en cuestión sexual, como no está en cuestión del estómago. El problema más hondo de nuestra novela, de la tuya, Felipe, de la mía, de la de don Sandalio, es un problema de personalidad, de ser o no ser, y no de comer o no comer, de amar o de ser amado; nuestra novela, la de cada uno de nosotros, es si somos más que ajedrecistas, o tresillistas, o tutistas, o casineros, o… la profesión, oficio, religión o deporte que quieras, y esta novela se la dejo a cada cual que se la sueñe como mejor le aproveche, le distraiga o le consuele. Puede ser que haya esfinges sin enigma—y éstas son las novelas de que gustan los casineros, pero hay también enigmas sin esfinge. La reina del ajedrez no tiene el busto, los senos, el rostro de mujer de la esfinge que se asienta al sol entre las arenas del desierto, pero tiene su enigma. La hija de don Sandalio puede ser que fuese esfíngica y el origen de su tragedia íntima, pero no creo que fuese enigmática, y en cambio la reina de sus pensamientos era enigmática aunque no esfíngica; le reina de sus pensamientos no se estaba asentada al sol entre las arenas del desierto, sino que recorría el tablero, de cabo a cabo, ya derechamente, ya de sesgo. ¿Quieres más novela que ésta? (62-3, emphasis added)

Again, Unamuno utilizes chiasmi to differentiate rather than to show similarity. Both

“esfinges sin enigma” and “enigmas sin esfinge” exist, just as two types of readers exist.

The above passage also reiterates the idea of jugar es novelar, that is, life as a game. As

Rueda asserts, “Y si bien Don Sandalio tampoco ofrece una solución a los enigmas de la

vida, nos invita a recrearnos en el sentimiento lúdico, más que trágico, con que los

expresa, y podemos admirar la elegancia con que los ha dejado planteados” (558).

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Finally, the mirror serves again as a symbol of endless repetition and creativity in the narrative. Franz, in a recent article “Picasso, Arte Joven, and Unamuno’s Niebla,”

agrees that the espejo carries significance in the novel and that it relates to reciprocal

creativity:

The novel alludes twice to the mirrors in a nearby café (chs. 19 and 21), suggesting that bystanders not only internalize the seemingly limited reality of the chess players but also creatively modify it. That is, anyone’s perception of the chess matches between the letter writer and Don Sandalio becomes altered due to a projection onto the matches of certain components in the onlooker’s own reality. This inversion corresponds to both the letter writer’s and Felipe’s thoughts about the reciprocal creativity of the epistler, the narratee, Don Sandalio, and the reader. While the epistler always knows that he is creating a new Don Sandalio for Felipe, in chapters 18 and 20 the judge and Don Sandalio’s son-in-law reveal that Don Sandalio had simultaneously been elaborating a fictional reflection of the letter writer. Finally, in the Epilogue, Felipe suggests that his own internalization of these multiple reflections has served to create a new Felipe who will now elaborate an original narrative on the basis of the multiple reflections he has absorbed from the letters. (215)

The mirrors to which Franz refers above are discussed below. One day after the death of

Don Sandalio, the letter-writer seeks solace in a small café:

Una vez, a tomar un refresco, en uno que estaba a aquella hora solitario. Había grandes espejos, algo opacos, unos frente a otros, y yo entre ellos me veía varias veces reproducido, cuanto más lejos más brumoso, perdiéndome en lejanías como de triste ensueño. ¡Qué monasterio de solitarios el que formábamos todas las imágenes aquellas, todas aquellas copias de un original! Empezaba ya a desasosegarme esto cuando entró otro prójimo en el local, y al ver cruzar por el vasto campo de aquel ensueño todas sus reproducciones, todos sus repetidos, me salí huido. (57)

The protagonist becomes unsettled upon seeing so many images of himself, and when another person enters the café, the situation becomes intolerable and he must flee the scene. The mirror here represents the various forms possible of an original, and the letter-writer finds it uncomfortable to see himself from this perspective.10 Rueda

maintains that “En la medida en que estamos entablados o implicados en la novela, los 149

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lectores somos también figuras de una galería de espejos borrosos. El autor implícito

declara que se ha propuesto escribir ‘la novela de una novela—que es algo así como

sombra de una sombra’” (554). Since Unamuno constantly blurs the boundaries between

reader and writer, the critic makes an important observation that the reader is not exempt

from the existential status of the fictional entity.

After the incident in the café, in the same letter, the protagonist relates to Felipe an argument about bullfighting which he overheard one day in a café in Madrid. He found the discussion amusing because the men were not talking about what they had seen at a bullring, but rather what they had read “en las revistas taurinas de los periódicos”

(57). At this point, another man enters, takes out a notebook, and begins to take notes:

No bien le vieron los chulos, parecieron recobrarse, cesaron en su discusión, y uno de ellos, en voz alta y con cierto tono de desafío, empezó a decir: “¿Sabéis lo que os digo? Pues que ese tío que se ha puesto ahí con su cuadernillo y como a tomar la cuenta de la patrona, es uno de esos que vienen por los cafés a oír lo que decimos y a sacarnos luego en los papeles… ¡Qué le saque a su abuela!.” Y por este tono, y con impertinencias mayores, la emprendieron los cuatro con el pobre hombre—acaso no era más que un revistero de toros, de tal manera que tuvo que salirse. Y si es que en vez de revistero de toros era uno de esos noveladores de novelas realistas o de costumbrismo, que iba allí a documentarse, entonces tuvo bien merecida la lección que le dieron. (57)

The protagonist’s memory of this just after the incident with the mirrors in the café points

to a relationship between them. It is possible that he sees the same desdoblamiento in the

two events. The men arguing had not directly seen the bullfight they were discussing;

they had only read a report of it in the paper, that is, a reflection of the real event. When

the note-taker arrives, what he writes down is going to be even further removed from the

fight itself, a report on what the men were saying about what they read, but had not

experienced, like the last blurred image in the mirror. Just like the mirror images, each

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one becomes further away from reality, like a commentary on a commentary. For the

protagonist, this resembles the process that a writer uses to compose a novela realista o

de costumbrismo. Therefore, the letter-writer insists: “No, yo no voy a ningún café a

documentarme; a lo más, a buscar una sala de espejos en que nos juntemos,

silenciosamente y a distancia, unas cuantas sombras humanas que van esfumándose a lo

lejos. Ni vuelvo al casino; no, no vuelvo a él” (58). Although this character may not want to participate in this type of re-creation (in both senses of the word), he inevitably finds himself in the midst of ongoing life, just as at the beginning of the novel he is drawn to the casino although he supposedly is bent on escaping from human society.

Perhaps Unamuno is expressing that even though a person resists life and tries to shy away from it, the process of life carries along even the most unwilling participant. It may be this very process that creates hope for the future and which dominates the tragic.

Un pobre hombre rico o el sentimiento cómico de la vida (1930)

This novel, finished the same month (December) and the same year as Don

Sandalio and published in the same volume, differs considerably in form and content,

though not in underlying themes. If all of Unamuno’s work forms a chiasmus (as Olson

maintains), it can also be said that these two novels complement each other. No women

appear in Don Sandalio, while Un pobre hombre rico is dominated by feminine

characters. The entire format of the former is epistolary, while the latter more resembles

Niebla and Amor y pedagogía in that it is full of dialogue. Nonetheless, both Don

Sandalio and Un pobre hombre rico manifest the same lack of closure that creates hope

for the future, though the latter does so much more explicitly than the former, and, 151

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perhaps, more than any other narrative produced by Unamuno. Although the optimism and humor in Un pobre hombre rico is woven into the narrative itself (not needing to be

“proven” as in other works), the novel merits discussion in the present study because of its paratexts and lively dialogue.

The reader may question why the writer decided at this point to produce a novel so apparently different from his others. This is why Unamuno, aware of his tendency to kill off his characters, and in recognition of the difference between this novel and his others, offers the following explanation at the end of the narrative:

Y ahora, mis lectores, los que han leído antes mi Amor y pedagogía y mi Niebla y mis otras novelas y cuentos, recordando que todos los protagonistas de ellos, los que me han hecho, se murieron o se mataron—y un jesuita ha llegado a decir que soy un inductor al suicidio, se preguntarán cómo acabó Emeterio Alfonso. Pero estos hombres así, a lo Emeterio Alfonso—o don Emeterio de Alfonso—no se matan ni se mueren, son inmortales, o más bien resucitan en cadena. Y confío, lectores, en que mi Emeterio Alfonso será inmortal. (105)

A reference to the Jesuit who accuses Unamuno of encouraging suicide appears later in the “Prólogo-epílogo a la segunda edición” of Amor y pedagogía, signed “El Autor” and

dated 1934:

Y aquí me recuerdo de lo de aquel jesuita que escribió que me obsesiona el suicidio, que me complazco en hablar de él, y llegó a afirmar que soy un inductor de suicidio. Y en esta misma novela mi don Fulgencio, hablando del terrible humorista de Danzig, de Schopenhauer, y de cómo su padre se suicidó y su madre escribió novelas, decía que “acaso el suicidio fue la novela de su padre y las novelas fueron el suicidio de su madre.” ¡Hay tantas novelas que no son más que suicidios mentales marrados! (37)

Here the writer may be suggesting that although his novels contain characters who commit suicide, the novels themselves are alive. On the other hand, even though a novel may not include a suicide or other form of death as part of the plot, if the novel is not alive, it could be a form of mental suicide. It remains a group of dead words on paper 152

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and does not possess any particular significance. The idea of a novel having life in spite

of the death of its characters fits in perfectly with the concept of hope dominating the

tragic. Therefore, with or without a tragic death, the essential characteristic of a novel for

Unamuno is whether or not it comes to life for the reader. Viewed from this perspective,

Un pobre hombre rico does not differ substantially from Unamuno’s other narratives.

Nevertheless, something rings suspicious about the rationale given by the writer for making such a deliberate change. Unamuno’s explanation brings to mind the

“Prólogo a la primera edición” of Amor y pedagogía (1902), in which the prologuist

“Unamuno” relates the following: “Antes de terminar este prólogo, cúmplenos hacer una

manifestación, para satisfacer con ella un deseo del autor. Cuando éste se dispuso a dar

al público su obra, a pesar de los consejos que de ello pretendían disuadirle, preocupóse

ante todo del tamaño y forma que había de dar al libro, pues nos manifiesta que da gran

importancia a este punto” (31). This is tongue-in-cheek, pure burla and engaño since

Unamuno did not at all concern himself with such things. “Unamuno” then explains that

Unamuno

Dice, en efecto, que hallándose el verano pasado en Bilbao, su pueblo nativo, y en una librería donde tiene consignados ejemplares de su novela Paz en la guerra y de sus Tres Ensayos, le manifestó el librero que cuando volviese a publicar otro libro se cuidara mucho de su volumen y condiciones materiales, procurando que, a poder ser, tengan sus obras todas un mismo tamaño. (31)

The prologue presents a story about a bookstore client who was interested in purchasing

only books of a uniform size, and for this reason “decía el librero al señor Unamuno que

procurara que sus libros todos fueran uniformes, pues así los vendería mejor” (32).

“Unamuno” continues to elaborate this point: “Porque es indudable que hay quienes

compran los libros para leerlos, y son los menos, y hay quienes los compran para formar 153

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 con ellos biblioteca, y son los más. Y en una biblioteca está feo que los libros de un autor, que han de aparecer juntos, no puedan alinearse en perfecta forma y sin ningún saliente, ni hacia arriba ni hacia adelante” (32). Here, Unamuno, disguised as

“Unamuno” makes fun of book collectors, who are not true readers. The prologuist adds, however, that since at the moment Unamuno is only interested in publishing for readers,

“y no para bibliófilos, parécenos de poca importancia sus escrúpulos y que debe dejar esas importantes consideraciones para cuando dé a la estampa su colección de ‘Obras completas,’ que nos complacemos en creer no ha de tardar mucho en hacerlo. Entonces publicará para las bibliotecas; por ahora, debe contentarse con publicar para los lectores”

(32). Finally, the prologuist confirms that “El mismo autor está conforme con estas consideraciones y le es indiferente, por ahora, el tamaño y demás condiciones materiales en que ha de aparecer su libro. Tal vez influya en esto, como en su estilo, cierto desdén, no bien justificado sin duda, hacia las formas exteriores” (32). The last sentence reveals the real Unamuno’s true feeling about the issue.

Nevertheless, in the first of three epilogues to the novel, Unamuno admits that

“previendo que la obra resultara demasiado breve para los propósitos del editor, la hinché mediante el prólogo que la precede, y con tal objeto se lo puse, mas ni aun así parece que he llegado a la medida” (150). It turns out that his worry was justified since his editor informs him that “aun haciendo uso de todos los recursos imaginables, no alcanza más que 200 páginas” (151). Because both the editor and Unamuno fear that lengthening the prologue or adding chapters to the narrative itself “quitaría espontaneidad y frescura a la obra de arte” (151), the writer decides to add an epilogue:

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Opto por añadirle un epílogo, con el cual se consigue además que tenga mi libro la tan acreditada división tripartita, constando de prólogo, logo y epílogo, y es lástima que las necesidades del ajuste y el tipo fatal de 300 páginas, por una parte, y por otra lo apremiante del tiempo, no me permitan estudiar el modo de dar a esta división tripartita cierto módulo especial, tal como el de la llamada sección áurea—que tanto papel jugaba en la estética arquitectónica, de manera que fuese el prólogo al epílogo como éste al logo, o sea, este epílogo una media proporcional entre el prólogo y el logo, artificio digno de mi don Fulgencio. De todos modos creo que es un epílogo lo que, resolviéndonos el conflicto, puede menos “quitar espontaneidad y frescura a la obra de arte.” (151)

Thus, Unamuno uses the epilogue to explain why he must include it while also deferring

to one of the fictional characters of the novel. In Unamuno’s Paratexts, Franz describes this as “an admixture of metatextual comments, additions to the narrative’s plot, and an explanation of how the editor Valentí Camp had reiterated the need for a longer version of the novel if the Henrich publishing house was to accept the text for publication” (91).

Franz calls it “a true epilogue, though an unorthodox one that playfully combines genres and demonstrates the ability of the inscribed ‘author’ to both prolong his text and

rhapsodize an optimistic conclusion to the story” (91). Therefore, this epilogue serves

the function of adding hope to the narrative as well as creating an ongoing story with no

definite end.

The epilogue to Un hombre pobre rico, consisting of only one short paragraph,

certainly does not serve the function of extending the novel, but like that of Amor y

pedagogía, it does offer an explanation as to why the writer has chosen to make a particular change. Still, the reader does not quite believe that Unamuno would shift the

content of his work solely in response to the Jesuit’s comments that he always includes a

suicide. For this reason, it is important to keep in mind Unamuno’s own comment about

novels that are nothing more than “suicidios mentales marrados,” thus giving credence to

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Chapter VI).

Un pobre hombre rico features another protagonist who is trying to resist temptation, in this case, the advances of the daughter of the owner of the boarding house where he lives. In this narrative, however, he succeeds all too well in staving her off for a very long time, but not without consequences. Emeterio, the main character, similar to the letter-writer of Don Sandalio, does not seem to want to participate fully in life, but nevertheless, he eventually becomes caught up in it despite himself. He is a very orderly person and also

un joven fundamental y radicalmente ahorrativo. Cada mes depositaba en el banco mismo en que prestaba sus servicios el fruto de su ahorro mensual. Y era ahorrativo, lo mismo que en dinero, en trabajo, en salud, en pensamiento y en afecto. Se limitaba a cumplir, y no más, en su labor de oficina bancaria, era aprensivo y se servía de toda clase de preservativos, aceptaba todos los lugares comunes del sentido también común, y era parco en amistades. Todas las noches al acostarse, casi siempre a la misma hora, ponía sus pantalones en esos aparatos que sirven para mantenerlos tersos y sin arrugas. (71)

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Unlike the characters in other narratives of Unamuno, however, Emeterio possesses a trace of a sense of humor. Although at first he is unable to laugh at himself, he “asistía a una tertulia de café donde reía las gracias de los demás y él no se cansaba en hacer gracia” (71). Still, his sense of humor does not yet extend to himself, and this contributes to his reluctance to create a life for himself. He is a self-described consumidor de chistes, which causes problems for him, as indicated in the following incident:

Y aun uno de los contertulios, el más chistoso y ocurrente, un periodista, se le presentó un día en el banco a darle un sablazo, y como él se negara, le espetó: “¡Usted me ha estafado!.” “¿Yo?” “¡Sí, usted, porque a la tertulia va cada uno en su concepto y da lo que tiene; yo le he hecho reír, le he divertido; usted nada dice allí, usted no va más que como hombre acomodado; acudo a usted en su concepto y se me niega, luego usted me ha estafado, usted me ha estafado!” “Pero es que yo, señor mío, no voy allá como rico, sino como consumidor…” “¿Consumidor de qué?” “¡De chistes! ¡He reído los de usted, y en paz!” “Consumidor…, consumidor… ¡Lo que hace usted es consumirse!” Y así era la verdad. (78)

His reluctance to actively participate impedes him from forming true friendships through the tertulia and occasionally even creates antipathy among his contertulios. Surprisingly,

Emeterio’s fears extend to the re-creation of himself, as indicated when his friend

Celedonio encourages him to accept Rosita (the young woman mentioned above).

Celedonio quickly realizes that Emeterio does not welcome the opportunity to start a family: “Y tú, por lo que se ve, no quieres multiplicarte” to which Emeterio responds:

“¿Multiplicarme? Hartas miltiplicaciones hago en el banco. ¿Multiplicarme?, ¡por mí mismo!” Celedonio then demonstrates his wit when he replies: “Vamos, sí, elevarte al cubo. ¡Vaya una elevación!” (74-5).

Similar to other novels, in Un pobre hombre rico Unamuno intercalates many examples of metafiction. Some of these references to other literary works occur in the paratexts and others within the text. The first appears as an epigraph at the beginning of 157

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the novel, “Dilectus meus misit manum suam per foramen, et venter meus intremuit ad

tactum eius. Cantica canticorum, V,4 ” (69).11 This Latin quotation from the Cantar de

los Cantares immediately sets what Olson refers to as a bawdy tone to the novel (214).

Franz considers ironic the use of this particular quote, “since the protagonist of the

narrative, Emeterio Alonso, is anything but an accomplished seducer” (Unamuno’s

Paratexts 43). Indeed, when he rejects Rosita, he remains a bachelor for many years, but later falls in love with Rosita’s daughter, not realizing at first who she is. However, when the girl takes him home, “he recognizes that he has merely transferred his belated love of

the mother to her offspring” (43). The critic observes a similar situation in two other

novels of Unamuno, Niebla and La tía Tula:12

This is a repetition of Augusto’s bungling use of Rosario as a substitute love object in Niebla and Ramiro’s crude transference of his frustrated eros for Gertrudis to her sister Rosa in La tía Tula. The point in all three cases is that a man may have a healthy sex drive but that it is seriously blunted unless he has the aplomb to put it to use in the right way at the right time. In the case of Emeterio Alonso, the right time arrives later and his presence of mind does not fail him the second time around. (43)

References to the epigraph recur throughout the novel. For example, when Emeterio is

telling his friend Celedonio about Rosita’s attempts to seduce him, Celedonio refers to

the Cantar de los Cantares:

CELEDONIO. Estás en casa de su madre, doña Tomasa, y me temo que como dice la Escritura no te meta en el cuarto de la que la parió…

EMETERIO. ¿La Escritura? ¿Pero la Sagrada Escritura dice esas cosas…?

CELEDONIO. Sí, es del místico Cantar de los Cantares en que, como en un ombligo, han bebido tantas almas sedientas de amor transmundano. Y esto del ombligo en que se bebe es también, por supuesto, bíblico. (74)

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Another reference is found when Emeterio discovers (quite some time after having

moved away from the boarding house where Rosita and her mother live) that the now

pregnant Rosita has married Martínez, a fellow guest at the casa de huéspedes, and he

falls into a depression: “Dormía, pero su corazón velaba, como dice místicamente el

Cantar de los Cantares, y la vela de su corazón era el ensueño. Dormía su cabeza, pero su corazón soñaba” (81). Finally, years later, when Rosita’s daughter is grown up,

Emeterio falls in love with her at first sight and relates this news to Celedonio, who in the middle of his friend’s description of the woman he has recently seen, interrupts him:

EMETERIO. Pues, mira, hace ya días, en uno de mis vagabundeos callejeros, di con una aparición divina, te digo, Celedonio, que divina…, con una mocita toda llama en los ojos, toda vida, toda…

CELEDONIO. Deja el Cantar de los Cantares, y al caso. (90)

All of the references to the epigraph relate in some way to a turning point in the relationship between Rosita and Emeterio: the first, shortly after Rosita’s mother has encouraged her to try to win over Emeterio; the second, when he discovers Rosita’s marriage to Martínez; and the last, when he meets Rosita’s daughter, thus re[dis]covering

Rosita. Therefore, not only does the epigraph set the tone of the novel, but also brings together three separate temporal planes.

In addition, the epigraph carries further metafictional significance based on

Franz’s recent research concerning Unamuno’s “unique access to a series of sexually- charged drawings by the young Pablo Picasso” (“Picasso, Arte Joven, and Unamuno’s

Niebla” 213). Franz contends that much of the celestinesque and erotic facet in

Unamuno has its origins precisely in these early drawings by Picasso. The focus of his

article is on this particular component of Niebla, but Un pobre hombre rico is even richer 159

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than the former in sexually-charged dialogue and wit, therefore making many of the

critic’s observations relevant also to the present study. According to Franz, some time

around the beginning of 1901, Bernardo G. de Candamo13 invited Unamuno to contribute something to the first issue of a newspaper to be called Arte Joven. Along

with his request to Unamuno, Candamo sent him of some of the articles and artwork that

were slated to appear in the first issue, among which were several drawings by Picasso depicting enticing women (213). Franz draws his conclusions based on similarities between the content of the drawings and their links to specific scenes of Niebla, ultimately asserting that “Niebla is, indeed, a novel of ‘celestinas’” (215).14

In Un pobre hombre rico, Emeterio also takes on the role of a celestino after he finds out that Rosita has married Martínez and is pregnant with his child. He begins to follow couples in the street and is always up-to-date on who has broken up with whom and other gossip. One day when Celedonio catches him at this, he confronts him “en uno de aquellos callejeos investigativos”:

CELEDONIO. Pero, hombre, ¿sabes que empiezas a hacerte popular entre novios y novias?

EMETERIO. ¿Cómo así?

CELEDONIO. Qué ya te han conocido el flaco; se divierten mucho con él y te llaman el inspector de noviazgos. Y todos dicen: ¡Pobre hombre!

EMETERIO. Pues, mira, sí, me tira esto, no puedo negártelo. Sufro cuando veo que algún mocito deja a su mocita por otra, y cuando éstas tienen que cambiar de mozo y cuando una que lo merece no encuentra quien le diga: ¡Por ahí te pudras!, y aunque se ponga papel no le llega inquilino.

CELEDONIO. O huésped.

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EMETERIO. Como quieras. Sufro mucho, y si no fuera por lo que es, pondría agencia de matrimonios o me haría casamentero.

CELEDONIO. U otra cosa…

EMETERIO. Lo mismo me da. Y haciéndolo como yo, por amor al prójimo, por caridad, por humanidad, no creo que ello sea desdoroso… (84-5)

Apparently, Emeterio does possess a real knack for matchmaking and claims to be doing his “observations” for humanity. At this point, Celedonio compares what his friend is doing with something that he remembers from Don Quijote, bringing in yet another metafictional reference:

CELEDONIO. ¡Qué ha de serlo, Emeterio, qué ha de serlo! Recuerda que Don Quijote, caballero que es el dechado y colmo del desinterés, dice que “no es así como se quiera el oficio de alcahuete, que es oficio de discretos y necesarísimo en la república bien ordenada, y que no lo debía ejercer sino gente muy bien nacida, y aun había de haber veedor y examinador de los tales…,” y todo lo demás que dice al respecto, que ya no me acuerdo…

EMETERIO. Pues, sí, sí, Celedonio, me tira eso, pero por el arte; el arte por el arte, por puro desinterés, y ni tampoco para que la república esté bien ordenada, sino para que ellos gocen mejor y yo goce viéndolos y sintiéndolos gozosos.

CELEDONIO. Y es natural que Don Quijote sintiese debilidad por los alcahuetes y por otras gentes. Recuerda qué caritativas, qué maternales estuvieron con él las mozas que llaman del partido, y la caritativa Maritornes, que sabía echar a rodar la honestidad cuando se trataba de aliviar la flaqueza del prójimo. ¿O es que crees que Don Quijote es como esos señores de la Real Academia de la Lengua Española que dicen que la ramera es “mujer que hace ganancia de su cuerpo, entregada vilmente al vicio de la lascivia?” Porque la ganancia es una cosa y la lascivia es otra. Y las hay que ni por ganancia ni por lascivia, sino por divertirse.

EMETERIO. Sí, por deporte.

CELEDONIO. Como tú, por deporte y no por ganancia ni por lascivia, ¿no es así?, a eso de seguir parejas… 161

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EMETERIO. Te juro que…

CELEDONIO. Sí, la cuestión es pasar el rato, sin adquirir compromisos serios. Y tú siempre has huido de los compromisos. Es más divertido comprometer a los demás. (85-6)

Here Celedonio touches upon a basic characteristic of Emeterio, his tendency to avoid committing himself to anyone, externalizing his reluctance to participate fully in life.

Nevertheless, when Celedonio refers to Don Quijote and alludes to La Celestina, who was an alcahueta, the narrative acquires a much wider horizon that extends beyond the confines of Emeterio’s life. Therefore, in light of the above examples from Un pobre

hombre rico and Franz’s analysis of Niebla from this perspective, it seems reasonable to

accept the critic’s assertion of the necessity “to further explore whether, and to what

extent, Picasso might have contributed to the pictoric, numerical, and sexual dimensions

of Unamuno’s post-1901 narratives, as well as to the ways in which we might read any

work of Unamunian fiction today” (218). Franz also observes that “Both Picasso and

Unamuno were, while unique talents and even visionaries, also products of their time.

They were part of a world that was just beginning to substitute, on a grand scale, artistic

liberty for beauty and innovation for classicism. Seeing Picasso’s fixations and

techniques in Unamuno’s works brings out attributes that might otherwise go

unrecognized or underexamined” (217). The possible influence of Picasso on

Unamuno’s fiction creates another level of metafiction and further contributes to the

blurring of reality and fiction. Similarly, it serves as another example of the writer’s

playful relationship with the reader.

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Un pobre hombre rico employs other techniques as well to blur the line between

fiction and reality. One example of this is Unamuno’s insertion of himself into the text15 when Celedonio and Emeterio are discussing the merits of laughter. Emeterio has married the now-widowed Rosita and her daughter, Clotilde, has married Paquito:

EMETERIO. ¡Quia! Y los sábados vamos los cuatro al teatro, y nada de drama. A Rosita y a Clotilde les gusta lo de reír: comedias, astracanadas, y a nosotros, a mí y a Paquito, nos gusta que se rían. Y no les asusta, ¡claro!, que el chiste sea picante, y como yo no veo mal en ello…

CELEDONIO. Al contrario, Emeterio, al contrario; la risa lo purifica todo. No hay chiste inmoral, porque si es inmoral no es chistoso; sólo es inmoral el vicio triste, y la virtud triste también. La risa está indicada para los estreñidos, los misantrópicos; es mejor que el agua de Carabaña. Es la virtud purgativa del arte, la catarsis, que dijo Aristóteles, o Aristófanes o quien lo dijera. ¿Y he dicho algo, Emeterio?

EMETERIO. Sí, Celedonio, y hay que cultivar el sentimiento cómico de la vida, diga lo que quiera ese Unamuno.

CELEDONIO. Sí, Emeterio, y hay que cultivar hasta la pornografía metafísica, que no es, ¡claro está!, la metafísica pornográfica…

EMETERIO. Pero, ¡si toda metafísica es pornográfica, Celedonio!

CELEDONIO. Yo, por mi parte, Emeterio, he empezado ya a escribir una disertación apologético-exegético-místico-metafísica sobre el rejo de Rahab, la golfa que figura en el abolengo de san José bendito. Y te hago gracia de las citas bíblicas, con eso de capítulo y versillo, porque yo no soy, gracias a Dios, Unamuno. (100-1)

The above passage contains, in addition to self-parody, examples of several techniques used by Unamuno to avoid closure: chiasmi (“No hay chiste inmoral[,…]”, “La pornografía metafísica[…]”); metafiction; and the idea of laughter as transformation, that is, re-creation. It also illustrates very well the ongoing witty dialogue peppered with sexual innuendos found throughout the narrative. Interestingly, the link between 163

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 pornography and metaphysics manifests itself years earlier in Niebla. First, in the

“Prólogo,” Goti (the prologuist invented by Unamuno) addresses this issue when he advises the reader that “hay en este libro pasajes escabrosos, o, si se quiere, pornográficos” (17) even though Unamuno himself “estima que la preocupación libidinosa es lo que más estraga la inteligencia” (18). As Goti continues, however, he explains how the pornographic came to be intertwined with the metaphysical, and thus, why it may not be out of place in Unamuno’s work:

No me extraña a mí, por otra parte, este consorcio de lo erótico con lo metafísico, pues creo saber que nuestros pueblos empezaron siendo, como sus literaturas nos lo muestran, guerreros y religiosos, para pasar más tarde a eróticos y metafísicos. El culto a la mujer coincidió con el culto a las sutilezas conceptistas. En el albor espiritual de nuestros pueblos, en efecto, en la Edad Media, la sociedad bárbara sentía la exaltación religiosa y aun mística y la guerrera—la espada lleva cruz en el puño; pero la mujer ocupaba muy poco y muy secundario lugar en su imaginación, y las ideas estrictamente filosóficas dormitaban, envueltas en teología, en los claustros conventuales. Lo erótico y lo metafísico se desarrollan a la par. La religión es guerrera; la metafísica es erótica y voluptuosa. Es la religiosidad lo que le hace al hombre ser belicoso o combativo, o bien es la combatividad la que le hace religioso, y por otro lado es el instinto metafísico, la curiosidad de saber lo que no nos importa, el pecado original, en fin, lo que le hace sensual al hombre, o bien es la sensualidad la que, como a Eva, le despierta el instinto metafísico, el ansia de conocer la ciencia del bien y del mal. Y luego hay la mística, una metafísica de la religión que nace de la sensualidad de la combatividad. (18)

What Unamuno expresses above about wanting to know about what is not important (the sensual) along with what is important (the metaphysical) creates another pair of opposites that ultimately end up being interrelated.

Later, Rosita reveals that Martínez, her first husband, was writing a novel, and

Emeterio relays this information to his friend:

Pues mira, Celedonio, esto que me dices de estar escribiendo esa disertación me recuerda que hablando con Rosita de Mártinez me 164

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ha dicho que se puso éste a escribir una novela en que, cambiados los nombres, salíamos ella, Rosita, y yo y la casa de huéspedes de doña Tomasa, pero que ella, Rosita, no se la dejó publicar. “Que la escribiera, bien,” me decía, “si así le divertía, pero ¿publicarla?” “¿Y por qué no,” le digo yo, “si así se han de divertir otros leyéndola?” ¿No te parece? (101)

Martínez’s novel about life at the casa de húespedes represents yet another extension of the act of novelizing and supports the idea of continuous creation. Earlier, in a conversation between Rosita and her mother shortly after Emeterio left the boarding house and the only solution for Rosita seems to be to pair up with Martínez, doña Tomasa expresses interest in what he was writing:

DOÑA TOMASA. Pues entonces hija, estamos haciendo el paso, y tú no puedes perder así el tiempo. Habrá que recurrir a Martínez, aunque apenas si es proporción. Y di, ¿qué librejos son esos que te ha dado a leer…?

ROSITA. Nada, madre, paparruchas que escriben sus amigos.

DOÑA TOMASA. Mira a ver si le da a él por escribir noveluchas de ésas y nos saca en alguna de ellas a nosotras…

ROSITA. Y qué más querría usted, madre?

DOÑA TOMASA. ¿Yo?, ¿verme yo en papeles? (76)

The mixing of temporal space also contributes to the open-endedness of the

narrative. Before Emeterio has cultivated a true “sentido cómico de la vida,” and full

participation in life, he seems to want to stop time in its tracks, as indicated in the

following conversation with Celedonio. Emeterio has left the boarding house, but finds it

impossible to stop thinking about Rosita:

EMETERIO. Es que no hago sino soñar con ella, y ya Rosita se me ha convertido en pesadilla…

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CELEDONIO. ¿Pesadilla, eh?, ¿pesadilla?

EMETERIO. No puedo olvidar, sobre todo, su caída de ojos, su pestañeo…

CELEDONIO. Te veo en camino de escribir un tratado de estética.

EMETERIO. Mira, no te lo he dicho antes. Tú sabes que tengo siempre en mi cuarto un calendario americano, de esos de pared, para saber el día en que estoy…

CELEDONIO. Será para descifrar la charada o el jeroglífico de cada día…

EMETERIO. También, también. Pues el día en que salí de casa de doña Tomasa llevándome, ¡claro!, el calendario en el fondo del viejo mundo,16 no arranqué la hoja…

CELEDONIO. ¡Renunciando a la charada de aquel día solemne!

EMETERIO. Sí, no la arranqué, y así seguí y así la tengo aún. (77, note added)

It is significant that at this point in the narrative the protagonist refuses to flow with time, but later, once he has reconnected with Rosita, he clearly lives in the present cycle of time. This occurs for the first time when he sees Rosita’s daughter in the street, though he is not aware of her true identity at this point:

[…] un día, de pronto, como en súbita revelación providencial, el corazón se le desveló, le dio un vuelco y sintió que renacía el pasado que pudo haber sido y no fue, que renacía su ex futuro.17 ¿Quién era aquella aparición maravillosa que llenó la calle como un aroma de selva virgen? ¿Quién era aquella mocita arrogante, de llamativa mirada, que iba rejuveneciendo a los que la miraban? Y se puso a seguirla. Y ella, que se sintió seguida, pisó más fuerte y alguna vez volvió la cabeza, con en (sic) los ojos una mirada toda sonrisa, jubilosa sonrisa de lástima al ver al que la miraba. “Esta mirada,” se dijo Emeterio, “me llega de otro mundo…, sí, me parece como si me llegara de mi viejo mundo, de aquel donde me aguarda el calendario de antaño.” (89, note added)

Emeterio has clearly been transported to the past upon seeing this young woman, marking the beginning of his rejuvenation. Once he goes home with her, Rosita’s mother tries to convince Clotilde (her daughter), who already has a boyfriend, that she should marry

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Emeterio. When Clotilde expresses concern about marrying a man of his age who has always worried about his health, Rosita seems to try to reassure her that Emeterio has undergone a transformation: “Pues ahora, mamá, peor, porque a sus años y a los míos eso de la salud…, que te lo entiendo…, debe preocuparle más” to which Rosita replies:

“Pues yo creo que no, que ahora ya no le preocupa la salud, sino todo lo contrario, y que debes aprovecharte de ello” (93). Still, Clotilde is not convinced even after Rosita explains to her the cadena:

ROSITA. ¡Qué boba eres, hija mía! Tu no sabes lo de la cadena.

CLOTILDE. ¿Y qué es eso?

ROSITA. Pues mira: tú te casas con este señor, que te lleva…, bien, lo que te lleve…, le cuidas…

CLOTILDE. Cuido de su salud, ¿eh?

ROSITA. Pero no demasiado, no es menester que te sacrifiques. Lo primero es cumplir. Cumples…

CLOTILDE. Y él?

ROSITA. El cumple, y te quedas viuda, hecha ya una matrona, en buena edad todavía…

CLOTILDE. Como tú ahora, ¿no es eso?

ROSITA. Sí, como yo; sólo que yo no tengo sobre qué caerme muerta, mientras que tú, si te casas con don Emeterio, te quedarás viuda en otras condiciones…

CLOTILDE. Sí, y teniendo sobre quien caerme viva…

ROSITA. Ahí está el toque. Porque entonces, viuda, rica y además de buen ver, porque tú vas a mí y has de ganar con los años…, viuda y rica puedes comprar al Paquito que más te guste.

CLOTILDE. El cual, a su vez, me hereda los cuartos y se busca luego, don Emeterio ya él, una Clotilde… 167

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ROSITA. Y así sigue, y ésa es la cadena, hija mía.

CLOTILDE. Pues yo, mamá, no me ato con ella. (93-4)

Rosita is confident that her daughter will not only avoid signs of aging, but will actually improve with age, thus stopping time, echoing Emeterio’s keeping the calendar always showing the same day when he left the boarding house.

Finally, however, when it becomes clear that Clotilde has no intention of becoming Emeterio’s wife, Rosita changes her strategy. When she approaches Emeterio, for the first time ever addressing him without the title don, he again feels that he is going back in time: “Emeterio no sabía si soñaba o estaba despierto; se creía transportado, a redrotiempo, a aquellos tiempos soñados de hacía vientitantos años; todo lo posterior se había desvanecido de su memoria, y hasta la aparición de Clotilde se le desvanecía.

Sentía mareo” (95). Rosita then asks: “¿Se le han curado aquellas aprensiones de salud,

Emeterio?” to which he replies: “Ahora, Rosita, ahora me siento capaz de todo. ¡Y no temo ni… a la vacante! ¿Por qué dejé, Dios mío, escapar aquella ocasión?” (95). When

Celedonio sees Emeterio after his honeymoon, he finds him “rejuvenecido.” Thus, time in Un pobre hombre rico at times seem to flow in reverse, expressing the optimism and

energy associated with youth.

Unamuno again uses chiasmi frequently in the novel. The title itself provides the

first glance of opposites coming together. Later, the narrative returns to the chiasmus of

“un pobre hombre rico” but in an altered form. Emeterio is explaining to Rosita, now his

wife, about his old calendar on which he never changed the day:

ROSITA. ¿Y ahora piensas ir arrancando sus hojas?

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EMETERIO. ¿Para qué? ¿Para descifrar las charadas del resto de aquel año fatídico? No, mi todo, no.

ROSITA. ¡Ay, rico mío!

EMETERIO. Rico, ¿eh? ¿Rico? Yo soy un pobre hombre, pero no un pobre hombre…pobre. (98)

Here Unamuno also plays with a new meaning created by the change of word order,

another example of the difficulty of translating humor as expressed by Bergson when the

humor originates in language itself. The title of the novel may also form part of the

novel’s function as a sarcastic criticism of the burguesía, that is, the economic class to

which Emeterio belongs (discussed in detail in Chapter VI). The protagonist has accumulated his wealth by being ahorrativo to an extreme and at the expense of developing other facets of his life. The cadena discussed above when Rosita tries to convince her daughter to marry Emeterio only for his economic status further supports the notion of the criticism implicit in the importance given to social class in the narrative.

Chiasmi as well as word-play are also found at the beginning of the narrative

when Emeterio informs Celedonio about Rosita’s attempts to seduce him:

EMETERIO. Además, esa chiquilla sabe demasiado. ¡Tiene una táctica…!

CELEDONIO. Pues tú, Emeterio, contra táctica…,¡tacto!

EMETERIO. Al contrario, Celedonio, al contrario. Su táctica sí que es tacto, táctica de tacto. ¡Si vieras cómo se me arrima! Con cualquier pretexto, y como quien no quiere la cosa, a rozarme. Me quiere seducir, no cabe duda. Y yo no sé si a la vez…

CELEDONIO. ¡Vamos, Emeterio, que los dedos se te antojan huéspedes!

EMETERIO. Al revés, son los huéspedes los que se me antojan dedos. Y luego ese Mártinez, el opositor de turno, que se la come con los ojos mientras masculla el bisteque, y a quien parece que le tiene como sustituto por si yo le fallo. (73-4, emphasis added) 169

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In this case, Unamuno creates the chiasmus and also witty puns. In another scene, just

after Emeterio has told Celedonio how he had not changed the date on his calendar since

he left the boarding house where Rosita lived, Celedonio remembers a similar story:

CELEDONIO. Pues eso me recuerda, Emeterio, lo de aquel recién casado que al morírsele la mujer dio un golpe al reló, un golpecito, lo hizo pararse y siguió con él, marcando aquel trágico momento, las siete y trece, parado y sin arreglarlo.

EMETERIO. No está mal, Celedonio, no está mal.

CELEDONIO. Pues yo creo que habría estado mejor que en aquel momento le hubiese arrancado al reló el minutero y el horario, pero siguiendo dándole cuerda, y así le preguntaban: “¿Qué hora es, caballero?”, poder responder: “¡Anda, pero no marca!,” en vez de “¡Marca, pero no anda!”. ¿Llevar un reló parado…?, ¡jamás! Que ande, aunque no marque hora. (78, emphasis added)

Celedonio, better adapted to the flow of life than Emeterio, would never want to stop

time in its tracks, whereas Emeterio implies that he understands why the recently married

groom would want to stop time at the moment of the death of his wife. The chiasmus

illustrates two possible attitudes toward time, and by extension, toward life.

Un pobre hombre rico also abounds in word-play. Some examples that express multiple meanings of the same word will be studied in the present chapter while others, that are more purely comical, will be treated below in a following one. For example, after Emeterio leaves the boarding house to escape from Rosita’s advances, he suffers from nightmares:

[…] ¡Las noches de pesadillas que le atormentó el recuerdo de Rosita! ¡Ahora era cuando comprendió cuán hondamente prendado quedó de ella, ahora era cuando en la oscuridad del lecho le perseguía aquel pestañeo llamativo! “Llamativo,” se decía, “porque me llama, porque es de llama, de llama de fuego, y también porque sus ojos tienen la dulzura peligrosa de los de llama del Perú…” […] (76-7)

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Here each repetition of the word illustrates a new meaning for the same form, thus

expressing open-endedness. Unamuno also plays with the verb escapar, this time

dividing it to form a new meaning. After Emeterio meets Clotilde and has reconnected

with her mother, he reminisces with Celedonio:

EMETERIO. Y me contó su vida y su viudedad. Verás, a ver si recuerdo: “Desde que usted se nos escapó…” empezó diciéndome. Y yo: “Es…caparme?” Y ella: “Sí, desde que se nos es… capó, yo quedé inconsolable, porque aquello, reconózcalo usted, don Emeterio, no estuvo bien, no, no estuvo ni medio bien… Y al fin tuve que casarme. ¡Qué remedio!” “¿Y su marido?” le dije. “¿Quién, Martínez? ¡Pobrecillo! Un pobre hombre… pobre, que es peor…”

CELEDONIO. Y ella, Emeterio, pensaba en tanto que un pobre hombre rico, como tú, es lo mejor… (91)

The word-play in the above passage illustrates again a dialogue charged with sexual innuendo and also refers again to the chiasmus of the title. Later, in the scene where

Rosita explains the cadena to Clotilde as she urges her to pair up with Emeterio but the daughter refuses to yield to her mother’s wishes, the writer engages in word-play again.

Clotilde already has a novio her own age, to which her mother refers: “¿Es decir, que te emperras, o mejor te engatas con tu michino?” (94). All of the above examples of word- play are manifestations of humor that originates in language itself, to which Bergson refers when he asserts the difficulty of translating humor from one language to another.

At the end of the narrative, just before the brief epilogue, Unamuno makes direct reference to the importance of being able to laugh at oneself. Emeterio has just told

Celedonio about his card games with Rosita:

CELEDONIO. No te lo decía, Emeterio, no te lo decía? ¿Lo ves? Y te hace trampas, ¿no es eso? ¿Para fallarte las cuarenta?

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EMETERIO. Alguna vez…

CELEDONIO. ¿Y a ti te divierte que te las haga, y te ríes, como si te hicieran cosquillas, de que te las fallen? ¿Y te dejas engañar? ¿Te dejas que te la pegue? Pues ésa es toda la filosofía del sentimiento cómico de la vida. De los chistes que se hacen en las comedias a cuenta de los cornudos nadie se ríe más que los cornudos mismos cuando son filosóficos, heroicos. ¿Gozar en sentirse ridículo? ¡Placer divino reírse de los reidores de uno!... (104)

Thus, letting go of oneself to the point of laughter when being ridiculed by others appears to represent the most advanced level of skill in the game of life. The importance of developing a sense of humor in life becomes clear in this passage as it is only through this means that Emeterio has been able to achieve full existence. It also contributes to hope for the future since it creates the possibility of full participation in life. Though

Emeterio still appears somewhat reluctant to let himself be ridiculed, as indicated by his response “alguna vez,” Celedonio reassures his friend that he is now on the correct path.

However, it is possible that Celedonio, by encouraging his Emeterio to let himself be ridiculed, is also a participant in a general burla of Emeterio perpetuated by all of the characters in the novel (as well as Unamuno). If this is the case, Emeterio’s obliviousness to his plight adds another level of engaño and burla to the narrative.

In this chapter the non-tragic facet of Unamuno has been examined. This category of humor encompasses the blurring of lines between reader/writer as well as fiction/nonfiction, a technique that the Basque writer uses frequently. In turn, the blending of these and other opposites (as seen in the chiasmi) contribute to the lack of closure characteristic of his narratives. Finally, with no definitive ending, the reader is left to create his or her novel, precisely what Unamuno proposes to accomplish.

Although the non-tragic does not always directly provoke outright laughter, it forms an 172

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 undeniably fundamental part of the writer’s tendency to engage in burla and engaño with his audience and thus merits the in-depth attention given to it in the present study.

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NOTES

1 Many critics consider Cómo se hace una novela to be a return to the nivola. On the other hand, the blending of fiction with reality is done in such a way that some critics do not consider it to be fiction. Olson, for example, asserts that “It is certainly appropriate to regard Cómo se hace una novela as representing a return to the nivola, but clearly it also constitutes, not only a return, but a continued presentation of the major themes found in all Unamuno’s work, among which one of the most notable is that of the tyranny of ideas” (172). The critic feels that “Common to the nivola’s often heavy‐handed humor and the occasional crudeness of tone in Cómo se hace una novela is the fact that they verge on the grotesque so strongly as to reveal the depth of anxiety—or of bitterness—lying within them” (170). Zubizarreta also implies that Cómo se hace una novela may be categorized as a nivola in his 322‐page analysis of the narrative entitled Unamuno en su nivola. On the other hand, Cerezo Galán grants neither novel nor nivola status to Cómo se hace una novela: “Sin embargo, el relato no es un diarismo, aunque abunden en él retazos de confesiones al filo de sus días de desterrado, ni propiamente una novela en sentido convencional, ni tampoco ‘nivola,’ por más que esta creación unamuniana responda a relatos sin argumento previo, sino ‘una creación híbrida,’ un collage de experiencias y notas de lectura, especialmente de Mazzini—otro gran soñador en exilio—que no fraguan, que no pueden fraguar en forma estable” (671‐2). Martin Nozick also refers to Cómo se hace una novela as a “hybrid creation, more disjointed and freewheeling than [Unamuno’s] other works” (108). For Nozick, the narrative is an “artistically inadequate confession‐fantasy with a title as ambiguous as Unamuno’s political motivations” (109).

2Unamuno’s stance anticipates much later theories of autobiography. For example, Phillippe Lejeune, a well‐known contemporary theorist, maintains that autobiography is necessarily fiction.

3Unamuno did this with all the genres, challenging the very idea of genres from early on, as did Croce.

4Here again Unamuno anticipates later literary theory, in this case, “reception aesthetics” (“reader— response”) and ideas on the relationship between author/text/reader and the notion of reader as co‐ creator.

5Other writers of the Generation of ’98 shared Unamuno’s idea of a text never “really” being finished. For example, Juan Ramón Jiménez is known for his ongoing revisions and re‐editions of his books, although in other ways their aesthetics were radically opposed.

6Luis de Góngora y Argote (Córdoba, España, 1561‐ed., 1627). Poeta español. Nacido en el seno de una familia acomodada, estudió en la Universidad de Salamanca. Nombrado racionero en la catedral de Córdoba, desempeñó varias funciones que le brindaron la posibilidad de viajar por España. Su vida disipada y sus composiciones profanas le valieron pronto una amonestación del obispo (1588). Su fama fue enorme durante el Barroco, aunque su prestigio y el conocimiento de su obra decayeron luego hasta bien entrado el siglo XX, cuando la celebración del tercer centenario de su muerte (en 1927) congregó a los mejores poetas y literatos españoles de la época (conocidos desde entonces como la Generación del 27) y supuso su definitiva revalorización crítica. (http://www.biografiasyvidas.com/biografia/g/gongora.htm)

7 Translation: ‘Then a lamentable faculty developed in their minds, that of noticing stupidity and finding it intolerable.’

8 Pindar was a Greek poet who lived approximately 522‐438 B.C.

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9Equally interesting is the total lack of interest in Don Sandalio’s wife, which in Unamuno’s case cannot be accidental. He did not overlook her, but rather suppressed her. It is not clear why Unamuno did this since he was not misogynist. Perhaps he was making fun of “required ingredients” in novels (plot, live interest, historical detail, descriptive setting, and so forth).

10J.Z. Cirlot, in his Dictionary of Symbols, notes that repetition (as with the mirrors, but also in numbers, for example) is seen as reductive, diminishing. Therefore, it cancels any notion of individuality or uniqueness, so significant to Unamuno and the letter‐writer.

11 Franz gives the translation used in La Santa Biblia as being the most usual Spanish equivalent, “Mi amado metió la mano/por el cerrojo de la puerta;/al oírlo, mis entrañas retozaron” (793). Olson, however, points out that “modern translations of the Bible interpret foramen as ‘keyhole’ or some other opening in a door, which is justified on the basis of subsequent verses of Scripture in which the wife says she then rose to open the door. When it is isolated in this quotation, however, the reader almost naturally infers that the trembling in her belly is due to the husband’s touch, but because such eroticism is too extreme even for the Song of Songs, it must be understood in terms of the Scriptural context. It is also extreme for Unamuno, but the earthiness of the early nivolas has prepared us to accept a double entendre of such strongly erotic implications as having been deliberately intended” (214).

12Olson feels that “In La tía Tula the theme of two mothers appears twice over, since Tula proves to be a second mother to the children of two other women, and the final chapters suggest that the pattern will be repeated by the children themselves. As in the exemplary novels, these anomalies of family structure involve no incest as such, but the narrative presents an instance of family organization in which symbiotic consanguinity produces pairings that have quasi‐incestuous overtones, all under the rule of a childless ‘matriarch’ who remains above all such pairings” (138).

13 Bernardo G. de Candamo was a poet, journalist, and editor. He edited some of Unamuno’s essays.

14 For example, a drawing of a prostitute and a woman that Unamuno characterized as a “celestina” may have suggested to the writer the scene where Augusto, the protagonist of Niebla, is given a pretext to meet Eugenia (his love interest) when her aunt’s caged canary falls off the balcony into Augusto’s hands. Franz feels that this scene parodies the incident in La Celestina when Calisto pursues his escaped falcon in order to gain entrance to Melibea’s garden and that the Picasso drawing may have been his inspiration (214).

15 The same technique is found in Niebla and also the two novels examined above in the present study, Cómo se hace una novela and La novela de don Sandalio.

16 Here, mundo refers to a baúl mundo, an old‐fashioned steamer trunk.

17 Unamuno makes frequent reference throughout his work to the idea of various yos that exist throughout different time frames. This is consistent with his idea of the ever‐changing nature of the self.

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CHAPTER V

THE OBSESSIVE

Many of Unamuno’s characters exhibit obsessive behavior which at times contributes to the creation of humorous situations. Indeed, in his essays on laughter

(discussed in Chapter III), Bergson recognizes “obsesiones cómicas” as one the manifestations of humor. In many cases, the obsession may signal the beginning of a tragic situation; nevertheless, even within these circumstances the character who manifests the obsession frequently remains comical. Avito Carrascal of Amor y

pedagogía exemplifies such a person when he sets out to create a genius and decides that

the first step is to marry deductively.1 He has made up a list of “los caracteres

antropológicos, fisiológicos, psíquicos y sociológicos que la futura madre del futuro

genio ha de tener” (45). After finding the woman, Leoncia, who fits the bill, the next

challenge is to win her over:

Decidido a la conquista de Leoncia, pónese Avito a redactar con tiento y medida eso que se llama carta de declaración. La cual no cabe sea, ¡naturalmente!, centón de esas encendidas frases que el amoroso instinto dicta, sino reposados argumentos que de la científica teoría del matrimonio derivan. Y del matrimonio mirado a luz sociológica. Doce horas, en seis noches consecutivas, le cuesta el documento. Y no es la cosa para menos, porque cuando al rodar de los años se estudie al genio obtenido por pedagogía, pieza de escogido estudio habrá de ser, sin duda, la Carta Magna que de preludio le sirve […]. Lee y relee el expediente, corrigiéndolo a cada lectura, se lo recita tomándose de posteridad, y cuando lo ha visto bueno saca de él copia y se guarda la pieza original, esperando coyuntura propicia de que a la interesada se le traslade. (46)

Nevertheless, in the end, he falls head-over-heels in love with Leoncia’s friend, Marina,

and presents the treaty to her instead of its intended recipient. The point, however, is that although his obsession with creating a genius eventually leads to tragedy,2 in spite of the

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predictably tragic outcome, the reader may continue to find the obsessions of Don Avito

hilarious.

On the other hand, in some of Unamuno’s characters, what seems to others as obsessive behavior may simply be a predilection for certain things that seem to be out-of- character for the person’s profession or social status. In this context, others contribute to the creation of the obsession. Such is the case for the protagonist of Unamuno’s “La locura del doctor Montarco” (1904), an excellent medical doctor whose clients begin to leave him when, instead of seeking recognition for his work in professional journals, he publishes “en un semanario de la localidad, su primer cuento, un cuento entre fantástisco y humorístico, sin descripciones y sin moraleja” (23). He then publishes another, this one

“más fantástico y más humorístico que el primero” (24). Finally, he becomes obsessed with proving that he can be an exemplary physician and citizen as well as a writer of

fiction:

Y así, arrastrado por un fatal instinto, se puso el Dr. Montarco a luchar con el espíritu público de la ciudad en que vivía y trabajaba. Esforzábase cada vez más por ser concienzudo y exacto en el cumplimiento de sus deberes profesionales, cívicos y domésticos; ponía un exquisito cuidado en atender a sus clientes estudiándoles las dolencias; recibía afablemente a todo el mundo; con nadie era grosero; hablaba a cada cual de lo que podía interesarle, procurando darle gusto, y en su vida privada continuaba siendo el marido y el padre ejemplar. Pero cada vez eran sus cuentos, relatos y fantasías más extravagantes, según se decía, y más fuera de lo corriente y vulgar. Y la clientela se le iba retirando y se iba haciendo el vacío en su derredor. Con esto su irritación mal contenida iba en aumento. (24- 5)

The “fatal instinto” may be his attempt to resist some kind of temptation (like Don Avito in Amor y pedagogía, Don Sandalio in La novela de don Sandalio, Jugo de la Raza in

Cómo se hace una novela, and Emeterio in Un pobre hombre rico). It seems that in many

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cases in Unamuno’s fiction, the obsessive behavior may be linked to such a temptation

and the doomed efforts to resist it.

In some contexts, a character’s obsession may be linked to madness. For

example, Dr. Montarco ends up hospitalized in a mental ward, where he passes his days

reading Don Quijote. When the narrator of the story goes to visit him, his attending

physician informs him that “le han vuelto loco […]; han vuelto loco a uno de los hombres

más cuerdos y cabales que he conocido” (27). Unamuno often mentions madness in

association with Don Quijote since madness, like humor, functions as a release from

reason. Thus, in Vida de don Quijote y Sancho he affirms that “nos hace con su locura

cuerdos” (271). For Unamuno, a particular manifestation of locura also seems to be

linked to maturity, similar to the development of the ability to laugh at oneself.

Therefore, he says that in Don Quijote “no floreció, pues, su locura hasta que su cordura y su bondad hubieron sazonado bien. No fue un muchacho que se lanzara a tontas y a

locas a una carrera mal conocida, sino un hombre sesudo y cuerdo que enloquece de pura

madurez de espíritu” (274). When discussing Don Quijote’s taking “los molinos de

viento por desaforados gigantes,” Unamuno maintains that “sólo el miedo hace que

veamos molinos de viento—nos inspira el culto y veneración al vapor y la electricidad”

(296-7). The writer reiterates these themes throughout his commentary on Don Quijote:

“Cuán cuerdo era en su locura” (320) and “El miedo nos tapa la verdad, y el miedo

mismo cuando se adensa en congoja, nos la revela” (322). Samuel Coleridge3 also

commented extensively on Don Quijote:

By allowing us to see now from the vantage of Sancho, now through the eyes of Quixote, Cervantes shows how the real world is transformed into the imaginary world of chivalric romance. That “real world” of course, is itself only the illusion 178

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of Cervantes’s art. Within that illusion, he conjures the delusion of Quixote’s mind. At the beginning of the tale, Cervantes depicts the gradual foment of delusion in Quixote’s colloquies with the village priest and the barber surgeon. The purpose is to show how the fervor of critical controversy feeds the passion and gives reality to its object. Madness, as an exacerbation of one of the mental faculties, causes that faculty to respond in excess […] madness may perhaps be defined as the circling stream which should be progressive and adaptive. (qtd. in Burwick 89).

Madness as “an exacerbation of one of the mental faculties” supports the relationship between madness and the obsessive behavior found in the work of both Cervantes and

Unamuno.

In Heralds of the Postmodern: Madness and Fiction in Conrad, Woolf, and

Lessing, the critic Yuan-Jung Cheng confirms a relationship between madness and creativity, similar to that found in el doctor Montarco: “Madness designates the ontological void where the unity of discourse dissolves and all meta-narratives break down, but it also provides the space where something new can be created out of what has been formerly excluded by those systems. It is the threatening space of an absolute freedom that classical rationalism guarded against” (9). Cheng concludes that “If sanity is self-limitation, then madness is openness beyond the limit of rationality” (93).

Unamuno at times seems to suggest through his work what Cheng expresses at the end of her study, that “reason becomes madness, whereas madness, the locus of truth, remains half-concealed” (96). In some contexts, la locura is connected with tragedy in

Unamuno’s characters, whereas in others, it is a manifestation of an obsession that the reader finds humorous. The obsessive in Unamuno’s narratives will be examined below in the context of the novels under study in the present investigation.

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Cómo se hace una novela

In this narrative, the protagonist Jugo de la Raza could be said to be obsessed with

reading the book that he has been informed will lead to his demise. His inability to stop

reading it is what Unamuno describes as “devouring books,” that is, reading has become

irresistible:

Cuando un libro es cosa viva hay que comérselo, y el que se lo come, si a su vez es viviente, si está de veras vivo, revive con esa comida. Pero para los escritores—y lo triste es que ya apenas leen sino los mismos que escriben, para los escritores un libro no es más que un escrito, no es una cosa sagrada, viviente, revividora, eternizadora, como lo son la Biblia, el Corán, los Discursos de Buda y nuestro Libro, el de España, el Quijote. Y sólo pueden sentir lo apocalíptico, lo revelador de comerse un libro los que sienten cómo el Verbo se hizo carne a la vez que ese hizo letra y comemos, en pan de vida eterna, eucarísticamente, esa carne y esa letra. Y la letra que comemos, que es carne, es también palabra, sin que ello quiera decir que es idea, esto es: esqueleto. De esqueletos no se vive; nadie se alimenta con esqueletos. (105)

Here again Unamuno expresses the idea of the importance of the living word, that if a book is alive it provides nourishment. Since Jugo de la Raza has come to identify strongly with the novel he is reading and thus brought it to life, he cannot help but continue reading it:

Volvamos, pues, a la novela de Jugo de la Raza, a la novela de su lectura de la novela. Lo que habría de seguir era que un día el pobre Jugo de la Raza no pudo ya resistir más, fue vencido por la historia, es decir, por la vida, o mejor, por la muerte. Al pasar junto al puesto de libros, en los muelles del Sena, compró el libro, se lo metió al bolsillo y se puso a correr, a lo largo del río, hacia su casa, llevándose el libro como se lleva una cosa robada con miedo de que se la vuelvan a uno a robar. Iba tan de prisa que se le cortaba el aliento, le faltaba huelgo y veía reaparecer el viejo y ya casi extinguido espectro de la angina de pecho. Tuvo que detenerse y entonces, mirando a todos lados, a los que pasaban y mirando sobre todo a las aguas del Sena, el espejo fluido, abrió el libro y leyó algunas líneas. Pero volvió a cerrarlo al punto. Volvía a encontrar lo que, años antes, había llamado la disnea cerebral, acaso la enfermedad X de Mac Kenzie,4 y hasta creía sentir un cosquilleo fatídico a lo largo del brazo izquierdo y entre los dedos de la mano. En otros momentos se decía: “En llegando a aquel árbol me caeré muerto,”

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y después que lo había pasado una vocecita, desde el fondo del corazón, le decía: “acaso estás realmente muerto…” Y así llegó a casa. (141-2, endnote added)

Although the reader may sympathize with Jugo de la Raza’s predicament and fully

comprehend the protagonist’s concern (after all, the consequences of succumbing to his

desire to read may be death), he/she nevertheless may find comical the furtive behavior

that he displays over a book. The language employed by the writer also contributes to an

atmosphere of tension and anxiety as the passage progresses, much like a rapidly beating

heart, nearly leaving the reader out of breath. Again, some readers may find this amusing because it concerns a book, not someone fleeing a physical attack.

The same tone continues as the narrative develops. Jugo de la Raza finally arrives home, where he proceeds to eat “tratando de prolongar la comida—prolongarla con prisa

[…]” (142). The meal has a slight calming effect on him and he returns to Balzac’s

novel: “Un poco calmado abrió el libro y reanudó su lectura. Se olvidó de sí mismo por

completo y entonces sí que pudo decir que se había muerto” (142). This suggests that

death in this context may not necessarily involve a true physical death, but rather the loss

of the sense (or awareness) of self experienced when a person becomes totally immersed

in an activity. It may be connected to the mutual creation of reader and writer to which

Unamuno refers frequently. Such an interpretation is further supported by what follows:

“Soñaba el otro, o más bien el otro era un sueño que se soñaba en él, una criatura de su

soledad infinita” (142-3). Still, the torture goes on for Jugo de la Raza: “Al fin se

despertó con una terrible punzada en el corazón. El personaje del libro acababa de volver

a decirle: ‘Debo repetir a mi lector que se morirá conmigo.’ Y esta vez el efecto fue

espantoso. El trágico lector perdió conocimiento en su lecho de agonía espiritual; dejó de

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Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 soñar al otro y dejó de soñarse a sí mismo” (143). This, too, implies the melding of self with other. Later, however, the protagonist regains self-consciousness: “Y cuando volvió en sí, arrojó el libro, apagó la luz y procuró, después de haberse santiguado de nuevo, dormirse, dejar de soñarse. ¡Imposible! De tiempo en tiempo tenía que levantarse a beber agua; se le ocurrió que bebía el Sena, el espejo” (143). When he returns to himself, he inevitably begins to question his sanity: “‘¿Estaré loco?’ se decía, ‘pero no, porque cuando alguien se pregunta si está loco es que no lo está. Y, sin embargo…’ Levantóse, prendió fuego en la chimenea y quemó el libro volviendo en seguida a acostarse. Y consiguió al cabo dormirse” (143). This suggests that un loco has lost self-awareness and is therefore unaware of his condition. Thus, only a sane person would question his sanity. Nevertheless, Jugo de la Raza seems to doubt the truth of this adage, so just to make sure, he burns the book. A feeling of desperation caused by an obsession is familiar to most, but it can be entertaining to watch someone else in the throes of his anguish. The following morning Jugo de la Raza sees the ashes of the book and is again overcome by the desire to find out how the novel ends:

Su tormenta se renovó: ¿cómo acabaría la historia? Y se fue a los muelles del Sena a buscar otro ejemplar sabiendo que no lo encontraría, y por qué no había de encontrarlo; sufrió a muerte. Decidió emprender un viaje por esos mundos de Dios; acaso Este le olvidara, le dejara su historia. Y por el momento se fue al Louvre, a contemplar la Venus de Milo, a fin de librarse de aquella obsesión, pero la Venus de Milo le pareció, como el Sena y como las cenizas del libro que había quemado, otro espejo. Decidió partir, irse a contemplar las montañas y la mar, y cosas estáticas y arquitectónicas. Y en tanto se decía: “¿Cómo acabará esa historia?” (149)

Thus, Jugo de la Raza continues to be driven by his obsession, and the reader continues to observe the grip that it has on the character. Everything that he sees or does reminds him of the book. 182

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In a great deal of Unamuno’s work, both fiction and nonfiction, Don Quijote

comes up at some point, and Cómo se hace una novela is no exception. Nearly always,

Quijote is mentioned together with la locura and such is the case in this narrative. Just

like the “fictional” character Jugo de la Raza, Unamuno at times questions whether or not

he has lost his mind:

A las veces, en los instantes en que me creo criatura de ficción y hago mi novela, en que me represento a mí mismo, delante de mí mismo, me ha ocurrido soñar o bien que casi todos los demás, sobre todo en mi España, si están locos, o bien que yo lo estoy y puesto que no pueden estarlo todos los demás que lo estoy yo. Y oyendo los juicios que emiten sobre mis dichos, mis escritos y mis actos, pienso: “¿No será acaso que pronuncio otras palabras que las que me oigo pronunciar o que se me oye pronunciar otras que las que pronuncio?” Y no dejo entonces de acordarme de la figura de Don Quijote. (146)

The writer, however, makes clear the distinction between the mature locura of Quijote

and that which consists of nothing but tonterías. He emphasizes this difference in one of

the passages added to the 1927 retranslation of the novel:

[Después de esto me ha ocurrido aquí, en Hendaya, encontrar con un pobre diablo que se me acercó a saludarme, y que me dijo que en España se me tenía por loco. Resultó después que era policía, y él mismo me lo confesó, y que estaba borracho. Que no es precisamente estar loco. Porque Primo de Rivera no se vuelve loco cuando se pone borracho, que es a cada trance, sino que se le exacerba la tonteritis, or sea, la inflamación—cotéjese apendicitis, faringitis, laringitis, otitis, enteritis, flebitis, etc.—de su tontería congénita y constitucional. Ni su pronunciamiento tuvo nada de quijotesco, nada de locura sagrada. Fue una especulación cazurra acompañada de un manifiesto soez.] (146)

Therefore, it may be possible to hypothesize that Unamuno has coined the term la locura sagrada to express a state of liberation from reason based on being fully alive in the moment, that is, the state of full participation in continuous creativity. Corinne Saunders and Jane Macnaughton acknowledge a connection between madness and creativity in

Madness and Creativity in Literature and Culture (2005): “Madness is ambiguous, both a

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state of disorder and opening into some sort of heightened understanding […]. The association of madness and creativity is rooted in this connection of mental disorder and understanding” (7). On the other hand, the type of behavior exhibited by a drunk, for example, consists of nothing more than the exacerbation of “tontería congenital y constitucional,” a far cry from that of Don Quijote. Possibly both types have a connection to obsessive behavior, but la locura sagrada would be more closely related to the possession of a sense of humor and the ability to laugh at oneself, whereas the other type is found in a person who fears ridicule and has not yet developed a sense of humor.

Unamuno devotes several passages of Cómo se hace una novela to explaining the

idea of la locura as a loss of reason:

Estar loco se dice que es haber perdido la razón. La razón, pero no la verdad, porque hay locos que dicen las verdades que los demás callan por no ser ni racional ni razonable decirlas, y por eso se dice que están locos. ¿Y qué es la razón? La razón es aquello en que estamos todos de acuerdo, todos o por lo menos la mayoría. La verdad es otra cosa, la razón es social; la verdad, de ordinario, es completamente individual, personal e incomunicable. La razón nos une y las verdades nos separan. (145)

In Madness and Civilization, Michael Foucault describes madness as “not a fact of

nature, but one of civilization” (288), and Pliny Earle5 asserts in 1945 that the only

difference between the sane and insane is “that the former conceal their thoughts, while

the latter give them utterance” (qtd. in Cheng 57). Saunders and Macnaughton express a

similar idea to that of Foucault: “Madness can become a key to human extremes and to

the nature of the mind, but can also serve to illuminate social attitudes” (6). They give as

examples the hysteric mad woman of nineteenth-century literature as well as the

fragmentation of the mind to reflect the degeneration of society utilized by writers such

as William Shakespeare, William Blake, T.S. Elliot, and Thomas Mann (6). Unamuno 184

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 seems to have understood very well the social connection between madness and reason, as evidenced in the short narrative (seven pages) “La locura del doctor Montarco”

(discussed above). Furthermore, as convincingly illustrated in this narrative, if madness is a product of civilization, so, too, is reason, as Unamuno asserts in Del sentimiento trágico de la vida: “La razón, lo que llamamos tal, es conocimiento reflejo y reflexivo, el que distingue al hombre, es un producto social” (129).

For the retranslation of Cómo se hace una novela, however, Unamuno amends his thoughts on truth and reason:

[Mas ahora caigo en la cuenta de que acaso es la verdad la que nos une y son las razones las que nos separan. Y de que toda esa turbia filosofía sobre la razón, la verdad y la locura obedecía a un estado de ánimo de que en momentos de mayor serenidad de espíritu me curo. Y aquí, en la frontera a la vista de las montañas de mi tierra nativa, aunque mi pelea se ha exacerbado, se me ha serenado en el fondo el espíritu. Y ni un momento se me ocurre que esté loco. Porque si acometo, a riesgo tal vez de vida, a molinos de viento como si fuesen gigantes, es a sabiendas de que son molinos de viento. Pero como los demás, los que se tienen por cuerdos, los creen gigantes, hay que desengañarles de ello.] (145)

The above expresses the lack of a fixed boundary between sanity and insanity and the difficulty in orienting oneself in relation to them. It may also reflect that dementia can be unstable, that is, patients can be fine one day and completely wild, catatonic, or delusional the next. Just as Unamuno blurs the lines between genres, reality and fiction, author and reader, etc., he also recognizes the lack of a clear division between the sane and insane. Thus, this issue also remains open-ended. When Jugo de la Raza becomes obsessed with reading the Balzac novel at the risk of his life, it is impossible to say with certainty if he has become loco or not. Certainly Unamuno was not the first or the only writer to observe the thin line between sanity and insanity. For example, Frederick

Burwick, in Poetic Madness and the Romantic Imagination, maintains that Shakespeare 185

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“dramatizes the fragility of reason, the unprotected borders between sanity and madness”

(3). Similarly, in Figuring Madness in Nineteenth Century Fiction, Chris Wiesenthal

discusses the blurring of the line between sanity and insanity and the difficulty in finding

a point of reference: “But the main point is not just that madness is impossible to delimit

with absolute certitude […] in the absence of firm parameters or fixed boundaries, it is

likewise impossible to orient oneself definitively in relation to madness. How does one

situate oneself ‘outside’ of something that defies us, as madness does, to ‘draw the line’?”

(16).

In his “Retrato” of Unamuno, Cassou also mentions Unamuno together with Don

Quijote. Cassou first makes reference to Luis Pirandello,6 “a cuyo idealismo irónico se le

han reprochado a menudo ciertos juegos unamunianos, que ha guardado largo tiempo

consigo, en su vida cotidiana, a su madre loca” (98). He then observes that something

similar has happened to Unamuno, “que ha vivido su existencia toda en compañia de un

loco y el más divino de todos: Nuestro Señor don Quijote. De aquí que Unamuno no

pueda sufrir ninguna servidumbre. Las ha rechazado todas” (98-9). Here Cassou must be

referring to Unamuno’s rejection of dogmatism in all its forms; the servidumbre to which

he refers would be to ideas, the abstract rather than anything of carne y hueso. He

continues his description of the Basque writer: “Si este prodigioso humanista, que ha

dado la vuelta a todas las cosas conocibles, ha tomado en horror dos ciencias particulares:

la pedagogía y la sociología, es, sin duda alguna, a causa de su pretensión de someter la

formación del individuo y lo que de más profundo y de menos reductible lleva ello

consigo, a una construcción a priori” (99).7 Cassou observes that in order to follow

Unamuno’s thought “hay que ir eliminando poco a poco de nuestro pensamiento todo lo 186

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 que no sea su integridad radical, y prepararnos a esos caprichos súbitos, a esas escapadas de lenguaje por las que esa integridad tiene que asegurarse en todo momento de su flexibilidad y de su buen funcionamiento. A nosotros nos parece que no aceptar las reglas es arriesgarnos a caer en el ridículo” (99). Finally, Cassou perceives the similarity between Unamuno and Quijote: “Y precisamente don Quijote ignora este peligro. Y

Unamuno quiere ignorarlo. Los conoce todos, salvo ése. Antes que someterse a la menor servidumbre prefiere verse reducido a esa sima resonante de carcajadas” (99). In other words, most people do not dare to be Don Quijote because they fear ridicule. Unamuno, on the other hand, understands the importance of accepting the laughter of others and learning to laugh at oneself. In this passage Cassou recognizes Unuamuno’s tendency to digress from the topic at hand and intercalate into the text seemingly unrelated information, possibly causing the reader to lose his/her train of thought. This characteristic is associated with the lack of closure and continuous creativity expressed by his work. The majority of his work is peppered with parenthetical information and additional associations that he makes about what he has just written.

In Unamuno’s “Comentario” to Cassou’s portrait of him, he cannot resist a lengthy commentary on this particular point:

Cuando Cassou menciona el rasgo más íntimo, más entrañado, más humano de la novela dramática que es la vida de Pirandello, el que haya tenido consigo, en su vida cotidiana, a su madre loca ¡y qué!, ¿iba a echarla a un manicomio?, me sentí estremecido, porque, ¿no guardo yo, y bien apretada a mi pecho, en mi vida cotidiana, a mi pobre madre España, loca también? No, a Don Quijote sólo, no, sino a España loca como Don Quijote; loca de dolor, loca de vergüenza, y, ¿quién sabe? Loca acaso de remordimiento. Esa cruzada en que el rey Alfonso XIII, representante de la extranjería espiritual habsburgiana, la ha metido, ¿es más que una locura? Y no una locura quijotesca. (116-7)

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For Unamuno, Pirandello’s keeping his mother with him instead of committing her to an asylum seems most natural. The Italian writer can no more simply disassociate himself

from his mother than Unamuno can from his country. When Unamuno asserts that the

reign of the Hapsburgs in Spain was not a “locura quijotesca” he hints at the two

categories of la locura that he more explicitly describes later (discussed above). Thus, la

locura that originates in tonterías often has tragic results, whereas “la locura quijotesca”

may produce comedy and may be associated with hope. Also, alluding to Alfonso XII— who was not Hapsburg, but Bourbon, Unamuno knows that the (then-exiled) king was not Habsburg—so he calls him “representante de la extranjería espiritual habsburgiana” indicating that both dynasties were foreign in spirit, unable to share Quijote’s divine madness.

Unamuno continues his response to Cassou with more discussion about insanity and Don Quijote:

En cuanto a Don Quijote, ¡he dicho ya tanto…! ¡me ha hecho decir tanto…! Un loco, sí, aunque no el más divino de todos. El más divino de los locos fue y sigue siendo Jesús, el Cristo. Pues cuenta el segundo Evangelio, el según Marcos (III,21), que los suyos—hoi par’autou, los de su casa y familia, su madre y sus hermanos—como dice luego versillo 31, fueron a recogerle diciendo que estaba fuera de sí—hoti exeste, enajenado, loco. (117)

The definition of madness as being “fuera de sí” coincides with the intense identification

that Jugo de la Raza feels with the protagonist of Balzac’s novel; he is outside of himself

in the sense that he has merged with the character. Such a strong identification with the

other is related to his obsession with the novel.

Unamuno continues to do precisely what Cassou accuses him of doing, that is,

digressing from the main topic: “Y es curioso que el término griego con el que se expresa

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que uno está loco sea el de estar fuera de sí, análogo al latín ex sistere, existir. Y es que la

existencia es una locura y el que existe, el que está fuera de sí, el que se da, el que

trasciende, está loco. Ni es otra la santa locura de la cruz” (117). This insanity, that is,

“la santa locura de la cruz” shares characteristics with “la locura quijotesca.” Then,

characteristically, Unamuno brings in the opposing concept, la cordura, and also refines

his distinction of the types of locura:

Contra lo cual la cordura, que no es sino tontería, de estarse en sí, de reservarse, de recogerse. Cordura de que estaban llenos aquellos fariseos que reprochaban a Jesús y sus discípulos el que arrancaran espigas de trigo para comérselas, después de trilladas por restregó de las manos, en sábado, y que curara Jesús a un manco en sábado, y quienes dice el tercer Evangelio (Luc. VI, 11) que estaban llenos de demencia o de necedad—anoias—y no de locura. Necios o dementes los fariseos litúrgicos y observantes, y no locos. Aunque fariseo empezó siendo aquel Pablo de Tarso, el descubridor místico de Jesús, a quien el pretor Festo le dijo dando una gran voz (Hecho, XXVI, 24): “Estás loco, Pablo; las muchas letras te han llevado a la locura.” (118)

Here, it becomes clear that the second type of insanity is none other than its opposite,

sanity. Unamuno then discerns a link between mania and locura:

Si bien no empleó el término evangélico de la familia de Cristo, el de que estaba fuera de sí, sino que desbarraba—manei—que había caído en manía. Y emplea este mismo vocablo que ha llegado hasta nosotros. San Pablo era para el pretor Festo un maniático; las muchas letras, las muchas lecturas, le habían vuelto el seso, secándoselo o no, como a Don Quijote las de los libros de caballerías. (118)

The obsession that the character Jugo de la Raza has for finishing La piel de la zapa could also be described as maniacal. In this case, the reader observing his mania may find it amusing, thus contributing to a connection between the obsessive and the humorous found in some of Unamuno’s fictional.

Unamuno continues to discuss the idea of la locura induced by too much reading,8 “¿Y por qué han de ser lecturas las que le vuelvan a uno loco como le volvieron

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a Pablo de Tarso y a Don Quijote de la Mancha? ¿Por qué ha de volverse uno loco

comiendo libros? ¡Hay tantos modos de enloquecer! y otros tantos de entontecerse”

(118). Again, the writer emphasizes the distinction between true locura and tontería. He

then points out that the majority of readers read without bringing to life what they read,

that is, they are readers who do not help to create the writer or the narrative:

Aunque el más corriente modo de entontecimiento proviene de leer libros sin comérselos, de tragar letra sin asimilársela haciéndola espíritu. Los tontos se mantienen—se mantienen en su tontería—con huesos y no con carne de doctrina. Y los tontos son los que dicen: “¡de mí no se ríe nadie! que es también lo que suele decir el general Martínez Anido, verdugo mayor de España, a quien no le importa que se le odie con tal de que se le tema. “¡De mí no se ríe nadie!” y Dios se está riendo de él. Y de las tonterías que propala a cuenta del bolcheviquismo. (119)

In other words, when a person reads without fully digesting what he/she has read, any

obsession that originates from this type of reading will be based on tonterías and may be

conducive to tragic situations and the creation of dogmatism, often bringing about

unintended and disastrous consequences. On the other hand, those who are truly loco are

able to laugh at themselves and the world; their manias and obsessions are signs of la sagrada locura.

Don Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez

The letter-writer in this narrative exhibits obsessive behavior in his attempt to

avoid contact with human beings. At the beginning of the novel, he describes an attack

of misanthropy that he has just suffered: “Me ha traído, ya lo sabes, un nuevo ataque de

misantropía, o mejor de antropofobia, pues a los hombres más que los odio los temo. Y

es que se me ha exacerbado aquella lamentable facultad que, según Gustavo Flaubert,9 se

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desarrolló en los espíritus de su Bouvard y su Pécuchet, y es la de ver la tontería y no

poder tolerarla” (30, note added). The symptoms described in the above passage coincide

with Coleridge’s definition of madness in his comments on Don Quijote, that is,

“madness as an exacerbation of one of the mental faculties.” The letter-writer continues

to describe his intolerance for stupidity:

Aunque para mí no es verla, sino oírla; no ver la tontería—bêtise—sino oír las tonterías que día tras día, e irremisiblemente, sueltan jóvenes y viejos, tontos y listos. Pues son los que pasan por listos los que más tonterías hacen y dicen. Aunque sé bien que me retrucarás con mis propias palabras, aquellas que tantas veces me has oído, de que el hombre más tonto es el que se muere sin haber hecho ni dicho tontería alguna. (30)

As in Cómo se hace una novela, Unamuno calls attention to the stupidity of those human beings who out of fear, and being conformists, have never in their lives done anything

“crazy.”

Although the letter-writer may be obsessed with avoiding human contact, he cannot help but find the human world wherever he goes. At times he encounters humanity by personifying nature: “Ayer anduve por el monte conversando silenciosamente con los árboles. Pero es inútil que huya de los hombres: me los encuentro en todas partes; mis árboles son árboles humanos. Y no sólo porque hayan sido plantados y cuidados por hombres, sino por algo más. Todos estos árboles son

árboles domesticados y domésticos” (31). The situation is comical because the reader wonders what kind of communication might be possible between trees and a man. But the letter writer carries his propensity for communion with nature even further when he befriends one particular tree: “Me he hecho amigo de un viejo roble. ¡Si le vieras, Felipe, si le vieras! ¡Qué héroe! Debe de ser muy viejo ya. Está en parte muerto. ¡Fíjate bien,

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muerto en parte! no muerto del todo” (32). That the tree shows signs of both life and death is significant for the protagonist. This in-between state points to the potential for either an end and/or a new beginning. The letter-writer continues his description of his

tree-friend and its human attributes: “¡Y si vieras qué brazos los de su raigambre que

hunde sus miles de dedos bajo tierra! Unos brazos que agarran a la tierra como sus ramas

altas agarran al cielo” (32). Similar to the life/death image above, the opposing concepts

of heaven and earth are brought together as the tree has the ability to touch both. The protagonist sees the tree as having arms and fingers instead of roots and branches, thus making complete its humanization.

Later, the tree remains an important point of reference for his obsession with Don

Sandalio: “He querido sacudirme el atractivo del casino, pero es imposible; la imagen de don Sandalio me seguía a todas partes. Ese hombre me atrae como el que más de los

árboles del bosque, es otro árbol más, un árbol humano, silencioso, vegetativo. Porque juega al ajedrez como los árboles dan hojas” (36). For Rueda, this suggests that “el nombre Sandalio puede derivar de sándalo, un árbol que remite al ajedrecista a los orígenes del juego en la India” (547). At this point, the protagonist seems to have replaced his obsession with avoiding human contact with that of perpetuating his creation of Don Sandalio, whose chess-playing he views as having the same vital origins as a tree’s ability to produce leaves. Although at times he still tries to avoid going to the casino, his excursions to the woods begin to leave him less than satisfied and he finds himself thinking of Don Sandalio. One day in the woods he encounters the ruins of an isolated old cabin but instead of enjoying his escapade from civilization, he remembers his chess partner: 192

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Y no sé por qué me acordaba de don Sandalio, este producto tan urbano, tan casinero. Y pensaba que por mucho que quiera huir de los hombres, de sus tonterías, de su estúpida civilización, sigo siendo hombre, mucho más hombre que me figuro, ya que no puedo vivir lejos de ellos. ¡Si es su misma necedad lo que me atrae! ¡Si la necesito para irritarme por dentro de mí! Está visto que necesito a don Sandalio, que sin don Sandalio no puedo ya vivir. (37)

The reader cannot help but smile when the letter-writer not only discovers his basic humanity but also admits his attraction to man’s foolishness. As Rueda observes, “El personaje se siente atraído por aquella mismo de lo que huye. No quiere columbrar nada de la intimidad de Don Sandalio, pero le ronda celosamente. Es la misma necedad lo que le atrae, y, como le ocurre a Robinson Crusoe, la huella humana ejerce en él más imperio que el hombre en sí” (547). The progatonist obviously has replaced one obsession with another. Obsessions such as that of the letter-writer may be equated with the dogmatism so criticized by Unamuno, that is, all “–isms” (communism, fascism, etc.) originate in attachment to a lifeless concept, words that have not been brought to life by an interactive reader able to re-create the original vitality of the idea. That one obsession may be so easily replaced with another is testimony to their rootless nature.

At times, the letter-writer tries unsuccessfully to communicate with the object of his obsession. In one of his letters, for example, he laments the interaction that he has attempted with Don Sandalio: “Hoy no sé, querido Felipe, qué demonio tonto me ha tentado, que se me ha ocurrido proponerle a don Sandalio la solución de un problema de ajedrez” (43). This statement is amusing because the protagonist’s reference to a

“demonio tonto” as if he were being tempted to do something terrible seems overly dramatic for the context. Don Sandalio’s blasé response throws the protagonist off-center even more: “¿Problemas?” me ha dicho. “No me interesan los problemas. Basta con los 193

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 que el juego mismo nos ofrece sin ir más a buscarlos” (43). The letter-writer then expresses his amazement upon hearing Don Sandalio’s words: “Es la vez que le he oído más palabras seguidas a mi don Sandalio, pero ¡qué palabras! Ninguno de los mirones del casino las habría comprendido como yo. A pesar de lo cual, me he ido luego a la playa a buscar los problemas que se me antoja que me proponen las olas del mar” (43-4).

In his obsession with the chess-player, the protagonist has created a world inhabited by his own version of Don Sandalio.

The letter-writer continues to attempt to establish some form of rapport with Don

Sandalio. However, he cannot seem to abandon his dramatic self-scolding when he does not achieve the desired results, as evidenced in the following scene the day after he asks

Don Sandalio to help him solve a chess problem: “Soy incorrigible, Felipe, soy incorrigible, pues como si no fuere bastante la lección que anteayer me dio don Sandalio, hoy he pretendido colocarle una disertación sobre el alfil, pieza que manejo mal” (44).

Not surprisingly, the protagonist’s “disertación sobre el alfil” does not produce a favorable reaction in Don Sandalio:

Le he dicho que al alfil, palabra que parece quiere decir elefante, le llaman los franceses fou, esto es: loco, y los ingleses bishop, o sea: obispo, y que a mí me resulta una especie de obispo loco, con algo elefantino, que siempre va de soslayo, jamás de frente, y de blanco en blanco o de negro en negro y sin cambiar de color del piso en que le ponen y sea cual fuere su color propio. ¡Y qué cosas le he dicho del alfil blanco en piso blanco, del blanco en piso negro, del negro en piso blanco y del negro en piso negro! ¡Las virutas que he hecho con esto! Y él, don Sandalio, me miraba asustado, como se miraría a un obispo loco, y hasta creí que estaba a punto de huir, como de un elefante. Esto lo dije en un intermedio, mientras cambiábamos las piezas, pues turnamos entre blancas y negras, teniendo siempre la salida aquéllas. La mirada de don Sandalio era tal, que me desconcertó. (44)

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Although up to this point in the narrative the protagonist has never thought of himself as crazy, upon seeing the effect that his discourse has on Don Sandalio, he begins to question his sanity: “Cuando he salido del casino iba pensando si la mirada de don

Sandalio tendría razón, si no es que me he vuelto loco, y hasta me parecía si, en mi terror de tropezar con la tontería humana, en mi terror de encontrarme con la huella del pie desnudo del alma de un prójimo, no iba caminando de soslayo, como un alfil. ¿Sobre piso blanco, o negro?” (44-5). He now intuits that his obsession may be a form of locura and begins to see himself through the eyes of another. However, he remains incapable of taking responsibility for his state of mind: “Te digo, Felipe, que este don Sandalio me vuelve loco” (45). By displacing the origin of his problem, he illustrates a total lack of self-awareness. His blaming Don Sandalio is comical because the reader knows that even before meeting el jugador de ajedrez, the letter-writer was already in a similar state of mind. He has merely replaced one obsession with another.

In La novela de don Sandalio, as in Cómo se hace una novela, it remains unknown whether or not the obsessive behavior of the protagonist eventually leads to tragedy. His ultimate fate is ambiguous since, on the one hand, he shows signs of not wanting to continue developing the novel, but on the other, he plans on continuing it in person with Felipe. In other words, the medium will change from the written word to the spoken one. He now seems to understand the importance of creating one’s own novel, as indicated in his advice to Felipe: “Hazte, pues, Felipe mío, novelista y no tendrás que pedir novelas a los demás” (64). Furthermore, he is critical of the serial novels that have begun to appear: “Y si es terrible caer como en profesión en fabricante de novelas, mucho más terrible es caer como en profesión en lector de ellas. Y créeme que no habría 195

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 fábricas, como esas americanas, en que se producen artículos en serie, si no hubiese una clientela que consume los artículos seriados, los productos con marca de fábrica” (64).

Perhaps because he has come to understand the difference between a novel that is alive versus a mass-produced one, it can be hypothesized that he now understands how to create his own novel, that is, his own life, and for that reason he decides to leave the town where he has been hiding out and seek contact in person with Felipe: “Y ahora, para no tener que seguir escribiéndote y para huir de una vez de este rincón donde me persigue la sombra enigmática de don Sandalio el ajedrecista, mañana mismo salgo de aquí y voy a

ésa para que continuemos de palabra este diálogo sobre su novela” (64).

Un pobre hombre rico

In this novel the reader finds in Emeterio evidence of an obsessive personality.

At the beginning of the narrative, his obsession takes the form of an excessive preoccupation with resisting Rosita’s attempts to seduce and trap him: “Y, en efecto, todo el cuidado de Emeterio era defenderse de la táctica envolvente de Rosita” (75).

Although he outwardly maintains a rigid daily routine which the narrator describes as “en la exterioridad, la vida apacible y métodica de Emeterio” (72), his inward life reflects the circumstances of his living as a guest in a casa de huéspedes, “en la interioridad, si es que no en la intimidad, era un huésped, huésped en la casa de pupilos de doña Tomasa. Su interioridad era la hospedería, la casa de huéspedes; ésta su hogar y su única familia sustitutiva” (72). His reluctance toward change is reflected in the fact he has become somewhat of a permanent fixture in the guesthouse, where there is, in general, a constant turnover of guests coming and going: “El personal de la casa de huéspedes, compuesto de 196

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viajantes de comercio, estudiantes, opositores a cátedras y gentes de ocupaciones

ambiguas, se renovaba frecuentemente. El pupilo más fijo era él, Emeterio, que iba

acercándose desde la interioridad a la intimidad de la casa de doña Tomasa” (72).

Because he has not moved on like the majority of the guests, in spite of himself,

he has come to form an intimate part of life in the boarding house. The problem for him

is that such intimacy revolves around Rosita: “El corazón de esta intimidad era Rosita, la

única hija de doña Tomasa, la que le ayudaba a llevar el negocio y la que servía a la mesa a los huéspedes con gran contento de éstos” (72). The narrator describes Rosita as

“fresca, apetitosa y aperitiva y hasta provocativa. Se resignaba sonriente a cierto discreto

magreo, pues sabía que las tentarujas encubrían las deficiencias de las chuletas servidas, y aguantaba los chistes verdes y aun los provocaba y respondía. Rosita tenía veinte años

floridos. Y entre los huéspedes, al que en especial dedicaba sus pestañeos, sus caídas de

ojos, era a Emeterio” (73). Emeterio, however, becomes determined to resist her

advances: “Y, en efecto, todo el cuidado de Emeterio era defenderse de la táctica

envolvente de Rosita” (75), at one point telling her: “Vaya, ya veo que tratas de

encandilarme, pero es trabajo perdido...” (75). Nevertheless, as a long-time resident of the

boarding house, Emeterio’s daily routine inevitably involves contact with Rosita:

¡Pobre Emeterio! Rosita le cosía los botones que se le rompían, por lo cual él dejaba que se le rompieran; Rosita solía hacerle la corbata diciéndole: “Pero venga usted acá, don Emeterio; ¡qué Adán es usted…!, venga a que le ponga bien esa corbata…”; Rosita le recogía los sábados la ropa sucia, salvo alguna prenda que alguna vez él hurtaba para llevársela a la lavandera. Rosita le llevaba a la cama el ponche caliente cuando alguna vez tenía que acostarse más temprano por causa de catarro. El, en cambio, llegó algún sábado a llevarla al teatro, a ver algo de reír. (75)

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Thus, in certain aspects, Rosita is functioning as Emeterio’s wife. In spite of this,

however, Emeterio still does not give in to her physically: “Y con todo ello, Emeterio, el

ahorrativo, no caía” (75). The reader finds the protagonist’s resistance comical at this

point because of the lack of logical explanation for his refusal to yield to what would

normally be considered a natural progression of events.10

Finally, however, the only way that Emeterio can continue to resist temptation is

to leave the boarding house:

Por fin Emeterio, después de haberlo tratado y consultado con Celedonio, acordó huir de la tentación. Aprovechó para ello unas vacaciones de verano para irse a un balneario a ahorrar salud, y al volver a la Corte, a restituirse a su banco, trasladarse con su mundo a otra casa de huéspedes. Porque su mundo, su viejo mundo, lo dejó, al irse de veraneo, en casa de doña Tomasa y como en prenda, llevándose no más que una maleta consigo. Y al volver no se atrevió ni a ir a despedirse de Rosita, sino que, con una carta, mandó a pedir su mundo. (76)

A change in scenery represents for Emeterio a break with the past. His flight from

temptation, however, seems to be based on fear of the old rather than eager anticipation of the new. In Niebla inexplorada: midiendo intersticios en el maravilloso texto de

Unamuno (2003), Franz insightfully observes the significance of travel in Niebla,11 some of which may be applicable in the case of Emeterio. Franz first refers to a passage from

Unamuno’s Del sentimiento trágico de la vida (1912): “En la conclusión de Del

sentimiento trágico de la vida, que obtenía su forma definitiva; y que se publicaba por

entregas al mismo tiempo que don Miguel estaba posado para completar el ya claramente

estructurado manuscrito de Niebla, Unamuno contrasta los viajes de don Quijote con los

de los turistas de la edad moderna” (87). This is the passage of Del sentimiento trágico

de la vida in which Unamuno observes that “Don Quijote no ha llegado a la edad del

tedio de la vida que suele traducirse en tan característica topofobia de no pocos espíritus 198

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modernos, que se pasan la vida corriendo a todo correr de un lado por otro, y no por amor

a aquel adonde van, sino por odio a aquel otro de donde vienen…” (196). Although

Emeterio may not be experiencing feelings of hatred toward Rosita and the boarding house, certainly his departure has more to do with fleeing the situation in which he

presently finds himself than the search for something specific in a different place. It is comical that the protagonist resorts to such an extreme action to escape that which a so- called normal person might find pleasurable.

Nevertheless, Emeterio’s flight from the boarding house brings unintended

consequences when he finds that his obsession with avoiding being seduced by Rosita

has now been replaced by constant memories of the girl. Referring to Emeterio’s move

to the new place, the narrator exclaims: “¡Pero lo que ello le costó! ¡Las noches de

pesadillas que le atormentó el recuerdo de Rosita!” (76). Emeterio then complains to his

friend Celedonio: “Duermo mal y sueño peor, me falta algo, me siento ahogar…” (77).

Upon hearing this, Celedonio replies: “Te falta la tentación, Emeterio, no tienes con

quién luchar” (77). The protagonist continues to describe his torment to his friend: “Es

que no hago sino soñar con ella, y ya Rosita se me ha convertido en pesadilla…” (77).

His friend responds in a questioning tone: “¿Pesadilla, eh? ¿pesadilla?” (77) to which

Emeterio explains: “No puedo olvidar, sobre todo, su caída de ojos, su pestañeo…” (77).

It appears that Emeterio, like the letter-writer of La novela de Don Sandalio, has simply

substituted one obsession for another. The situation is amusing to the reader of the

narrative because it illustrates once again the ever-changing nature of the mind and the

rootlessness of obsessions. What is of great importance to a person in one moment can

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Although Emeterio’s outward life continues to be the same after leaving Doña

Tomasa’s boarding house, his life is not the same:

Y continuó Emeterio cultivando la tertulia del café riendo los chistes de los demás, yendo al teatro los sábados, llevando al fin de cada mes sus ahorros al banco en que servía, ahorros que aumentaban con los relieves de los anteriores ahorros, y cuidando, con toda clase de precauciones ahorrativas, de su salud de soltero que bien se lame. Pero ¡qué vacío en su vida! No, no, la tertulia no era vida. (78)

He also has complaints about his new home: “¡Y la nueva casa de huéspedes!” (78) and

again tells his troubles to Celedonio: “¡Qué casa, Celedonio, qué casa! Aunque eso no es

casa; es mesón o parador. ¡La casa de doña Tomasa sí que era casa!” (78) to which his

friend responds: “Sí, una casa de pupilos” (78). Emeterio also experiences problems with

the help: “Y ésta una casa de pupilas, porque ¡qué criadas! ¡qué bestias! Al fin Rosita era

una hija de la casa, una hija de casa y en la suya no tuve que rozarme con criadas…”

(78). Interestingly, Emeterio admits here that Rosita was, in his eyes, more than someone who merely helped around the boarding house. Celedonio, however, a bit confused by

Emeterio’s reference to criadas, tries to clarify the situation: “¿Con pupilas, quieres

decir?” (78). Emeterio seems to ignore his friend’s question, instead continuing his

ranting: “¡Pero en este mesón! Ahora hay una Maritornes que se empeña en freír huevos nadando en aceite, y cuando al traérmelos a la mesa se lo reprendo, me sale con que eso es ¡pa untar! ¡Figúrate!” (79). Finally, Emeterio wonders out loud why he ever left the house of Doña Tomasa: “¡Ay, Celedonio, por qué dejé aquella casa!” (79) to which his friend replies: “Quieres decir que en esta casa no se te encandila…” (79). The protagonist then confesses that he now realizes that Rosita “estaba enamorada de mí, sí, como lo oyes; enamorada de mí desinteresadamente. Pero yo… ¿por qué salí?” (79).

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However, when Celedonio suggests the possibility of Emeterio returning to his old boarding house, he will not hear of it: “No, ya no, no puede ser. ¿Cómo explico mi vuelta?, ¿qué dirán los otros huéspedes?, ¿qué pensará Martínez?” (79). Thus, Emeterio, in his obsession with his memories of Rosita, refuses to take any action that might resolve the situation.

One day on the street he encounters the pregnant Rosita with her now-husband

Martínez, causing Emeterio to take a turn for the worse and leading to another type of obsessive behavior. The narrator’s description suggests that he is in a depressive state:

Y, en efecto, toda la vida íntima, toda la oculta intimidad del pobre Emeterio Alfonso—Alfonso era apellido, por lo que Celedonio le aconsejaba que se firmase Emeterio de Alfonso, con de de nobleza, toda su vida íntima se iba sumiendo en una sima de mortal indiferencia. Ya ni le hacían gracia los chistes ni gozaba en descifrar charadas, jeroglíficos y logogrifos; ya la vida no tenía encantos para él. (81)

His condition continues to deteriorate, leaving him “en una vida imposible, de profunda soledad interior” (83). Finally, he does not wish to run into anyone whom he knows:

“Huía de la tertulia tradicional y se iba a cafés apartados, de los arrabales, donde nadie le conocía ni él a nadie” (83). Although he has always been an observer rather than a participant in life, this trait now becomes exacerbated:

Y observaba con tristeza, sobre todo los domingos, aquellas familias de artesanos y de pequeños burgueses—acaso alguno catedrático de psicología—que iban, el matrimonio con sus hijos, a tomar café con media tostada oyendo el concierto popular de piano. Y cuando veía que la madre limpiaba los mocos a uno de sus pequeñuelos, si acordaba de los cuidados maternales, sí, maternales, que solía tener con él la Rosita en casa de doña Tomasa. Y se iba con el pensamiento a la oscura y apartada ciudad provinciana en que Rosita, su Rosita, distraía las distracciones de Martínez para que éste pudiese enseñar psicología, lógica y ética a los hijos de otros y de otras. (83)

At this point he develops his new obsession of following couples in the street:

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Dio primero en seguir a las tobilleras, luego a los que las seguían tras los tobillos, después en oír los chicoleos y las respuestas de ellas, y por último en perseguir parejas. ¡Lo que gozaba viéndolas bien aparejadas! “Vaya,” se decía, “a ésta ya la dejó el novio… o lo que sea…, ya va sola, pero pronto vendrá otro… Estos me parece que han cambiado con aquellos otros; ¿es una nueva combinación?, ¿cuántas combinaciones binarias caben entre cuatro términos…? Se me empiezan a olvidar las matemáticas”[…]. (84)

His obsessive behavior begins to become less comical as the reader senses a possible

tragic outcome to Emeterio’s complete isolation and his new “hobby” of living through

others rather than creating a life for himself: “Y así corrían los años y Emeterio vivía

como una sombra errante y ahorrativa, como un hongo, sin porvenir y ya casi sin pasado.

Porque iba perdiendo la memoria de éste. Ya no frecuentaba a Celedonio y casi le huía”

(88).

One day, however, Emeterio receives some news that turns his life around once

again when he runs into Celedonio, who informs him that Rosita is now widowed. The

protagonist can barely contain himself:

Y Emeterio huyó, pensando en la vacante. Y ya toda su preocupación, bajo la sombra nebulosa en que se le iban fundiendo sus ajados recuerdos, era la vacante. Y para distraerse, para olvidar que envejecía, para no pensar en que un día habría de jubilarse ¡jubilado y buey suelto, buey jubilado! recorría las calles buscando, con mirada ansiosa, alguna imagen a que agarrarse. (89)

And, indeed, one day in the street, he sees a woman “que llenó la calle como un aroma de

selva virgin” (89). Of course, he begins to follow her and develops yet a new obsession:

“Ya tenía una ocupación, y era seguir a la aparición misteriosa, averiguar dónde vivía,

quién era y… ¡Ay, aquella terrible vacante por jubilación o por…! ¡Y aquellas

distracciones al calcular los intereses ajenos!” (89). Eventually he learns that the young

girl to whom he feels so attracted is really Rosita’s now-grown daughter: “En que ayer, al

llegar, siguiendo a esa chiquilla divina, a la casa en que vive, me encuentro con que sale 202

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 de ella Rosita en persona, ¡su madre!” (90). In this case, his obsession has led to his reunion with Rosita and results in their subsequent marriage.

The obsessive in Un pobre hombre rico passes through various states, at times bordering on the tragic but ultimately resolving itself non-tragically. At first the protagonist is simply obsessively ahorrativo in his daily habits, but then he becomes determined to prevent a relationship with Rosita from developing, although the reality may be that he is consumed with desire for her. Most likely his obsession with fleeing from Rosita masks his strong attraction to her, as is later revealed when he moves away from the boarding house where she lives and finds himself at the mercy of the memories he has of her. When he realizes she has married and is pregnant, his obsession turns inward, as he begins progressively to isolate himself from others. His inner life is restored only when, years later, he discovers that Rosita’s husband has passed away and there exists the possibility of a new beginning. Once married, Emeterio learns to laugh at himself and regularly engages in card games with his wife. It seems that he is finally capable of participating fully in life. Nevertheless, Celedonio advises him that “aun hay otro grado mayor de elevación, y es el de hacerse espectáculo para que el mundo se divierta…” (105). Emeterio starts to protest: “Pero, yo, Celedonio…” (105), but his friend is insistent: “No, tú, Emeterio, no te has elevado a esas cumbres de excelsitud, aunque has cumplido como bueno. Y ahora sigue jugando al tute, pero sin arriesgar nada, desinteresadamente, que en el desinterés está el chiste…Y en el chiste está la vida” (105).

Emeterio replies with some exasperation: “Bueno, basta, que esos conceptos me hurgan en el bulbo raquídeo” (105), but Celedonio has the last word: “Pues ráscate el cogote, y así se te irá la caspa” (105). 203

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In this chapter the mental obsessions of some of Unamuno’s characters have been

examined in relation to their potential for humor and in some instances, to madness. The

obsessions exhibited by the characters can be explained in part in terms of the theory

presented by Bergson in his treatise on laughter. Thus, when Jugo de la Raza becomes

obsessed with finding a new copy of the book that supposedly will lead to his death (after

burning the first one he had), he exhibits a kind of rigidity of thought that allows him to

focus on his goal. The same can be said of the letter-writer in La novela de don Sandalio, who is obsessed first with avoiding all human contact and then obsesses about his Don

Sandalio, the one that he has created. Finally, Emeterio in Un pobre hombre rico

exemplifies the same rigidity first in his personal habits and later through a series of other

obsessions. The reader who watches the characters attempt to live in a state of mental

semi-paralysis may smile at their confusion and recognize in themselves the very human

tendency to form obsessions.

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Notes

1 Don Avito explains the difference between inductive and deductive marriages: “Ocurre, en efecto, con harta frecuencia, que rodando por el mundo se encuentra el hombre con un gentil cuerpecito femenino que con sus aires y andares le hiere las cuerdas del meollo del espinazo, con unos ojos y una boca que le meten al corazón, se enamora, pierde pie, y una vez en la resaca no halla mejor medio de salir a flote que no sea haciendo suyo el garboso cuerpecito con el contenido espiritual que tenga, si es que le tiene. He aquí un matrimonio inductivo. En otros casos, acontece que al llegar a cierta edad experimenta el hombre un inexplicable vacío, que algo le falta, y sintiendo que no está bien que esté el hombre solo, se echa a buscar viviente vaso en que verter aquella redundancia de vida que por sensación de carencia se le revela. Busca mujer entonces y con ella se casa en matrimonio deductivo. Todo lo cual equivale a decir que, o ya precede la novia a la idea de casarse, conduciéndonos aquélla a ésta, o ya el propósito del casorio nos lleva a la novia. Y el matrimonio del futuro padre del genio tiene que ser, ¡claro está!, deductivo.” (44)

2 Don Avito’s son, Apolodoro, commits suicide as an adolescent when he fails in love as well as in other aspects of life.

3 Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772‐1834) was an English poet, critic, and philosopher who was, along with his friend William Wordsworth, one of the founders of the Romantic Movement in England and one of the Lake Poets. He is probably best known for his poems “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” and “Kubla Khan,” as well as his major prose work Biographia Literaria.

4 La enfermedad X de Mac Kenzie mentioned by Unamuno is a “Brain stem syndrome with unilateral paralysis of soft palate, pharynx, larynx, sternocleidomastoid and trapezius muscles, and hemiatrophy of tongue. Caused by dysfunction of vagus, spinal accessory, and hypoglossal nerves, usually due to a lesion affecting one lateral half of medulla oblongata.” It is curious that Unamuno knew about such a disease. Perhaps the fact that a couple of his children died and a couple of them were congenitally abnormal explains his knowledge and interest in various types of illnesses and syndromes.

5 Pliny Earle, M.D. (1809‐1892), a founder of the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane, now the American Psychiatric Association, was a descendant of six generations of New England Quakers. After his own schooling, he became a teacher and then principal of the Friends’ School in Providence, Rhode Island.

6 Luis Pirandello (1867‐1936) was an Italian dramatist, novelist and short‐story writer. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1934. His Six Characters in Search of an Author, in which the characters rebel and become autonomous has been seen as a possible inspiration for Augusto’s revolt in Niebla.

7 In El sentimiento trágico de la vida Unamuno reviewed all of the important Western philosophy and found it wanting since nearly all was based on a priori schemes, which he rejected.

8An association between reading and madness also appears in Nada menos que todo un hombre. Julia, the wife of Alejandro accused of being insane, spends much of her time reading novels.

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9Gustave Flaubert (1821‐1880) was a French writer who is counted among the great western novelists. The work mentioned here, Bouvard et Pécuchet is an unfinished satirical work published in 1881, a year after the writer’s death. It is an appropriate work for Unamuno to choose in this context since the plot “details the adventures of two Parisian copy‐clerks […] of the same age and nearly identical temperament. […] When Bouvard inherits a sizeable fortune, the two decide to move to the countryside.[…] Their search for intellectual stimulation leads them, over the course of years, to flounder through almost every branch of knowledge. Flaubert uses their quest to expose the hidden weaknesses of the sciences and arts, as nearly every project Bouvard and Pécuchet set their minds on comes to grief. Their endeavours are interleaved with the story of their deteriorating relations with the local villagers; and the Revolution of 1848 is the occasion for much despondent discussion. The manuscript breaks off near the end of the novel. According to one set of Flaubert’s notes, the townsfolk, enraged by Bouvard and Pécuchet’s antics, try to force them out of the area or have them committed. Disgusted with the world in general, Bouvard and Pécuchet ultimately decide to ‘return to copying as before’ (copier comme autrefois), giving up their intellectual bloundering. The work ends with their eager preparations to construct a two‐seated desk on which to write” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bouvard).

10 In another of Unamuno’s novels, La Tía Tula, it is a female protagonist who refuses to become physically intimate with a man. The problem is that Tía Tula wants to be a mother but without physically becoming pregnant and giving birth. Thus she becomes obsessed with a sort of surrogate motherhood.

11 In Niebla inexplorada, Franz points out that in Niebla, Augusto Pérez often speaks of a journey which he never realizes in the novel: “El perenne foco de atención sobre las múltiples cuestiones narratológicas y epistemológicas de Niebla obscurece el hecho de que muchos asuntos de igual importancia no reciban atención alguna. Uno de estos asuntos condenados al silencio que a fin de cuentas hace mella en las dimensiones epistemonarratológicas de la obra tiene que ver con la aserción que hace Augusto a Rosario de que planea un largo viaje. Aunque hay viajes que se llevan a cabo dentro o un poco fuera de las páginas de Niebla, nada parecido a los planes originales de Augusto parece acontecer. Esta ausencia nos lleva a una sospecha inicial de que el motivo del viaje pueda representar un cabo suelto que nunca logra encontrar el sitio apropiado dentro de la obra” (77‐78). Later in his study, Franz questions why Augusto has to travel to Salamanca to meet Unamuno since there are many indications that the narrative takes place there: “¿Es que quería Unamuno al principio utilizar Salamanca como modelo sin nombre y después descubrió lo conveniente de trasladar el escenario a una Salamanca más fenoménica donde el autor mismo residía, creando así una ilusión de lo ‘novelesco’ convertida en lo histórico’? ¿Quería presentar señas espaciales de un desplazamiento desde el mundo estáticamente diegético, narrado por el extradiegético Unamuno, al agónico existencialismo del mundo metadiegético imaginado por las voces diegéticas de Augusto, Víctor, y ‘Unamuno’? La polifonía del texto autoriza ambas interpretaciones, aunque no sin la inconsistencia de un movimiento hacia el espacio histórico con el propósito de sugerir el paso a un espacio literario o psicológico contrario. Es cierto que la inconsistencia entre el escenario salmantino original y el viaje que culmina en el mismo escenario no podría haber escapado la atención de Unamuno, entonces a la cumbre de sus poderes artísticos y críticos. El aparente absurdo del viaje y el conflicto entre las posibles posturas interpretativas puede tal vez rectificarse tomando el movimiento de Augusto como un cambio de plano o nivel discursivo, desde el nivel semi‐mimético hasta el simbólico y metaficticio que va a predominar durante el resto de la novela” (94). The critic also discusses the improbability that the viaje to which Augusto refers repeatedly suggests death. On this point, Franz maintains: “En esta clase de universo dialógico narrativo, el alzar del imaginado movimiento por el espacio a nivel simbólico que sugiere el ‘viaje final’ o la muerte inevitablemente permanece provisional e inestable. Que la muerte y la narrativa que conduce a ella sean inestables responde, claro está, a la añoranza corroborada por los sueños de autonomía ficticia y de escape de mortalidad voceados en muchos de los paratextos de Niebla. Estos incluyen su Prólogo, su 206

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Post‐Prólogo, Epílogo, Prólogo a la Segunda Edición (‘Historia de Niebla’) y los varios ensayos post‐1914 que resucitan al personaje y a su ‘autor’ en un intento de volver a montar, a configurar y a cambiar el ‘viaje final’ al que Augusto y ‘Unamuno’ infelizmente sucumben en la conclusión provisional de la narrativa original” (96).

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CHAPTER VI

THE RIDICULOUS

The ridiculous as defined in this chapter embodies humor that exists for its own

sake. At times Unamuno manifests a playfulness that seems to be just for fun. In other

words, it does not apparently have any particular objective other than to entertain, and

even the writer seems just to be enjoying himself. This does not necessarily mean,

however, that such humor has no relationship at all to any of Unamuno’s recurring

themes; rather, any link that it may have with these topos appears to be more remote than

in other manifestations of humor found in his work because the comical aspect so

strongly dominates. Many instances of word-play, for example, fall into this category of

humor as do what Bretz refers to as “trivialities” (discussed in Chapter II). In some

cases, the ridiculous shares some characteristics with the absurd, which Bergson

associates with the oneiric state (discussed in Chapter III). On the other hand, some

examples of the ridiculous in Unamuno’s work fall under Bergson’s definition of the

ingenioso (also discussed in Chapter III). Several manifestations of this facet will be

examined below in the context of each of the narratives which are the focus of the present

study.

Cómo se hace una novela

Probably because Unamuno composed this text in exile, the circumstances in

which he found himself did not so readily lend themselves to the ridiculous as frequently

as in some of his other works. Still, even under such conditions, instances of pure humor appear, particularly in Cassou’s portrait of the Basque writer and in Unamuno’s response 208

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 to Cassou’s description of him. Although Unamuno is not the author of the portrait, he did retranslate it and decide to include it in the narrative. Therefore, part of the authorship certainly belongs to him. Familiarity with Cassou’s comments also has relevance because it helps to understand the Basque writer’s response to the French writer’s description of him. For example, after asserting that Unamuno lacks his own ideas (discussed in Chapter IV), the French writer elaborates on this point:

Esta ausencia de ideas, pero este perpetuo monólogo en que todas las ideas del mundo se mejen para hacerse problema personal, pasión viva, prueba hirviente, patético egoísmo, no ha dejado de sorprender a los franceses, grandes amigos de conversaciones o cambios de ideas, prudente dialéctica, tras de la cual se conviene en que la inquietud individual se vele cortésmente hasta olvidarse y perderse: grandes amigos también de interviús y de encuestas en que el espíritu cede a las sugestiones de un periodista que conoce bien a su público y sabe los problemas generales y muy de actualidad a que es absolutamente preciso dar una respuesta, los puntos sobre que es oportuno hacer nacer escándalo y aquellos al contrario que exigen una solución apaciguadora. Pero ¿qué tiene que hacer aquí el soliloquio de un viejo español que no quiere morirse? (95)

While comically implying that Unamuno’s obsessions at times border on the ridiculous.

Unamuno’s French colleague pokes a little fun of the people of his native country, and then bemusedly turns to the Basque writer’s way of expressing himself. Even for the

French, he seems to be joking, Unamuno represents an extreme case. Cassou also suggests that Unamuno does not quite fit the correct mold as a poet:

La poesía no es para él ese ideal de sí misma tal como podía alimentarlo un Góngora. Pero, tempestuoso y altanero como un proscrito del Risorgimento, Unamuno siente a las veces la necesidad de clamar, bajo forma lírica, sus recuerdos de niñez, su fe, sus esperanzas, los dolores de su destierro. El arte de los versos no es para él una ocasión de abandonarse. Es más bien, por el contrario, una ocasión, más alta sólo y como más necesaria, de redecirse y de recogerse. En las vastas perspectivas de esta poesía oratoria, dura, robusta y romántica, sigue siendo él mismo más poderosamente todavía y como gozoso de ese triunfo más difícil que ejerce sobre la materia verbal y sobre el tiempo. (97-8)

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Although Cassou is by no means the first to comment on these characteristics of

Unamuno, the tone that he uses is unique as he seems to be trying to harmonize form and content to describe Unamuno in a way that echoes the Basque writer, suggesting his contradictions, passions, and refusal to be pigeon-holed by exaggerating his intellectuality and tendency to return incessantly to particular recurring preoccupations.

Cassou continues his commentary on Unamuno’s style as a writer:

¿Admitiremos las obras que escribe este hombre, tan erizadas de desorden al mismo tiempo que ilimitadas y monstruosas que no se las puede encasillar en ningún género y en las que nos detienen a cada momento intervenciones personales, y con una truculenta y familiar insolencia, el curso de la ficción— filosófica o estética—en que estábamos a punto de ponernos de acuerdo? (98)

Here the vocabulary that the French writer chooses to describe the blurring of genres so characteristic of Unamuno’s work and the commentaries that he continuously makes contributes to the humorous tone.

After focusing on the traits lacking in Unamuno (and perhaps deliberately excised by him), Cassou turns his attention to the qualities that the writer does possess:

Habiendo apartado de Unamuno todo lo que no es él mismo, pongámonos en el centro de su resistencia: el hombre aparece formado, dibujado, en su realidad física. Marcha derecho, llevando, a donde quiera que vaya, o donde quiera que se pasee, en aquella hermosa plaza barroca de Salamanca, o en las calles de París, o en los caminos del país vasco, su inagotable monólogo, a pesar de la riqueza de las variantes. Esbelto, vestido con el que llama su uniforme civil, firme la cabeza sobre los hombros que no han podido sufrir jamás, ni aun en tiempo de nieve, un sobretodo, marcha siempre hacia adelante, indiferente a la calidad de sus oyentes, a la manera de su maestro que discurría ante los pastores como ante los duques, y prosigue el trágico juego verbal del que, por otra parte, no se deja sorprender. (100)

The details of the physical description of Unamuno presented above by Cassou are particularly amusing as he seems to present him as a half-crazed figure who engages in a continuous monologue with himself, regardless of his surroundings. Cassou also exhibits 210

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a sort of dry humor when he admits that Unamuno differs somewhat from other

philosophers:

Con Unamuno tocamos el fondo del nihilismo español. Comprendemos que este mundo depende hasta tal punto del sueño, que ni merece ser soñado en una forma sistemática. Y si los filósofos se han arriesgado a ello es sin duda por un exceso de candor. Es que han sido presos en su propio lazo. No han visto la parte de sí mismos, la parte de ensueño personal que ponían en su esfuerzo. Unamuno, más lúcido, se siente obligado a detenerse a cada momento para contradecirse y negarse. Porque se muere. (100)

A similar tone dominates the following passage:

Y así nada de inútil, nada de perdido en las horas en medio de las cuales se revuelve, y los instantes más ordinarios, en que nos abandonamos al curso del mundo, él sabe que los emplea en ser él mismo. Jamás le abandona su congoja, ni aquel orgullo que comunica esplendor a todo cuanto toca, ni esa codicia que le impide escurrirse y anonadarse sin conocimiento de ello. Está siempre despierto, y si duerme es para recogerse mejor ante el sueño de la vela y gozar de él. Acosado por todos lados por amenazas y embates que sabe ver con una claridad bien amarga, su gesto continuo es el de atraer a sí todos los conflictos, todos los cuidados, todos los recursos. (101)

Cassou exaggerates some of Unamuno’s real traits in order to make his point, thus adding

details to his description. Finally, however, he must concede:

Pero reducido a ese punto extremo de la soledad y del egoísmo, es el más rico y el más humano de los hombres. Pues no cabe negar que haya reducido todos los problemas al más sencillo y al más natural, y nada nos impide mirarnos en él como en un hombre ejemplar: encontraremos la más viva de las emociones. Desprendámonos de lo social, de lo temporal, de los dogmas y de las costumbres de nuestro hormiguero. Va a desaparecer un hombre: todo está ahí. Si rehúsa, minuto a minuto, esa partida, acaso va a salvarnos. A fin de cuentas es a nosotros a quienes defiende defendiéndose. (101-2)

Thus, Cassou ends his portrait by demonstrating his good intentions toward Unamuno. In part, Cassou’s description is comical precisely because he knows Unamuno well and is able to express his opinion of the Basque writer without malice.

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Unamuno often responds to Cassou’s comments in a similar tone in his

“Comentario” which follows the portrait, thus creating a banter of wit: “Ah, sí, hay una humanidad por dentro de esa otra triste humanidad arrebañada, hay una humanidad que confieso y por la que clamo. ¡Y con qué acierto verbal ha escrito Cassou que hay que darle una ‘organización divina!’ ¿Organización divina? Lo que hay que hacer es organizar a Dios” (107). Unamuno also comments at length on the interview to which

Cassou refers in his portrait:

¡Y cómo me ha pesado después el haber cedido a la invitación de aquella entrevista! Porque, en efecto, ¿qué es lo que podía yo decir a un reportero que conoce a su público y sabe los problemas generales y de actualidad—que son, por ser los menos individuales, a la vez los menos universales y son los de menos eternidad—a que hay que dar una respuesta, los puntos en que es oportuno hacer nacer un escándalo y aquellos que exigen una solución apaciguadora? ¡Escándalo! Pero ¿qué escándalo? No aquel escándalo evangélico, aquel de que nos habla el Cristo diciendo que es menester, que la hay, mas, ¡ay de aquel por quien viniere! no el escándalo satánico o el luzbelino, que es un escándalo arcangélico e infernal, sino el miserable escándalo de las cominerías de los cotarros literarios, de esos mezquinos y menguados cotarros de los hombres de letras que ni saben comerse un libro—no pasan de leerlo—ni saben amasar con su sangre y su carne un libro que se coma, sino escribirlo con tinta y pluma. Tiene razón Cassou: ¿qué tiene que hacer en esas interviús un hombre, español o no, que no quiere morirse y que sabe que el soliloquio es el modo de conversar de las almas que sienten la soledad divina? ¿Y qué le importa a nadie lo que Pedro juzga de Pablo, o la estimación que de Juan hace Andrés? (110-1)

Here Unamuno clearly makes fun of a particular class of intellectuals, accomplishing his goal with great wit. Although his intention to ridicule is obvious, the comical way that he goes about makes it seem lacking in ill will.

Unamuno also takes issue with other points of the retrato. For example, to

Cassou’s comments on his poetry, the Basque writer responds:

Quiero pasar de ligero lo que Cassou me dice de ser yo poeta de circunstancia, Dios lo es también—y lo que comenta de mi poesía “oratoria, dura, robusta y romántica.” He leído hace poco lo que se ha escrito de la poesía pura—pura 212

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como el agua destilada, que es impotable, y destilada en alquitara de laboratorio y no en las nubes que se ciernen al sol y al aire libres, y en cuanto a romanticismo he concluido por poner este término al lado de los de paradoja y pesimismo, es decir, como no lo saben tampoco los que de él abusan. (114-5)

Again, Unamuno uses his wit to create more light-hearted criticism when he compares

“poesía pura” to distilled water, thereby concisely making his point without seeming explicitly demeaning toward any particular individual. Finally, he mentions the nihilismo of which Cassou accuses him:

Quisiera no decir nada de los últimos retoques del retrato que me ha hecho Cassou, pero no puedo resistir a cuatro palabras sobre lo del fondo del nihilismo español. Que no me gusta la palabra. Nihilismo nos suena, o mejor, nos sabe a ruso, aunque un ruso diría que el suyo fue nichevismo; nihilismo se le llamó al ruso. Pero nihil es palabra latina. El nuestro, el español, estaría mejor llamado nadismo, de nuestro abismático vocablo: nada. Nada, que significando primero cosa nada o nacida, algo, esto es: todo, ha venido a significar, como el francés rien, de rem=cosa—y como personne, la no cosa, la nonada, la nada. De la plentitud del ser se ha pasado a su vaciamiento. (119)

The writer’s “cuatro palabras” exemplify the word-play in which he so frequently engages. Although he discusses a serious philosophical topic, Unamuno makes a game of it, thus giving it a lighter, comical tone. Bergson also discusses the technique of making a serious topic comical as one of the sources of humor (see Chapter III).

La novela de don Sandalio

The letter-writer or narrative voice in this one-way epistolary novel at times allows his obsessions to wander off into ridiculous musings. For example, after beginning to frequent the casino, he develops a preference for certain games over others:

Así es que en mi oficio de mirón prefiero mirar las partidas de tresillo a mirar las de mus, pues en éstas hablan demasiado. Todo ese barullo de ¡envido!, ¡quiero!, ¡cinco más!, ¡diez más!, ¡órdago!, me entretiene un rato, pero luego me cansa. El

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¡órdago!, que parece es palabra vascuence, que quiere decir: ¡ahí está!, me divierte bastante, sobre todo cuando se lo lanza el uno al otro en ademán de gallito de pelea. (34)

The protagonist’s interest in the Basque word and the image of the card-players tossing

around the expression as if they were participants in a cockfight is comical and may be another instance of self-parody on the part of the writer. Since Unamuno wrote his doctoral dissertation on the Basque language (his mother tongue), he knows very well the origin of the word that “parece es palabra vascuence.”

Also in this same segment of the narrative, the letter-writer relates a tale of

mistrust among the chess players of the casino. First, he asserts his preference for chess

over any of the other games: “Me atraen más las partidas de ajedrez, pues ya sabes que en mis mocedades di en ese vicio solitario de dos en compañía. Si es que eso es compañía”

(34). He then complains that not all of the chess games played at the casino which he

now frequents are silent: “Pero aquí, en este casino, no todas las partidas de ajedrez son

silenciosas, ni de soledad de dos en compañía, sino que suele formarse un grupo con los

mirones, y éstos discuten las jugadas con los jugadores, y hasta meten mano en el

tablero” (34). Finally, he describes a recent incident:

Hay, sobre todo, una partida entre un ingeniero de montes y un magistrado jubilado, que es de lo más pintoresco que cabe. Ayer, el magistrado, que debe de padecer de la vejiga, estaba inquieto y desasosegado, y como le dijeran que se fuese al urinario, manifestó que no se iba solo, sino con el ingeniero, por temor de que entretanto éste no le cambiase la posición de las piezas; así es que se fueron los dos, el magistrado a evacuar aguas menores, y el ingeniero a escoltarle, y entretanto los mirones alteraron toda la composición del juego. (34)

The engaño involved in this tale proves interesting because though the mistrust that the

engineer felt toward his partner may or may not have been warranted, his trust in the

onlookers never wavered. In the end, they were the ones to betray his trust, but because 214

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he was not aware of what happened, the game apparently went on as usual when the

players returned. Finally, both players become objects of ridicule, and their

obliviousness to their plight makes it all the more comical.

Later in the narrative when the letter writer takes to his bed to recover from an

illness, several absurd situations evolve. First, he invents an almost child-like way to

pass the time:

No te he escrito, mi querido Felipe, en estos ocho días, porque he estado enfermo, aunque acaso más de aprensión que de enfermedad. Y además, ¡me entretenía tanto la cama, se me pegaban tan amorosamente las sábanas! Por la ventana de mi alcoba veo, desde la cama misma, la montaña próxima, en la que hay una pequeña cascada. Tengo sobre la mesilla de noche unos prismáticos, y me paso largos ratos contemplando con ellos la cascada. ¡Y qué cambios de luz los de la montaña! (45)

His time in bed seems to trigger a regression to an infantile state and is comical because

of the incongruity of a grown man being entertained in such a way. In Humor, ironía y

lectura: Las fronteras de la escritura literaria (1993), Lauro Zavalo includes the

incongruent as one of his three categories of humor, and Paul Lewis, in Comic Effects:

Interdisciplinary Approaches to Humor in Literature (1989) shares this perspective when he includes incongruity as one of the established points of humor: “That humorous experiences originate in the perception of an incongruity: a pairing of ideas, images or

events that are not ordinarily joined and do not seem to make sense together” (8). After consulting a doctor, the protagonist relates the following story:

He hecho llamar al médico más reputado de la villa, el doctor Casanueva, el cual ha venido dispuesto, ante todo, a combatir la idea que yo tuviese de mi propia dolencia. Y sólo ha conseguido preocuparme más. Se empeña en que yo voy desafiando las enfermedades, y todo porque suelo ir con frecuencia al monte. Ha empezado por recomendarme que no fume, y cuando le he dicho que no fumo nunca, no sabía ya qué decir. No ha tenido la resolución de aquel otro galeno que,

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en un caso análogo, le dijo al enfermo: “¡Pues entonces, fume usted!” Y acaso tuvo éste razón, pues lo capital es cambiar de régimen. (45)

The advice of the doctor in the embedded story exemplifies the absurd. When the letter-

writer receives advice from supposedly the best physician in town, he also feels the

absurdity of the situation upon being given advice to stop doing something that he never

does. Bergson associates the absurd with the dream state, and, indeed, the letter writer

admits that he has spent several days in a state between sleep and wakefulness: “Casi

todos estos días he guardado cama, y no, en rigor, porque ello me hiciera falta, sino

porque así rumiaba major mi relativa soledad. En realidad, he pasado lo más del tiempo

de estos ocho días traspuesto y en un estado entre la vela y el sueño, sin saber si soñaba la

montaña que tenía enfrente o si veía delante de mí a don Sandalio ausente” (45-6). This

creates doubt as to the veracity of what the protagonist has experienced the last few days.

Finally, at the end of this segment of the narrative, the letter-writer tells Felipe about a

nightmare that he had:

Hasta he tenido una pesadilla, y es que me he figurado a don Sandalio como un terrible caballo negro ¡caballo de ajedrez, por supuesto! que se me venía encima a comerme, y yo era un pobre alfil blanco, un pobre obispo loco y elefantino que estaba defiendo al rey blanco para que no le dieran mate. Al despertarme de esta pesadilla, cuando iba rayando el alba, sentí una gran opresión en el pecho, y me puse a hacer largas y profundas inspiraciones y espiraciones, así como gimnásticas, para ver de entonar este corazón que el doctor Casanueva cree que está algo averiado. Y luego me he puesto a contemplar, con mis prismáticos, cómo los rayos del sol naciente daban en el agua de la cascada de la montaña frontera. (46)

Since the absurd often involves a situation in which the conditions of real life take on the often absurd logic of dreams, that is, unexpected combinations of places and events, the protagonist’s nightmare illustrates the dream-state origin of the absurd as described by

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The letter-writer also makes comical comments concerning certain policies and

characteristics of the casino:

¡Pero esos casinos con su reglamento, en el que suele haber aquel infamante artículo de “se prohíben las discusiones de religión y de política” ¿y de qué van a discutir? Y con su biblioteca más desmoralizadora aún que la llamada sala del crimen! ¡Esa biblioteca, que alguna vez se le enseña al forastero, y en la que no falta el Diccionario de la Real Academia Española para resolver las disputas, con apuesta, sobre el valor de una palabra y si está mejor dicha así o del otro modo…! Mientras que en el café… (56)

The protagonist makes fun of the prohibition of discussing politics and religion since

these are seemingly inevitable topics of conversation. The presence of a copy of the

Diccionario de la Real Academia Española in a place like the casino seems incongruent

since its use does not quite fit the intellectual level of the people who frequent the casino.

However, in the casino it has acquired another use, that of another form of betting (on the

meanings of words). This may be another example of the technique of transposición

described by Bergson (discussed in Chapter III), through which humor is created by the

juxtaposition of traits considered characteristic of a particular social class with those of

another class.

Un pobre hombre rico

This narrative, which abounds in word-play and other forms of humor, showcases

Unamuno’s pure wit perhaps more than any other. One of the sources of humor comes from references to particular animals and to the use of animal imagery to describe the human world. For example, when Doña Tomasa becomes aware of the attraction that

Rosita, her daughter, feels for Emeterio, who at this time lives in the boarding house, the following dialogue ensues: 217

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DOÑA TOMASA. ¡A ver si le pescas!

ROSITA. O si se le cazo…

DOÑA TOMASA. ¿Pero es que es carne o pescado?

ROSITA. Me parece, madre, que no es carne ni pescado, sino rana.

DOÑA TOMASA. ¿Rana? Pues encandílale, hija, encandílale, ¿para qué quieres, si no, esos ojos?

ROSITA. Bueno, madre, pero no haga así de encandiladora, que me basto yo sola.

DOÑA TOMASA. Pues a ello, ¿eh? ¡y tacto! (73)

That Rosita considers Emeterio to be neither “fish nor fowl,” but rather an amphibian, indicates that she remains uncertain as to where he belongs and how to classify him. J. E.

Cirlot, in A Dictionary of Symbols, considers that “animals such as the duck, the frog, and fish, however much they may differ one from the other, are all connected with the idea of water and hence with the concept of ‘primal waters’; consequently, they can stand as symbols of the origin of things and of the power of rebirth” (10-1). Also, since the

frog is the final product of metamorphosis, it seems particularly apt to associate it with

rebirth and change. Therefore, when Rosita refers to Emeterio as a frog, it may anticipate

the transformation that will take place in his personality later in the narrative. Janet Pérez

also refers to Unamuno’s use of animal imagery in her article “Rhetorical Integration in

Unamuno’s Niebla,” in particular the species of birds with which some of the characters are identified. For example, Augusto “repeatedly imagines himself as an eagle” (61), but

“as he dimly realizes later, he is not the hunter but the hunted (expressed by further animal imagery): ‘Estoy haciendo de rana, pensó el psicólogo experimental’” (62). The 218

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frog as a symbol of an animal hunted also seems appropriate to Emeterio in Rosita’s

depiction of him at the beginning of the novel. In addition, because the frog frequently serves as the object of scientific experiments, its symbolism takes on added significance in its reference to Emeterio (as it does to Augusto in Niebla). Years later, when the two

reunite, even Emeterio evokes the image of a frog to describe himself when he lived at

the boarding house:

ROSITA. Si cuando nos conocimos hubiera yo sabido lo que sé ahora…

EMETERIO. ¡Si lo hubiera sabido yo, Rosita, si lo hubiera sabido yo…!

ROSITA. ¡Ay, Emeterio, Emeterio, qué tontos éramos entonces…!

EMETERIO. Tú, no tanto, el tonto… yo.

ROSITA. Cuando mi madre me azuzaba a que te encandilase, y tú tan…

EMETERIO. ¡Tan rana! (95-6)

The image of being “hunted” or “fished” also recurs when Emeterio relates to his friend

Celedonio the events of his reunion with Rosita and her desire to marry her daughter to

Emeterio:

CELEDONIO. Y ella, Emeterio, pensaba en tanto que un pobre hombre rico, como tú, es lo mejor…

EMETERIO. No lo sé. Y empezó a hacerme pucheros…

CELEDONIO. Sí, pensando en el suyo y de su hija…

EMETERIO. Y me dijo de ésta que es una alhaja, una joya…

CELEDONIO. Sin montura…

EMETERIO. ¿Qué quieres decir?

CELEDONIO. Nada, que ahora trata de que la montes o engastes tú…

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EMETERIO. ¡Pero qué cosas se te ocurren, Celedonio!

CELEDONIO. ¡A ella, a ella!

EMETERIO. Creo que te equivocas al suponerla…

CELEDONIO. No, si yo no supongo otra cosa sino que trata de colocar a su hija, de colocártela…

EMETERIO. Y si así fuese, ¿qué?

CELEDONIO. Que ya has caído, Emeterio, que ya has caído, que ya te ha cazado o pescado. (91-2)

Finally, Emeterio has given in, and the reappearance of the hunted/fished image here

confirms that he has been trapped/caught. Another example of animal symbolism, in this

case a bird, occurs in the name Celedonio, meaning ‘como la golondrina,’ a bird which

repeatedly leaves and returns to the same place, just as this character comes and goes in

the life of Emeterio.

Other images from the natural world pepper the narrative. For instance, at the

beginning, Emeterio, not wanting to acknowledge Rosita’s advances, uses imagery of a

very different animal when he repeatedly tells himself: “Pero no, no, a mí no me pesca esta chiquilla; ¡cargar yo con ella y con doña Tomasa encima! ¡El buey suelto bien se

lame…, buey…, buey…, pero no toro!” (73). Here Unamuno plays with an old proverb

concerning bachelorhood, changing it to fit the context of Emeterio’s current dilemma.

Later on in the narrative a comical passage compares a seductive young woman with long

nails and eyelashes, whom Emeterio observes in a cafe during one of his investigaciones

callejeras, to a carnivorous plant:

[…] Y se acordó de lo que le había oído decir a Celedonio—que era erudito—de cierta planta carnívora, la drosera, que con una especie de pestañas apresa a pobres insectos atraídos por su flor y les chupa el jugo. Entró la pestañuda 220

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contoneándose, hurgó el recinto con sus ojos, resbaló su mirada por Emeterio y echó un pestañazo a un vejete calvo que sorbía poco a poco su leche con café, después de haberse engullido media tostada. Le lanzó las uñas de sus párpados en guiñada, a la vez que se humedecía los hinchados labios con la lengua. Al vejete se le encendió la calva, poniéndose del color de las uñas de los dedos de la moza, y mientras ésta se salivaba los amoratados labios él se tragaba en seco ¡así! la saliva. Ladeó ella la cabeza y alzándose como por resorte, se salió. Y tras ella, rascándose la nariz como por disimulo, y a rastras de las pestañas de la pestañuda, él, el pobre del café con leche. (88)

Cirlot may be correct when he maintains that “the different stages of animal evolution, as manifested by the varying degrees of biological complexity, ranging from the insect and the reptile to the mammal, reflect the hierarchy of the instincts” (10) as the scene described above decidedly exhibits some of the most primal. Further on, however, shortly after Emeterio’s marriage to Rosita (along with Clotilde’s marriage to Paquito), the animal imagery takes on a more evolved form when he relates to Celedonio an incident which reveals a certain facet of Clotilde’s husband (and which may be equally revealing of Emeterio’s personality) :

EMETERIO. […] Es un pobre chico que se ha casado por libertinaje.

CELEDONIO. ¿Por libertinaje?

EMETERIO. Sí, figúrate que entre sus librejos le encontré uno titulado: Manual del perfecto amante. ¡Manual! ¡Figúrate, manual!

CELEDONIO. Sí, estaría mejor prontuario, o epítome, o catecismo…

EMETERIO. ¡O cartilla! Pero, ¡manual! Te digo que es un tití, un mico…1

CELEDIONO. Sí, un cuadrumano, quieres decir. Pues esos son los peligrosos. Recuerdo una vez que iba yo de viaje con una parejita de recién casados que no hacían sino aprovechar los túneles, y como se propasaran en eso de arrullarse y arrumacarse a mis narices, les llamé discretamente la atención, ¿y sabes con qué me salió la mocosa? Pues con un: “¿Qué? ¿Le damos dentera, abuelito?” (99, note added)

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Cirlot points out that “while man is an equivocal, ‘masked’ or complex being, the animal

is univocal, for its positive or negative qualities remain ever constant, thus making it possible to classify each animal, once and for all, as belonging to a specific mode of cosmic phenomena” (10). Taking this into account, it may be hypothesized that

Unamuno, so acutely aware of the changeable nature of the human being, employed animal imagery, in part, as a way to attempt to pin down and describe the essence of individual human beings.2 Whether or not this is the case, it clearly enhances his

exploitation of language for comedic effect. Also, the writer may use such symbolism to further illustrate one of the points that he makes in El sentimiento trágico de la vida

concerning the supposed differences between animals and humans:

El hombre, dicen, es un animal racional. No sé por qué no se haya dicho que es un animal afectivo o sentimental. Y acaso lo que de los demás animales le diferencia sea más el sentimiento que no la razón. Más veces he visto razonar a un gato que no reír o llorar. Acaso llore o ría por dentro; pero por dentro acaso también el cangrejo resuelva ecuaciones de segundo grado. (112)

Word-play serves as the dominant technique of humor in Un pobre hombre rico.

For example, estado interesante is first used to describe the pregnant Rosita when

Emeterio sees her “en lo que llaman estado interesante. Ella misma se apresuró a decírmelo, y con qué mirada de triunfo, con qué pestañeo de arriba abajo: ‘Estoy, y lo ve usted, don Emeterio, en estado interesante.’ Y me quedé pensando cuál será el interés de ese estado” (80). After seeing her in this “interesting state,” Emeterio loses his ability to concentrate on his work in the bank, and “en la oficina hacía cuentas con la cabeza dormida mientras su corazón soñaba con Rosita, y con Rosita en estado interesante. Así tenía que calcular intereses ajenos” (81). At this point, he uncharacteristically begins to make errors on the job which eventually cause his boss, whose name ironically happens 222

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to be Don Hilarión (meaning ‘festivo o alegre,’ but certainly not an apt name to describe this stuffy bank executive), to reproach him. It turns out, however, that Don Hilarión wants to address a more personal issue with Emeterio, not simply the mathematical mistakes that he has been committing at work:

DON HILARIÓN. No es que no estemos satisfechos de sus servicios, señor Alfonso, no. Es usted un empleado modelo, asiduo, laborioso, discreto. Y además es usted cliente del banco. Aquí es donde deposita usted sus ahorros. Y por cierto que se va usted fraguando una fortunilla regular. Pero me permitirá usted, señor Alfonso, una pregunta, no de superior jerárquico, sino casi de padre…

EMETERIO. No puedo olvidar, don Hilarión, que fue usted íntimo amigo de mi padre y que a usted más que a nadie debo este empleíllo que me permite ahorrar los intereses de lo que me dejó aquél; usted, pues, tiene derecho a preguntarme lo que guste…

DON HILARIÓN. ¿Para qué quiere usted ahorrar así y hacerse rico?

EMETERIO. Pues…, pues… no sé.

DON HILARIÓN. ¿Es ahorrar por ahorrar? ¿Hacerse rico para ser rico?

EMETERIO. No sé, don Hilarión, no sé…, me entusiasma el ahorro…

DON HILARIÓN. ¿Pero ahorrar un soltero y… sin obligaciones?

EMETERIO. ¿Obligaciones? No, no tengo obligaciones; le juro, don Hilarión, que no los tengo…

DON HILARIÓN. Pues entonces no me explico…

EMETERIO. ¿Qué es lo que no se explica, don Hilarión?, dígame claro.

DON HILARIÓN. Sus frecuentes distracciones, las equivocaciones que de algún tiempo acá se le escapan en sus cuentas. Y ahora, un consejo.

EMETERIO. El que usted me dé, don Hilarión.

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DON HILARIÓN. Lo que a usted le conviene, señor Alfonso, para curarse de esas distracciones es… ¡casarse! Cásese usted, señor Alfonso, cásese usted. Nos dan mejor rendimiento los casados.

EMETERIO. ¿Pero casarme yo, don Hilarión?, ¿yo? ¿Emeterio Alfonso? ¿Casarme yo? ¿Y con quién?

DON HILARIÓN. ¡Piénselo bien en vez de distraerse tanto, y cásese, señor Alfonso, cásese! (82-3)

For Emeterio’s boss, all of the intereses that his employee’s father left him plus the salary that he earns at the bank do not seem to serve any purpose in the unattached life that he leads. After this conversation, Emeterio questions whether or not Don Hilarión might possibly be right and begins to show regret about his having left the boardinghouse where he lived as a young man and where Rosita was obviously trying to win him over:

Y cuando al volverse a su… casa, no, no casa, sino mesón o parador, al atravesar alguna de aquellas sórdidas callejas, una voz que salía del embozo de un mantón le decía: “¡Oye, rico!” decíase él mismo mientras huía: “¡Rico! ¿y para qué rico? Tiene razón don Hilarión, ¿para qué rico? ¿Para qué los intereses de mis ahorros si no he de ayudar a un estado interesante? ¿Para comprar papel del Estado? Pero es que este Estado no me es interesante, no me interesa… ¿Por qué huí, Dios mío? ¿por qué no me dejé caer? ¿por qué no me tiré?, ¡y de cabeza!” (83)

In this passage, Unamuno adds yet another meaning of estado while continuing to play with the previous ones. Also, the writer may be making fun of Emeterio for not having children since Unamuno did not even consider a marriage to be authentic until the couple had children.

Unamuno similarly plays with júbilo and jubilación along with multiple uses of vacante (mentioned briefly in Chapter III) throughout the narrative. The following scene takes place shortly after he learns that Rosita has been widowed, her first husband leaving a “vacancy” which Emeterio hopes to fill:

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Y Emeterio huyó, pensando en la vacante. Y ya toda su preocupación, bajo la sombra nebulosa en que se le iban fundiendo sus ajados recuerdos, era la vacante. Y para distraerse, para olvidar que envejecía, para no pensar en que un día habría de jubilarse ¡jubilado y buey suelto, buey jubilado! Recorría las calles buscando, con mirada ansiosa, alguna imagen a que agarrarse. “Jubilado y buey,” se decía, “¡vaya un júbilo! ¿Y qué jubilación le habrá quedado, aparte de su hija, a Rosita?” (89)

The return to the image of the buey seems to indicate that the protagonist remains a toro castrado, though now, with the vacante left by Rosita’s husband, at least there may be hope that his situation might change. Indeed, just after receiving this news, in the street he catches a glimpse of Clotilde, not knowing at this point that she is Rosita’s daughter.

However, so strong is his premonition that she is connected to him in some way that he begins to follow her:

Pero ya tenía una ocupación, y era seguir a la aparición misteriosa, averiguar dónde vivía, quién era y… ¡Ay, aquella terrible vacante por jubilación o por…! ¡Y aquellas distracciones al calcular los intereses ajenos! A los pocos días, en sus correrías por los barrios en que la aparición se le apareció, vio a ésta acompañada de un mocito. Y se le representó, no sabía bien por qué, Martínez. Y sintió celos. “Vaya, me voy volviendo chocho,” se decía. “¡Esa jubilación en puerta…! ¡Esa vacante!” (89)

Later on, when Emeterio and Rosita both realize that Clotilde has no interest in marrying

Emeterio, Rosita approaches him and sits on his lap, “Y Emeterio empezó a temblar de júbilo, no de jubilación” (95). After deciding that “se casarían los cuatro: Rosita con

Emeterio, Clotilde con Paquito, y que vivirían juntos, en doble familia, y que Emeterio dotaría a Clotilde” (97), Rosita and Emeterio have the following exchange:

ROSITA. No esperaba menos de ti, Emeterio, y ya verás ahora los años que has de vivir…

EMETERIO. Sí, y con júbilo, aunque jubilado. Y no espero dejarte vacante (97).

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The repetition of the same word-play throughout the story adds to the humor and further supports Bergson’s theory that repetition can be one of the contributing factors to the creation of comedy (discussed in Chapter III).3

Unamuno also engages in another one of his characteristic techniques when he invents words in various contexts throughout the narrative. For example, Emeterio describes Clotilde (the child of Rosita and Martínez) as resembling Rosita physically, but

“su metafísica es paternal, martineziana” (100). Later, upon learning of Clotilde’s pregnancy, he searches for the appropriate term to describe his relationship to the expected new arrival:

ROSITA. Pues que vamos a tener un nietito…

EMETERIO. ¿Nietito? ¡Tuyo! ¡Mío será nietastrito!

ROSITA. Bueno, no seas roñoso.

EMETERIO. No, no, a mí me gusta propiedad en la lengua. El hijo de la hijastra, nietastrito.

ROSITA. Y el hijastro de la hija, ¿cómo?

EMETERIO. Tienes razón, Rosita… Y luego dirán que es rica esta pobre lengua nuestra castellana…, rica lengua…, rica lengua… ¡Sí, las mollejas!

ROSITA. ¡Qué cosas se te han ocurrido siempre, Emeterio!

EMETERIO. Y a ti, ¡qué cosas te han ocurrido! (102)

The comparison of the Spanish language to the incompletely formed skull of an infant produces another level of burla and raises questions concerning the purpose that

Unamuno may have had for writing Un pobre hombre rico and also his propensity for coining new words. (The possibility that the novel may be a sarcastic burla of the

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(Clotilde’s husband), he asks himself: “¿Y éste, el hijo político de mi mujer, qué es mío?

¿Hijastro político? ¿O hijo policastro? ¿O hijastro policastro? ¡Qué lío!” (102). Of all

Unamuno’s fiction, this is the instance where he most clearly indulges his conceptista pleasure in word play for its own sake.

Finally, there exist other instances in Un pobre hombre rico which manifest the writer’s ability for witty repartee. For example, the following conversation takes place after Emeterio follows Clotilde home and discovers that she is Rosita’s daughter. He is explaining to Celedonio the feeling that he had that led to this discovery:

EMETERIO. Y di en seguirla. Sin sospechar, ¡claro! quién era. Aunque acaso me lo decía el corazón, una corazonada me lo decía, sin que se lo entendiera bien, ese…, ese…

CELEDONIO. Sí, lo que Martínez, su padre, llamaría el subconsciente…

EMETERIO. Pues sí, el subcociente ese…

CELEDONIO. Subconsciente se dice…

EMETERIO. Pues el subcociente me lo decía, pero yo…, sin entenderle. Y la vi con un mocito, su novio, y sentí celos…

CELEDONIO. Sí, de Martínez.

EMETERIO. Y hasta me propuse desbancar al mocito…

CELEDONIO. A quien van a desbancarte es a ti, Emeterio.

EMETERIO. No me recuerdes la jubilación, que ahora todo mi corazón es júbilo. […] (90)

Later, in one of his first conversations with Rosita after finding out that Clotilde is her daughter, Emeterio persists in his mispronunciation of subconsciente: 227

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ROSITA. Mira, rico, te juro que cuando estaba haciendo a Clotilde, en lo que más pensaba era en ti, en ti… Tuve tales antojos de embarazada…

EMETERIO. Y yo te juro que cuando vine acá, tras de Clotilde, venía, aun sin saberlo, tras de ti, tras de ti, Rosita, tras de ti… Era la querencia… o, como creo que decía Martínez, el subcociente…

ROSITA. ¿Y eso con qué se come? porque nunca le oí hablar de tal cosa…

EMETERIO. No, no es cosa de comer… Aunque para comer y comer bien, tenemos más que bastante con mi fortuna…

ROSITA. Sí, ¿para comer… los cuatro?

EMETERIO. ¿Qué cuatro, Rosita?

ROSITA. Pues, tú…, yo…, Clotilde…

EMETERIO. Son tres.

ROSITA. ¡Y… Paquito!

EMETERIO. ¿Paquito también? ¡Sea! ¡A la memoria de Martínez! (96-7)

Emeterio’s delay in grasping Rosita’s true intentions along with his limited vocabulary, as indicated by his lack of familiarity with the subconsciente, point to a lack of both street smarts and formal education. Also, Rosa, true to her name, reveals her true colors in this scene, a beautiful flower, but with many thorns. Although Emeterio may possess monetary wealth, he remains inept in other important areas of life, thus making him truly a pobre hombre rico. After the four have married,4 the narrator describes the honeymoon

as “una doble luna de miel, la una menguante y la otra creciente” (97), and Emeterio tells

Rosita that theirs “no es de miel, sino de cera…” (97). Although Celedonio doubts that

Emeterio can be satisfied with the living situation in which he presently finds himself

since he was obviously in love with Clotilde (another example of a name chosen

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ironically since it refers to an ‘ilustre guerrero lleno de sabiduría), the latter assures his

friend that he is quite content not only with his present life but has also reached a sort of peace with his past:

EMETERIO. Con Clotilde, Celedonio, me basta con ver. Y ver que es una joya, como dice su madre; es su madre mejorada.

CELEDONIO. Vamos, sí, mejor montada. Pero entonces consuélate, porque si llegas a casarte a tiempo con Rosita, Clotilde no habría salido como salió.

EMETERIO. Sí, a menudo me pongo a pensar cómo habría sido Clotilde si hubiese sido yo su padre verdadero…

CELEDONIO. ¡Bah! acaso pasó a ella lo mejor tuyo, la idea que de ti tenía Rosita…

EMETERIO. Eso me lo dice ésta, y más ahora, que estoy reducido a idea… ¡Pero el nietastrito no es idea!

CELEDONIO. Y el nietastrito se debe a ti, a tu generosidad, porque tú eres el que casaste a Paquito y Clotilde. ¿Te acuerdas cuando hablamos de tu vocación para el oficio necesarísimo en la república bien organizada…?

EMETERIO. ¡Que si me acuerdo…!

CELEDONIO. Y tú, siguiendo por tu vocación celestinesca a la parejita de Clotilde y Paquito, hiciste de celestino de ti mismo. ¡Admirables son los caminos de la Providencia!

EMETERIO. Sí, y cuando empezaba a cansarme del camino de la vida.

CELEDONIO. Tú le serviste a Rosita para que pescara a Martínez, el predestinado, quien sin ti no habría picado, y Martínez le ha servido a ella misma, haciéndole a Clotilde, para que te haya pescado ahora a ti… (103)

The rather absurd circumstances which led to Emeterio’s eventual marriage to Rosita are expressed clearly here when Celedonio points out that the former functioned as a celestino to himself. The truth is that Emeterio married not only Clotilde and Paquito, 229

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but also Martínez and Rosita, which he realizes at an earlier point in the story: “Si

supiera yo la psicología que sabe Martínez… Ese Martinez a quien le he casado yo con

Rosita. Porque no cabe duda que he sido yo, yo, quien les ha casado…” (84). Although

Emeterio’s passivity and fear of commitment created the circumstances in which Rosita

ended up marrying Martínez, his more active stance as a celestino no doubt paved the

way for his present life.

It is important to point out that the word-play which occurs so frequently in

Unamuno’s work is rarely for purely playful or comical results. In Cómo se hace una

novela, for example, the writer at times mixes conceptismo and paradox to make political

statements, and at other times word-play functions as a sort of metaphysical inquiry or

meditation, such as in Niebla or San Manuel Bueno, mártir. In Un pobre hombre rico, however, word-play becomes more visible than in any other of Unamuno’s works, appearing even in the title (something that happens in only two other cases, Paz en la

guerra and El resentimiento trágico de la vida), which, unlike Un pobre hombre rico, are not ludic works, and word-play does not consume their rhetoric. Even El sentimiento

trágico de la vida, in addition to other of Unamuno’s “serious” works, contains instances of word-play and paradox, raising the question whether, not withstanding his obvious skill at such conceptista games, Unamuno could have allowed himself the indulgence of writing a purely playful work, or whether there may be a more serious, critical purpose

concealed in Un pobre hombre rico. Satire, irony, parody and humor, while not

necessarily always funny, all have comedic manifestations but also frequently serve more

serious purposes as well.

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As briefly suggested above, various characteristics of Un pobre hombre rico indicate that the work may be a sarcastic burla of the nouveau riche. The title itself serves as the first hint that this might have been one of the writer’s motives because, as seen throughout the present study, although Emeterio possesses a fat bank account, his life is wanting in other areas. His family background is one of money acquired through a great effort at saving, thus explaining the ahorrativo and almost miserly quality so dominant in Emeterio. Also significant is that although his parents had expectations that he would become a ministro, Emeterio gladly accepted a much less prestigious, and therefore, less challenging, vocation:

Emeterio Alfonso se encontraba a sus veinticuatro años soltero, solo y sin obligaciones de familiar, con un capitalillo modesto y empleado a la vez en un banco. Se acordaba vagamente de su infancia y de cómo sus padres, modestos artesanos que a fuerza de ahorro amasaron una fortunita, solían exclamar al oírle recitar los versos del texto de retórica y poética: “¡Tú llegarás a ser ministro!” Pero él, ahora, con su rentita y su sueldo no envidiaba a ningún ministro. (71)

He has always lived below his means as if he were afraid of running out of money, which is perhaps why he chose to live in boarding-houses. Interestingly, his youthful ability to recite texts also has left a mark on his life as an adult, since Emeterio tends to become obsessed with rhetoric and at times this dominates his life or determines his actions. Also significant is that although he was not raised in a highly-educated family and did not regularly attend cultural events as a child, Emeterio seems to be trying to raise his own cultural status through his friend Celedonio, as is logical for a person who possesses the monetary means to be considered wealthy but not the cultural background to comfortably belong to the upper class:

Celedonio enseñó a su admirador Emeterio a jugar al ajedrez y le metió en el arte entretenido, inofensivo, honesto y saludable de descifrar charadas, jeroglíficos, 231

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logogrifos, palabras cruzadas y demás problemas inocentes. Celedonio, por su parte, se dedicaba a la economía pura, no a la política, con cálculo diferencial e integral y todo. Era el consejero, casi el confesor de Emeterio. Y éste estaba al tanto del sentido de lo que pasaba por los comentarios de Celedonio, y en cuanto a lo que pasaba sin sentido, enterábase de ello por La Correspondencia de España, que leía a diario, cada noche, al acostarse. Los sábados se permitía ir al teatro, pero a ver comedias o sainetes, no dramas. (72)

It is also possible that Celedonio’s apparent friendship with Emeterio is nothing more than an additional form of burla, that Celedonio secretly considers Emeterio to be

“beneath him” and laughs at him behind his back.

The above descriptions (in addition to the title) of the protagonist’s life at the beginning of the narrative set the stage for the burla of individuals like Emeterio (whose name in Greek means ‘el que merece cariño’). Even Celedonio continuously ribs him, although Emeterio grasps neither his friend’s message nor the humor with which he attempts to teach his disciple. Also, Unamuno’s choice of name for Emeterio’s boss in the bank, Don Hilarión, further lends credence to the idea of the work as a burla of the burguesía. Additional support that Unamuno may be making fun of the social class to which Emeterio belongs occurs when Rosita describes la cadena to her daughter, Clotilde

(see Chapter IV), encouraging her to take full advantage of Emeterio’s material wealth as well as his obliviousness to what is going on. That she wants her daughter to marry

Emeterio only for his money in order to become a rich widow reflects the values of

Rosita’s upbringing. Later, when Emeterio agrees to support Rosita, Clotilde, and

Paquito in a strange double marriage, he again demonstrates his own status as a pobre hombre rico. Also, their life-style after the double marriage is never extravagant but distinctly middle-class (paseos, cafés with toast and coffee before Sunday meals, card

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games in the evenings), something Unamuno clearly satirizes in “casino people,” who are

his prototypes of those who never do any serious thinking or reading and no se angustian.

In Niebla inexplorada, Franz discusses the presence of a discourse of social

classes (largely ignored by critics and at times denied by the writer himself) in much of

Unamuno’s fiction. To support his stance, Franz reminds the reader that “Unamuno era

de antaño un destacado socialista, que continuaba abordando cuestiones laborales y

económicas en su prosa periodística y que a lo largo de seis lustros insistía en que su

poesía y filosofía debieran leerse como actos políticos” (50). Furthermore, José Antonio

Ereño Altuna, in El pensamiento socialista de Unamuno en La Lucha de Clases (1894-

1897) (2005), convincingly demonstrates, through an extensive and meticulous

investigation of the Basque writer’s correspondence with several of his contemporaries,

that Unamuno regularly contributed articles (anonymously and pseudonymously) to the

Socialist publication La Lucha de Clases between 1894 and 1897. Ereño Altuna links the

Socialist thought of Unamuno to the influence of the evolutionist Herbert Spencer, the

economist Henry George, another economist Aquiles Loria, and Karl Marx, explaining that

Las sociedades burguesas, a pesar del desarrollo de la división del trabajo y del consiguiente desarrollo espectacular de las fuerzas productivas, seguían dominadas por la moral, cerrada y guerrera, propia de las primeras sociedades. ¡El burgués, con su gusto por el proteccionismo y la guerra, era en el fondo un salvaje! La sociedad socialista, al contrario, estaría presidida por los valores propios de las sociedades industriales: frente a un poder central y controlador, el triunfo de la iniciativa individual; frente a la anárquica concurrencia de la sociedad burguesa y su “espíritu de coacción y fuerza y rapiña y concurrencia desenfrenada,” la cooperación voluntaria entre miembros igualmente conscientes de su interdependencia; frente a toda clase de proteccionismos autárquicos, patrioteros y guerreros de los terratenientes burgueses y similares, la búsqueda de

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la paz por el librecambio absoluto, que no era otra cosa, en el fondo, sino un “precepto de moral,” una derivación del “ama a tu prójimo como a ti mismo.” De ahí que Unamuno afirmase que el triunfo del socialismo exigía superar antes ciertos obstáculos “militantes” burgueses, especialmente ese sentimiento de nacionalidad que tantos trabajos y tantas penalidades estaba causando a los europeos desde los inicios de la edad moderna. El patriotismo proteccionista del que tanto se aprovechaban algunos “patrioteros” para explotar sin estorbos el mercado nacional “en perjuicio del pueblo y de la patria misma,” era, sin duda, el que impedía que aumentase lo suficiente la división del trabajo en las relaciones internacionales, y con él el triunfo del librecambio, de la solidaridad y la paz internacional. (326-7)

In this context, it is important to remember that in San Manuel Bueno, mártir (considered

by many critics to be Unamuno’s masterpiece and by some to be his last “serious” work),

the writer for the first time creates an openly Socialist character to play a key role in the

narrative. Lázaro never relinquishes his Socialist ideals even after San Manuel allegedly

“converts” him and makes him his disciple (counterpart of St. Peter or St. Paul). This

character does, nonetheless, renounce Marxist goals of agitating for the revolt of the

proletariat (something which had already shown its shortcomings under the Spanish

Republic). Lázaro, however, represents Christian Socialism, the posture which most

closely approximates the author’s own.

Ereño Altuna affirms that equally important to the development of Unamuno’s

Socialist leanings was the English writer and art critic John Ruskin: “La influencia de

este autor (1819-1900) considerado por algunos como visionario, herético y contradictorio, es claramente visible en aspectos importantes del pensamiento socialista de Unamuno, sobre todo por el soplo ético con que abordó el arte y las realidades económicas” (394). Also significant was the impact of John Hobson: “Junto a la influencia de Ruskin, a quien dedicó un libro […], y muy influido por su definición de la riqueza como vida, es necesario señalar la de Hobson (1858-1940), que en los manuales 234

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de historia del pensamiento economista suele ser calificado como ‘reformador,’ como un

teórico de la economía del bienestar” (403).

Therefore, taking into consideration the Socialist tendencies found in earlier

writings of Unamuno, Franz dedicates a chapter of Niebla inexplorada to “una revisión

de la cuestión del enfoque social en la obra creativa de Unamuno” (50) which

intenta demostrar cómo, en la periferia de las preocupaciones metafísicas y metaficticias de sus obras—y aliada con éstas de manera discursiva—hay una exposición coherente de la lucha de clases. Es más, este conflicto—que sirve para motivar gran parte del diálogo, intriga sexual y amistad entre los personajes—se expresa en discursos que logran duplicar la misma estrategia retórica por medio de la cual las obras plantean la posible existencia de Dios. Estos discursos paralelos—primero el metafísico y después el socio-económico—parten del supuesto explícito y complícito de que en cualquier conflicto existen las semillas de su propia solución. (50)

Franz successfully demonstrates the existence of such a discourse in Niebla (1914) even

though “siguiendo las declaraciones del propio Unamuno, suele creerse que dejaron de

plantearse las preocupaciones sociales en su novelas publicadas entre Paz en la guerra

(1897) and Cómo se hace una novela (1927)” (49). For instance, Franz points out that

when Augusto wants to meet Eugenia, he feels irritated because he knows that he will

have to pay la portera for information about Eugenia, and then becomes even more

annoyed when he discovers that he does not have any small change with him (54-5).

Later, “cuando Augusto, portándose a la Calisto, sigue al canario a la casa de Eugenia el

anuncio de que es el hijo de la distinguida doña Soledad impresiona mucho a Ermelinda

[…]. En pocos minutos Ermelinda ha concebido un plan para casar a su sobrina” (57).

This is very similar to what Rosita does in Un pobre hombre rico when she tries to marry

off her daughter to Emeterio for the same reason that Ermelinda desires a marriage

between her niece and Augusto. Also, Augusto, similar to Emeterio, does not have 235

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 much of an existence apart from his bank account. Both characters, because of their pobreza (referring in this case to the lack of experience in many aspects of life), end up ridiculed, the difference being that Emeterio gradually begins to learn to accept the burla of others as a means to attain a more fully-developed personality and to become a more active participant in life. Furthermore, since Un pobre hombre rico was not written until

1930, there exists even more likelihood of the presence a discourse of social classes since it appears after the period in which even Unamuno claims that his novels were written without such concerns. (And it should not be seen as insignificant that Unamuno chose to publish the end-date for the absence of social concerns in his novels.)

This chapter, more so than the previous ones, has focused on a more purely playful side of Unamuno, though always mindful that light-heartedness is not necessarily synonymous with a lack of deeper meaning or purpose and that comedy nearly always comes accompanied by its opposite. Thus, in the midst of the solitude and loneliness of exile in which the writer composed Como se hace una novela, the reader encounters the often comical exchange of wit with Cassou. In Don Sandalio, the letter-writer’s child- like musings at times create a laughable incongruity with the accepted norms of adulthood while the absurdity of many of the situations in which he finds himself contribute to another manifestation of humor. His isolation from his fellow humans, however, is not cause for laughter, and the reader senses that his obsessions, though at times amusing, could easily lead to tragedy if not contained. On the other hand, Un pobre hombre rico, unarguably the most unabashed demonstration of pure humor of any of Unamuno’s work, may be the pretext for implied sarcastic criticism of the nouveau riche, raising the possibility that the so obviously comical may function as a “cover” for 236

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an underlying serious purpose of the work. In this novel, too, the protagonist is an adult

who continues to exhibit child-like qualities, a situation created, no doubt, by his lack of existential authenticity for fear of compromiso with another human being (similar to

Augusto in Niebla). Thus, undeniably, both comedy and tragedy are integrally woven

into Unamuno’s fiction.

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NOTES

1 A tití is a small monkey, while a mico is a monkey with a particularly long tail. Reference to the tití also appears in Nada menos que todo un hombre when Alejandro makes fun of the count after his wife, Julia “plays” at having an affair with him to make her husband jealous.

2In other words, this may be a technique by which he tries to touch the realidad íntima of a fictional entity. Unamuno states in the “Prólogo” to Tres novelas ejemplares y un prólogo: “Y ahora os digo que esos personajes crepusculares—no de mediodía ni de medianoche—que ni quieren ser ni quieren no ser, sino que se dejan llevar y traer, que todos esos personajes de que están llenas nuestras novelas contemporáneas españolas no son, con todos los pelos y señales que les distinguen, con sus muletillas y sus tics y sus gestos, no son en su mayoría personas, y que no tienen realidad íntima… No hay un momento en que se vacíen, en que desnuden al alma. Un hombre de verdad se descubre, se le crea, en un momento, en una frase, en un grito. Tal en Shakespeare. Y luego que le hayáis así descubierto, creado, lo conocéis mejor que él se conoce a sí mismo acaso” (22). Emeterio of Un pobre hombre rico is indeed one of these personajes crepusculares.

3Another level of repetition found in much of Unamuno’s fiction is the recurrence of the same character in more than one novel. For example, in Un pobre hombre rico, Emeterio’s friend Celedonio is a disciple of of Fulgencio Entrasmbosmares of Amor y pedagogía and Avito Carrascal, also of Amor y pedagogía, reappears in Niebla.

4The marriage of Rosita to Emeterio and of Clotilde to Paquito on the same day and their subsequent life together serves as a further example of a somewhat distorted family structure, as commented on by Olson (see Chapter II). It is also a further commentary on Emeterio’s not really growing up, and his “having descendants” without the trouble or emotional or physical commitment of reproduction. And it is not insignificant that when he finally accepts a degree of compromiso con la vida, it is in the crepúsculo de su vida.

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CHAPTER VII

SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS

Miguel de Unamuno was undeniably one of the most important writers of the

Generation of 1898, termed by many critics as “La Edad de Plata,” ranking it second in the history of Spanish literature to the Siglo de Oro. His repertoire includes not only essays, poetry, theater, short stories, and novels, but also various combinations of the above genres. It may be, perhaps, in part for this reason that his work has inspired such a

vast number of articles and books containing critics’ attempts at interpreting Unamuno.

Because his work does not fit neatly into any established niche (something which

Unamuno vehemently opposed from his 1902 “Mi religion” onward), there exists an

infinite amount of speculation concerning the true intentions of the author as well as the significance of his words. Throughout the years, however, the majority of literary critics have focused on the Basque writer’s contemplative/agonic side while ignoring an underlying pervasive playfulness not absent even in some of his most serious work.

Thus, the main purpose of this study has been to make a small contribution to the filling of a void in respect to the investigation of Unamuno’s humorous side.

That few critics have discerned or chosen to emphasize in their discussion of

Unamuno’s work the writer’s use of humor does not by any means imply, however, a paucity of insightful and intelligent studies of his work. Indeed, critics such as Julián

Marías, Ricardo Gullón, Mario Valdés, Armando Zubizarreta, Pedro Cerezo Galán,

Ciriaco Morón Arroyo, and Paul Olson have made invaluable contributions to the understanding of Unamuno, and it would be a great disservice not to gratefully acknowledge their work. Interestingly, several of these critics have identified (at times 239

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 perhaps inadvertently) some of the characteristics that contribute to the creation of the humorous component in Unamuno. Particularly relevant to the present study, for example, has been Olson’s study of Unamuno’s use of the chiasmus to create open- endedness. Others in this group have made mention of the more obvious instances of humor in the Basque writer’s work, but because this was not their main focus, they have provided only a cursory treatment of this facet. Thus, the present study has included a summary of the work of the critics who have contributed in some way (though perhaps indirectly) to the study of Unamuno’s use of humor.

There exists a much smaller group of critics who have not only perceived the presence of humor in Unamuno’s work but have pursued this as an area of investigation.

Thomas Franz, for example, in his 1970 doctoral dissertation, “The Bases of Humor in

Three Novels of Unamuno,” insightfully identifies what he terms a third mood of

Unamuno (in addition to the traditionally studied contemplative and agonic moods), that of humor. Much later, in 2006, Franz published Unamuno’s Paratexts: Twisted Guides to Contorted Narratives, a study of the vital role that the paratexts play in dominating the tragic aspect of Unamuno’s fiction and in creating the possibility of hope. Shortly after

Franz’s dissertation on humor in Unamuno, Mary Bretz published her article “El humor y la comicidad en Unamuno,” in which she perceptively traces the evolution of the Basque writer’s humor in some of his fiction. Many years later (2004), in his extensive study

Arte de escribir e ironía en la obra narrativa de Miguel de Unamuno, Bénédicte Vauthier successfully demonstrates his hypothesis that Unamuno’s fiction (in particular Amor y pedagogía) ironically and through parody expresses various components of the social and

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scientific ideology of the time, speculating that part of Unamuno’s intention may have

been to rewrite the history of Spain.

While these critics have made an enormous contribution to the field, much

remains to be done in the exploration of what Franz refers to as the third mood of

Unamuno. Although this is the topic of Franz’s dissertation, he, logically, selected only

three of Unamuno’s novels, Paz en la guerra, Amor y pedagogía, and Niebla as the focus of his investigation, thus leaving much of this facet of Unamuno’s fiction still unexplored. The purpose of his later study of Unamuno’s paratexts, while original and insightful, is not intended to be comprehensive, as he indicates in the introduction to the book of 120 pages: “I have not created individual chapters to label and analyze the

importance of paratextual material in each of Unamuno’s novels and novellas […]. I

view the present contribution more as a useful handbook or introduction than any final

word” (19). While Mary Bretz examined the humor found in some of Unamuno’s later

fictional work, including one of his dramas, the results of her study, in the form of a

journal article, are limited in both size and scope. On the other hand, Vauthier’s work,

though extensive (436 pages), analyzes in detail only Amor y pedagogía. Thus, this

dissertation has expanded the scope of these and other previous studies by its extensive

analysis of Cómo se hace una novela, La novela de Don Sandalio, and Un pobre hombre

rico.

The present study also demonstrates how some of the humor found in Unamuno’s

work coincides with Henri Bergson’s theory on laughter, and both Unamuno and Antonio

Machado (with whom Unamuno corresponded for many years) were assiduous readers of

Bergson. Particularly when Bergson discusses humor based on language itself, making it 241

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nearly impossible to translate into another language, Bergson’s ideas and Unamuno’s use

of humor coincide. For example, the word-play in which Unamuno continuously engages

as well as his predilection for creating new forms of existing words or, at times,

neologisms, demonstrate that Bergson’s theories are applicable in this context. Another

technique for creating humor, according to Bergson, is that of repetition, and this study

includes several examples of Unamuno’s use of this technique for humorous effects in his

fiction. An additional characteristic of humor emphasized in Bergson’s essays is that of

transposition, which may result in both parody and irony, examples of which are found

throughout Unamuno’s work. Also, Bergson defines the comic character as isolated from

others and unable to gain the sympathy of his audience, and the present study

demonstrates that many characters in Unamuno’s narratives fit such a description.

The present study dedicates three chapters to different types of humor found in

Unamuno’s work (the non-tragic, the obsessive, and the ridiculous) and analyzes each of

these in the context of each of three fictional works: Cómo se hace una novela, Don

Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez, and Un pobre hombre rico o el sentimiento cómico de la

vida. Each of these novels seems to be dominant in one of the above-mentioned

characteristics. For example, the non-tragic, rather than the obsessive or the ridiculous component, serves as the dominant form of humor in Cómo se hace una novela, which

seems natural when one takes into consideration the circumstances in which Unamuno

composed the narrative. The non-tragic, as defined in this study, is not necessarily

explicitly comical, but rather depends on its paratexts to reduce the effects of the tragic element. On the other hand, Don Sandalio is characterized by the ever-changing comical

obsessions of the protagonist in his efforts to impede the infringement of the outside 242

Texas Tech University, Tara Lockwood, August 2009 world/reality on the image of Don Sandalio that he has created and of which he wants to remain the sole owner. Finally, Un pobre hombre rico unarguably displays Unamuno’s capacity for pure wit unlike any other of his narratives. The constant word-play along with a dialogue heavily laced with sexual innuendo makes the ridiculous the dominant type of humor in this novel. Each of the novels examined in this study, however, exhibits characteristics of all three types of humor: the non-tragic, the obsessive, and the ridiculous. At times these categories meld into one another and so cannot be clearly distinguished or defined. For instance, the obsessions of Emeterio in Un pobre hombre rico and the letter-writer of Don Sandalio at times both border on the ridiculous.

At the beginning of this study, it was hypothesized that burla and engaño are fundamental to Unamuno’s creation of humor and that he maintains a ludic relationship with his readers. This study has examined several techniques employed by Unamuno to accomplish this. One of the most effective techniques that he uses is to blur established boundaries between genres, fiction/reality, and reader/writer. It has been pointed out, for example, that Cómo se hace una novela contains information about Unamuno’s real life in exile intercalated with the fictional narrative of protagonist Jugo de la Raza. However, because of transitions throughout the narrative from fiction to nonfiction, the reader must adapt to this constant movement between separate narrative realms. Also, supposing that one categorizes the work as fiction, the question then arises as to which genre it belongs.

Just as Unamuno disliked being categorized as a person, his literary work also defies classification. This is one of the ways in which the writer plays with the reader.

Examples of metafiction also abound in the novels discussed in this study. Not surprisingly, all contain references to Don Quijote who, for Unamuno, is one of the few 243

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who truly exemplify la santa locura and whose existence is just as real as that of

Cervantes. At the end of Vida de don Quijote y Sancho, Unamuno reiterates the nature

of the interrelationship between author and fictional character:

“Para mí solo nació Don Quijote, y yo para él; él supo obrar y yo escribir,” hace decir el historiador a su pluma. Y yo digo que para que Cervantes contara su vida y yo la explicara y comentara nacieron Don Quijote y Sancho. Cervantes nació para explicarla, y para comentarla nací yo…No puede contar tu vida, ni puede explicarla, ni comentarla, señor mío Don Quijote, sino quien esté tocado de tu misma locura de no morir. Intercede, pues, a favor mío ¡oh mi señor y patrón! Para que tu Dulcinea del Toboso, ya desencantada merced a los azotes de tu Sancho, me lleve de la mano a la inmortalidad del nombre y de la fama. ¡Y si es la vida sueño, déjame soñarla inacabable! (494)

In addition to Don Quijote, in Cómo se hace una novela references to Nietzsche, Pascal,

and Shakespeare recur throughout the narrative, and the novel that the protagonist is

attempting to resist reading is none other than Balzac’s La piel de zapa. The letter-writer

of Don Sandalio compares himself to Robin Crusoe, and in the “Epílogo,” Unamuno

mentions San Agustín, Juan Jacobo Rousseau, and Johann Wolfgang Goethe in support of his recurring assertion that

toda autobiografía es nada menos que una novela. Novela las Confesiones, desde san Agustín, y novela las de Juan Jacobo Rousseau y novela el Poesía y Verdad de Goethe, aunque éste, ya al darle el título que les dio a sus Memorias, vio con toda su olímpica clarividencia que no hay más verdad verdadera que la poética, que no hay más verdadera historia que la novela. (65)

The writer Vicente Blasco Ibáñez is also mentioned by the letter-writer when he asserts

that “Un novelista no debe leer novelas ajenas, aunque otra cosa diga Blasco Ibáñez, que

asegura que él apenas lee más que novelas” (64). In addition, the introductory epigraph

is a quotation from Gustave Flaubert’s Bovard et Pécuchet. In Un pobre hombre rico, the source of the epígrafo, Cantar de los Cantares, is brought up repeatedly in various

contexts, and “un día de Difuntos” Emeterio and Rosita attend a performance of Tenorio. 244

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Another level of metafiction occurs in Un pobre hombre rico when Unamuno’s

fictional entities use the writer himself as a metafictional reference in conversation, this

being the source of the introductory epigraph selected for the present study: “[…] hay que

cultivar el sentimiento cómico de la vida, diga lo que quiera ese Unamuno” (101). Later,

Celedonio again refers to Unamuno in his description of the dissertation that he is presently working on: “[…] Y te hago gracia de las citas bíblicas, con eso de capítulo y versillo, porque yo no soy, gracias a Dios, Unamuno” (101). A fictional entity who expresses gratitude that he is not the person who created him brings to the narrative an

innovative dimension to the relationship between the writer and his created characters.

The presence of so many literary references serves to confirm an inextricable

relationship between literature and life. Although this technique does not always produce

explicitly humorous situations, because it extends the narrative beyond its physical limits

(as a single book), thus situating it in the context of the “literary universe,” it contributes

to the open-endedness so characteristic of Unamuno’s work. However, and perhaps most

importantly, it not only unites the world of literature but also undeniably links it to the so-

called real world and life. It also serves as part of the continuous juego that Unamuno

plays with the reader: by erasing established boundaries he invites the reader to let go of

his/her preconceived ideas and experience a certain playfulness that the world and life

have to offer.

Also observed in the present study is that in addition to the metafictional

references discussed above, Unamuno frequently inserts himself (as “Unamuno,” that is,

a character in his own novel) into the narrative of which he is the author. As discussed

above in Cómo se hace una novela, such insertions are part of the narrative and recur 245

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throughout the text, resulting in a historia that continuously alternates between “fiction” and “reality,” thus blurring the boundaries between the two. On the other hand, in Don

Sandalio, Unamuno’s presence is relatively brief and occurs rather unexpectedly when he

seemingly out-of-the-blue makes a parenthetical remark on how the letters that form the

narrative would have been different if they had been written in a different time,

specifically after the coming of the age of cinema. Also, although Gennette does not

consider epilogues to be paratexts since they usually imply a continuation of the main narrative, Franz insightfully perceives that in Unamuno’s case, his epilogues do function as paratexts. This is the case in all three of the novels which are the focus of the present study, in which the epilogues serve as another way for Unamuno to comment upon what he has written.

The chiasmus functions as another significant technique examined in this study for creating open-endedness and contributing to the dominance of hope rather than tragedy. Critics such as Thomas Mermall and Paul Olson have perceptively observed the potential significance of the ubiquitous presence of these throughout Unamuno’s work, and the present investigation has attempted to apply some of these critics’ contributions

to extend the scope of their work and help to contribute to a more comprehensive view of

the Basque writer’s predilection for its use. Because the chiasmus unites opposites, thus

inverting the meaning of the words and/or phrases which compose it, it seems to be

representative of Unamuno’s fundamental assertion of the ever-changing nature of life

and the unceasing process of adaptation necessary for a human being to be fully alive.

This study also includes several examples of the chiasmus created as a witty pun, thus

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Unamuno.

It seems appropriate to reiterate, in closing, that the purpose of studying the humor present in Unamuno’s narratives is not to negate the tragic, but rather to create space for a broader interpretation of his work. By incorporating this nearly ubiquitous facet of the writer into their studies, scholars will have the opportunity to form a much more complete vision of both the author and his work. Therefore, it is hoped that this study has achieved its intent to contribute to the awareness of the humorous component in

Unamuno’s work and will stimulate interest in further studies on the topic.

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