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Manuel de Quiroz y Campo Sagrado. La inocenc ia a cr i so lada de lo s pac i en t e s j e suanos . Cole c c ión de var ias poes ías a lus ivas a la r e s taurac ión de la sagrada Compañía de J e sús por la p i edad de l ca tó l i co y ben igno r ey de las Españas , e l s eñor don Fernando VII (1816) . Edición, prólogo e introducción, María Isabel Terán Elizondo; reproducción fotográfica y diseño editorial, Julián Hugo Guajardo Esparza. Universidad Autónoma de Zacatecas, 2016.

Frieda Koeninger Sam Houston State University

Through digital technology, Professor Terán Elizondo has made accessible to twenty-first century viewers a varied and colorful collection of poetry, hand-written and painted upon the occasion of the return of the Jesuits to Mexico City in 1816. The work is a facsimile of an original manuscript found in the Rare Books Room of the Nettie Lee Benson Latin American Collection on the campus of the University of Texas at Austin. Only twenty-five copies of the facsimile were printed, but fortunately the digital version is easily accessible online:

https://issuu.com/proyectoeditorial/docs/la_paciencia_jesuana__de_m._q

uiroz_

Timed to coincide with the two-hundredth anniversary of the return of the Jesuits, this publication of an artisanal gem can be of interest to researchers not only in the area of baroque literature, but especially in that of the history of books, material culture, and colonial art of Mexico. Terán provides the prologue and introduction, and, in a section of notes, her collaborator, Guajardo Esparza, explains the technical details about the digital production. The facsimile of the original manuscript comprises the main part of the work. In the introduction, Terán presents helpful information on the little-known poet, Quiroz y Campo Sagrado, and an important analysis of La inocencia acrisolada as well as a comparison with another of his five hand-written volumes of poetry, Colección de varias poesías del arte menor y mayor en obsequio de la purísima concepción de Nuestra Señora la Virgen María (1805), published in facsimile in 1984 by Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes and Archivo General de la Nación. Terán's objective is to make the work

V o l u m e 4 0 . 1S p r i n g , 2 0 1 7

T h e U n i v e r s i t y o f V i r g i n i a

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available as an object, to be included in Mexico's colonial patrimony, and as a literary text, to be incorporated into histories of Mexican literature and thus amplify knowledge of the works of Quiroz. She also hopes that this will lead to better understanding of "la escritura, la labor literaria y los circuitos de creación, consumo y distribución en el México de fines del período virreinal," presumably by other researchers, as the introduction barely touches on these aspects. The collections of poetry were never printed, not surprisingly, so it remains unclear who the intended audience was —an individual? a small group?— or how it could be distributed, if not from one individual to the next. La inocencia acrisolada was dedicated to three Jesuit saints, but a shortened version of the work, found in microfilm at the University of Saint Louis, and analyzed by Terán, was dedicated to Juan Francisco Castañiza, rector of the Jesuit seminary in 1816 when it was returned to the Company. Perhaps Quiroz hoped that Castañiza would patronize the publication of the abbreviated version, which contained few drawings. The facsimile of La inocencia acrisolada presents digital images of high resolution and allows easy navigation of its more than 200 pages. Guajardo Esparsa has done an excellent job of photographing the manuscript with a high fidelity to the original variation in colors, unlike the 1984 edition of the 1805 collection of poems to the Virgin, which was produced from slides. As Terán notes in the introduction, La inocencia acrisolada contains many types of drawings. Some are decorative, including coats of arms and several allegories. However, the most fascinating are those that form poems or parts of poems: "cifras, laberintos, jeroglíficos, anagramas y caligramas." It appears that Quiroz y Campo Sagrado relished incorporating into his work various puzzles and ludic components. For example, the work begins with two calligrams, a clock and a star; the reader follows the numbers to connect the different verses that form each poem. Other pages comprise images exclusively; these "mute poems" can be understood by reading the key that appears after each poem. Terán presents a useful guide to the main imagery in the book —rose, heart, monstrance, palm, star, sun, crown, fountain, mirror and moon— comparing pictures from both La inocencia acrisolada and his work dedicated to the Virgin. The main parts of Quiroz's collection present poems on the theme of the Jesuits, divided into two sections —arte menor and arte mayor— with all of the different versifications that these divisions imply. Poems are written in black ink, with titles and the initial letter of stanzas in red ink. In some poems, the last verse is written in red ink. This digital edition clearly reveals the subtle tone variations in the manuscript. As Terán points out, the book was written during the period when an independence movement was taking place in Mexico; therefore, the political aspects of some of Quiroz's writings can be of interest to cultural

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historians. He blamed the Protestant movement and "modern philosophers" —not Charles III— for the problems that the Jesuits had confronted fifty years previously. Also, he placed hope in the return of the Jesuits and their ability to bring peace to the region, suppressing the insurgence through "truth and reason." In general, Quiroz's extensive poems touch these main themes: an expression of appreciation to God, Fernando VII and Pope Pious VII for the return of the Company; the trials experienced by the Jesuits in their exile; their patience during their tribulations; the need for novitiates to enroll in the newly re-opened school; the restoration of the Jesuits as a solution to Mexico's problems. This digital edition of a little-known baroque poet adds an important perspective to Mexico's heritage of the late vice-regal period. With this, Terán Elizondo and Guajardo Esparza will facilitate more detailed literary, historical and cultural studies.

∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂ Charles F. Walker. Shaky Colon ia l i sm. The 1746 Earthquake-Tsunami in Lima, Peru , and I t s Long Aftermath . Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2008.

Karen Stolley

Emory University

Charles Walker’s Shaky Colonialism. The 1746 Earthquake-Tsunami in Lima, Peru, and Its Long Aftermath is a fascinating exploration of the seismic shifts that occurred in the natural, political and cultural order of mid-eighteenth century Peru in the wake of the catastrophic events of October 28, 1746. Walker explains that Shaky Colonialism “builds on a trend among historians of homing in on a particular event, a specific time and place, and following its broader repercussions, what Robert Darnton has baptized ‘incident analysis’” (12). Providing a wealth of detailed documentary evidence, Walker links the earthquake and tsunami to larger debates about the causes of natural disasters, the shape of colonial urbanism, and the goals and limitations of enlightened Spanish absolutism. He argues that the complex negotiations between secular and religious authorities to formulate and execute a vision for rebuilding the devastated city of Lima, the nearby port of Callao, and the surrounding area for the most part ended in stalemate, reflecting the obstacles facing Bourbon reform efforts as well as

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the socio-economic and political tensions that marked the “City of Kings.” Walker assembles a diverse cast of characters to bring his argument to life that includes Viceroy José Manso de Velasco; Manso’s French aide Louis Godin; Don Francisco José de Ovando y Solís, commander of the Spanish Navy’s Pacific fleet; Franciscan priest Joaquín Parra, whose 1756 sermon prophesizing another catastrophe as punishment for Lima’s licentious ways sparked panic and led to his trial by the Inquisition; José Eusebio Llano Zapata, who chronicled the destruction of over two centuries of colonial history; María de las Nieves, whose 1729 election as abbess of her Augustinian convent sparked a scandalous controversy about monastic disorder; and Calixto Tupak Inka, author of the 1748 Representación verdadera, a complaint made to the King of Spain regarding indigenous exclusion from religious orders.

Chapter 1, “Earthquakes, Tsunamis, Absolutism, and Lima,” explores how debates regarding the possible causes of the earthquake-tsunami and proposals for rebuilding the city and its environs reflected long-simmering tensions about the role of the Church and issues of race, class and gender that the author explores in subsequent chapters. As Walker notes, “The earthquake developed into a virtual referendum on Lima” (12). Viceroy Manso de Velasco hoped to effect rationalized urban reform and streamline power relations by reducing the influence of the Catholic Church, local elites, and marginalized groups such as Indians, castas, and mestizos. But his ideas for enlightened urbanism ran afoul of the particular agendas of each of these groups, provoking as well Spanish concerns about resource allocations, revenue streams, and intra-European rivalries in the Americas. The battle between baroque sensibilities and customs and an emergent enlightened colonialism played out in debates about hierarchy and sovereignty, and about the nature of progress and scientific knowledge.

As they struggled to understand the catastrophe, most eighteenth-century writers resorted to a combination of spiritual and natural explanations that Walker discusses in Chapter 2, “Balls of Fire: Premonitions and the Destruction of Lima.” Initially the eruption of subterranean gases or water and divine punishment of the city’s licentious ways were both proposed as potential causes. Later, in the months and years following the earthquake, popular anxieties found an outlet in a plethora of visions and premonitions that received a great deal of attention. Walker focuses on the Inquisitorial trial of the Franciscan Joaquín Parra that took place ten years after the earthquake and during which multiple witnesses shared testimony describing how in the days leading up to the earthquake numerous nuns had experienced visions of the city engulfed in flames, smoke and waves as a punishment for errant behavior. Given that this kind of extreme female mystic religiosity had long been suspect in the eyes of the Church, the trial deepened concerns about gender and race

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(subjects of later chapters) and brought to the fore critiques of the theatrical and sensationalist character of Franciscan evangelization. It also revealed tensions between Inquisitorial functionaries, the Archbishop, the mendicant orders, and secular authorities. But despite its highly charged nature, this particular jurisdictional conflict ended without any clear resolution, as do many others that Walker discusses in his book.

The third chapter, “The City of Kings: Before and After,” provides an outline of Lima’s development from its origins as a carefully planned city to the ethnically and geographically diverse metropolis it had become by the eighteenth century. Lima was home to various Indian groups, a large Afro-Peruvian population that included slaves and free blacks, “chinos” who had arrived from Spanish territory in the Philippines, and mixed-race groups, or castas. As Walker explains, growing demographic complexity and ethnic fluidity produced two seemingly contradictory responses: the emergence of Enlightenment classification systems (whose best-known manifestation are the pinturas de casta) and a shift from casta to calidad (or class) as a means of determining identity. Against this backdrop, Lima elites —criollos and Spaniards— depended on a combination of overseas and inland trade to support a rich cultural and intellectual urban panorama but largely overlooked the agricultural areas further afield. The author includes a detailed explanation of the construction and financing of urban architecture, both grandiose and humble, before enumerating the material and human destruction that greeted the city’s inhabitants the morning after the earthquake. Llano Zapata estimated the dead at 16,000, considerably higher than the toll taken by the 1755 Lisbon earthquake; the loss of property, dislocation, panic and suffering were almost unfathomable, as is evident in the first-hand accounts that Walker cites.

Viceroy Manso de Velasco was faced with the daunting task of imposing order and rebuilding the city, and that work is the focus of Chapter 4, “Stabilizing the Unstable and Ordering the Disorderly.” The title of this chapter underscores the relationship between urban planning, social hierarchies, and existing ideas of order and disorder —many of them informed by enlightened ideas about race and gender. Walker provides a brief overview of the personal and political trajectory that brought Manso to Lima as Viceroy in 1754, concluding that he was “the classic Bourbon administrative type” (76). The immediate challenges facing the Viceroy included assessing and documenting the damages and their costs; reuniting and housing the many displaced limeños; controlling prices of staple commodities like wheat and bread; rationalizing the debt crisis caused by the disaster and stabilizing revenues through tax increases, title sales, and restoration of the tobacco monopoly. These challenges were further complicated by the fact that Manso de Velasco was attempting to reduce the power of the Church precisely when he most needed its collaboration as a spiritual and charitable institution, especially since there was little moral or financial support forthcoming from Madrid.

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Protracted struggles with Lima’s elite constituted another challenge, as Walker discusses in Chapter Five, “Contending Notions of Lima: Obstacles to Urban Reform in the Aftermath.” After considering and finally rejecting the option of moving the capital to a new location, Manso appointed Louis Godin to oversee rebuilding efforts, mandating adherence to strict building codes that prohibited the construction of new two-story buildings. The ban on altos sparked resentment among local elites, who pushed back using economic, legal, and ‘civitas’ arguments that ultimately succeeded in frustrating many of Godin’s proposals (according to the author, this can be seen as yet another foreshadowing of the only partially successful implementation of the Bourbon reform agenda). As an interesting aside, Walker includes a discussion of why Spanish American cities, built on a Renaissance model and seen primarily as commercial centers and revenue sources rather than grandiose spectacles, were less ostentatious than other Bourbon urban reform projects such as St. Petersburg and Versailles.

Following this discussion of State-elite conflicts, Walker turns to conflicts between Church and State in Chapter Six, “Licentious Friars, Wandering Nuns, and Tangled Censos: A Shakeup of the Church.” In these conflicts, the Viceroy’s 1748 secularization campaign converged with anxieties about Lima’s diverse population and increasingly blurred social and racial categories, internal debates within the Church, and larger debates over material and moral issues. The plan called for the removal of regulars from rural parishes, the consolidation of the number of monastic orders, and a reversal of the Church’s accumulation of land and property. Enlightened Spaniards hoped to dislodge baroque scholasticism by creating an enlightened clergy and a national Church that would report to Madrid rather than Rome. At the same time, given that the Church controlled up to 75% of all urban properties, it necessarily played a central role in financing the rebuilding effort. The issue of liens on property (censos) were one of the myriad ways in which convents and ecclesiastical institutions, including the Inquisition, collected payments for principal and interest and became the “financial foundation of colonial Lima” (123). After the earthquake, when Manso (supported by the Audiencia and the Cabildo, whose members had much to gain by a reduction in the economic power of the Church) mandated a renegotiation of censos, the resulting lawsuits involved many in Lima beyond policy-makers and lobbyists, slowing and sometimes completely thwarting reform efforts.

Nuns became a flashpoint for “divergent understandings of concepts of order and disorder” and in the debates about conventos grandes, relación, and recoletos that intensified after the earthquake, they were seen as emblems of either immorality or vulnerability (14). But secular and Church officials targeted secular limeñas with particular venom, noting their luxurious and ostentatious dress, lax morals and profane customs, as Walker explores in

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Chapter Seven, “Controlling Women’s Bodies and Placating God’s Wrath: Moral Reform.” These accusations continued a long-standing tradition reflected in earlier sumptuary laws regulating clothing worn by racial or ethnic groups, and criticism of Lima’s veiled women, or tapadas (a critique that anticipates contemporary debates about Muslim dress). They echoed accounts of enlightened European travelers, who described with a mixture of fascination and dismay the lavishly excessive and libertine behavior of Peruvian women. Efforts to control women’s bodies and behavior played out against a broader context of denunciations of Lima’s ethnic diversity and imprecise social and racial boundaries. Here, too, there was pushback, and many eventually concluded that “only commerce and enlightenment, not edicts, could change ‘the peculiar habits and customs of pueblos’” (155).

The eighth and final chapter, “‘All These Indian and Black People Bear Us No Good Will’: The Lima and Huarochirí Rebellions of 1750,” examines how the events of 1746 exacerbated doubts about the trustworthiness of castas, Afro-Peruvians and Indians.

Viceroy Manso and many other members of Lima’s elite blamed post-earthquake turmoil on the breakdown of the city’s spatial divisions, thus racializing the resulting crime wave by blaming it on blacks and Indians. Walker looks at several eighteenth-century instances of rebellion as a window for understanding the “ambiguities and contradictions of Bourbon policy toward Andean Indians” (161). Eighteenth-century Indian kurakas saw their power weakening and resented tax and labor demands as symbols of colonial authority; the earthquake only exacerbated existing tensions. Manso was concerned that urban life “de-Indianized’ Indians, yet he saw full integration as impractical and emphasized the importance of rebuilding and Indian resettlement as a means to restore sociopolitical stability.” In order to interrogate these assumptions, Walker analyzes several texts that offer evidence of indigenous advocacy. One is Calixto Tupak Inka’s Representación verdadera, written in 1748 to advocate for Indian inclusion in religious orders. The Representación is also a wide-ranging reflection on Inca nationalism, apocalyptic baroque thought, and indigenous concerns about their incorporation into the Bourbon reform project. Unlike Guamán Poma’s Nueva corónica y buen gobierno, this subversive complaint did eventually reach the King, but it received no official response. Nevertheless, its existence points both to the degree to which “the Incas were a crucial symbol in debates and political movements throughout this period” (167) and to the inherently seditious nature of Andean utopian discourse. Walker also discusses El Día de Lima, a lengthy account of the celebration of Fernando VI’s 1747 coronation. News of Felipe V’s death and the ascent of his successor came almost simultaneously with the earthquake; the festivities were celebrated as an example as the city’s post-earthquake resurgence but their financing and questions about the role that indigenous participants would play created challenges for the Viceroy. These texts reflect the growing frustrations of the indigenous population that would

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come to a head with the El Cercado insurgency of 1750. The Indian and mestizo leaders of this aborted insurgency were brutally punished, and when the Huarochirí rebellion broke out shortly thereafter, it further reaffirmed the Viceroy’s determination to abandon any show of mercy toward the indigenous population. A shortage of produce and provisions in the Huarochirí region led to resentment that was mobilized by kuraka demands during a wedding celebration. After a number of Spanish authorities were killed, a counter-insurgency emerged, driven by fears of Spanish retaliation, and finally 500 armed Spaniards arrived from Lima to suppress the rebellion. Manso’s letters responding to these events reflect the hardening of his position. He was convinced that alcohol and violent repression encouraged the Indians to seek alliances with blacks and become more secretive, and he blamed the breakdown of barriers between Indians and European for creating envy. In 1750, he prohibited the participation of Incas in any civic and religious festivities (183). Walker closes the chapter by arguing that Manso at this point had realized at some level that his dream of (re)building an enlightened absolutist capital would be unachievable.

In his “Epilogue: Aftershocks and Echoes,” Walker recounts that Manso asked in 1758 to be relieved of his position to return to Spain in 1758, where a costly and humiliating trial for favoritism and corruption awaited him. Subsequent viceroys continued to push for reform, despite continuing tensions between the forces of Bourbon absolutism and baroque piety. Lima’s upper classes applauded efforts to constrain the unruly lower classes but fought against limits to their own prerogatives, while Church leaders pressed on in the fight against secularization. Walker sums up his argument: “The conflicts over the rebuilding of Lima, curiously, tell a great deal about why the Bourbon reformers had such difficulty implementing their military, fiscal, and social reforms in the latter half of the eighteenth century” (75). He also notes that the social fissures uncovered by the 1746 earthquake widened in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and concludes by arguing that the story he has told has relevance for current-day Peru. In reading this important study, I was reminded once again of the unfinished or unresolved nature of so many eighteenth-century projects, and of the often-overlooked role that the eighteenth century plays as a foundation for what follows.

Shaky Colonialism will be of interest to scholars of colonial Spanish America and the transatlantic eighteenth century working in history and literary or cultural studies. It is also relevant for scholars working on sustainability and environmental studies or disaster studies. Written in a clear and lively style and using historical anecdotes to good effect, it could easily be adapted for classroom use at the graduate or undergraduate level. One final note: I loved the editorial creativity reflected in the title pages,

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where the letters tumble across and down the page, just as Lima’s buildings would have fallen to pieces on that fateful October morning.

∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂ El Sig lo XVIII en f emenino : Las mujer e s en e l S ig lo de las Luces . Ed. Manuel-Reyes García Hurtado. Madrid: Síntesis, 2016.

Elizabeth Franklin Lewis

University of Mary Washington This volume, edited by Manuel-Reyes García Hurtado of the University

of A Coruña, contains eleven essays by prominent Spanish scholars in eighteenth-century studies. About half of the chapters focus on a variety of eighteenth-century women, from queens and aristocrats to middle class commoners and working-class women. Other chapters look at topics related to women’s place in eighteenth-century Spanish society: the “formative novel” and the periodical press to encourage female moral education, to the importance of music in education and social practices, and finally to the military’s changing attitude and treatment of women.

The first two essays by María de los Ángeles Pérez Samper and María Victoria López-Cordón Cortezo examine aspects of women’s lives in the royal court. Pérez Samper shows that despite the Bourbon interpretation of the Salic law, the numerous infantas born to Felipe V, Carlos III and Carlos IV were nonetheless enormously important to their families who through their marriages created and solidified political alliances. López-Cordón Cortezo traces the activities of and changes in the large group of women who served Bourbon queens. Whereas under the Hapsburgs ladies-in-waiting were almost exclusively comprised of women from Spain’s oldest and most influential aristocratic families, Bourbon queens also included women from newly titled families as well as from important bourgeois families. Chapters 3, 4 and 5 focus on the lives of common eighteenth-century women living outside the capital. María Luisa Candau Chacón (chapter 3) examines cases involving women accused of moral crimes, finding in their recorded testimonies a language of emotion expressed by both witnesses and accused. María José de la Pascua (chapter 4) studies women who live independently of men, focusing her study on cases dealing with women in Cádiz whose husbands had abandoned them. María José Pérez Álvarez (chapter 5) compiles and interprets statistics related to marriage rates, women as heads of households, and the status of single

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women in the mountainous regions of León, Spain. Mónica Bolufer (chapter 6) studies women as both virtual and real travelers throughout Spain and the world. From women’s own accounts of their travels in newspapers, personal correspondence, even poetry, to women as readers of travel texts like Ulloa’s Relación histórica del viaje a la América meridional (1748) or Ponz’s Viaje de España (1772, 1794), traveling was an important mark of education and culture for women. Finally, Gloria Espigado Tocino (chapter 7) writes about a late-Enlightenment aristocrat and the daughter of the Countess of Montijo, the Marquesa de Villafranca, who continued the ideals and activities of the women of her mother’s generation in her own civic endeavors in Cádiz and Madrid, both during the Peninsular War and afterwards.

Chapters 8 through 11 examine social expectations of eighteenth-century Spanish women. Isabel Morant Deusa (chapter 8) looks at the impact of Richardson’s Pamela (1740, translated to Spanish in 1794) and the ways that the British model of virtuous womanhood connected with traditional Spanish conduct literature by Juan Vives and Fray Luis de León. Ana Vega Toscano (chapter 9) looks at the role of music in women’s educational formation and in their participation in eighteenth-century social practices. Inmaculada Urzainqui (chapter 10) gives a thorough overview of women’s frequent and varied participation in and interaction with the periodical press. The press was fundamental to the spread of ideas during the eighteenth century, especially on matters of gender, and served to both influence women’s behavior and to present their voices directly. The last chapter by the volume’s editor examines military discourse about women (and the moral dangers they posed) along with an account of actual practices in the treatment of women associated with the military —military wives, daughters, and even prostitutes.

While the essays of this volume are compelling, this collection is not breaking new feminist ground. That has already been done over the last two decades in Spain in books like Mujeres e ilustración (Bolufer 1998), Historia de las mujeres en España y Latinoamérica (Morant 2005), and Heroínas y patriotas (Castells, Espigado and Cruz Romeo 2009), not to mention the many books on individual women such as Condición femenina y razón ilustrada. Josefa Amar y Borbón (López-Cordón 2005) or La vida y la escritura en el siglo XVIII. Inés Joyes (Bolufer 2008). In English there have been both historical and literary monographs on Spanish eighteenth-century women by Kitts (1995), Lewis (2004), and Smith (2006) as well as a collection of essays centered around women’s Enlightenment experience (Jaffe and Lewis 2009). The importance of this collection is, in part, that the essays in their totality represent some of the most important work, and topics, of eighteenth-century gender studies in Spain of the past two decades, especially within the field of historiography. In addition, with the exception of the volume´s editor, all of

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the contributors are women, and they include scholars who are considered to be pioneers in their fields. Thus, this volume can be read not only as a collection of interesting essays that further our understanding of issues of gender in Spain’s eighteenth century, but also as a showcase and celebration of the important women scholars who brought these issues to the forefront.

∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂ Leonardo Romero Tobar. Goya en las l i t e ra turas . Madrid: Marcial Pons Historia, 2016.

David T. Gies University of Virginia

Las innumerables contradicciones de la vida y obra de Francisco de

Goya (1746-1828) le han dado una vida pos-muerte que sorprende (o debe sorprender). Hombre de su siglo ilustrado, amante de la razón y del orden, pinta, no obstante, brujas, monstruos, deformidades, "desastres," "caprichos" y todo lo irracional del ser humano. Y uno tiene la idea que no sólo pinta esas cosas sino que las vive, lasa bsorbe en su comportamiento y en su ser vital. Individuo torturado, Goya transforma sus propios demonios en arte visual, en grabados y en aguafuertes que mantienen hoy el mismo poder para fascinar, horrorizar o provocar que tuvieron en su día.

Uno de los grandes expertos de la literatura decimonónica, Leonardo Romero Tobar —cuyo magistral Panorama crítico del Romanticismo español demostró una capacidad hercúlea para la síntesis y la escritura amena— nos obsequia ahora con un libro que es (entre otras cosas) "un análisis diacrónico del 'tema' Goya, centrado en géneros literarios tan característicos como la poesía lírica, la narrativa y el teatro, además de añadir noticias sobre su apropiación en las imágenes cinematográficas" (10-11). En eso, como reconoce el mismo Romero Tobar, el libro es una ampliación del gran estudio de Nigel Glendinning sobre la recepción crítica del pintor aragonés. Tan rica es la materia que, a pesar de las inevitables faltas y deficiencias, confirma "el hecho de que el genio de Fuendetodos construye uno de los más productivos 'temas literarios' de raigambre hispánica" (10).

Romero Tobar divide el libro en siete capítulos, que merecen indicarse aquí: "La fabricación del tema literario," "Poesía desde los contemporáneos de Goya hasta la Guerra Civil," "Poesía desde la segunda mitad del siglo XX," "El Goya novelado," "Goya en la narrativa posterior a las guerras de España y mundial," "Goya en escena. La pintura teatralizada," y "Goya en el

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séptimo arte." Si esto no fuera suficiente para demostrar la riqueza de este estudio, el autor añade unos apartados titulados "Referencias bibliográficas," "Relación de los textos literarios comentados," "Índice de ilustraciones," "Índice onomástico" (más de 830 nombres) e "Índice de títulos de textos literarios y guiones de cine." Como se revela en este libro, hay un Goya —"tema literario muy productivo" (15)— para todas las épocas y para todos los gustos.

Con cuidadosos pasos Romero Tobar nos guía por la historia de la recepción del pintor, por las obras de los escritores, pintores, periodistas e intelectuales que descubrieron en el gran artista maneras de interpretar su propia existencia (o por lo menos las preocupaciones de su tiempo). Goya llegó a ser asociado con el Romanticismo cuando los filósofos y literatos vieron en su obra elementos de algunos de los grandes temas elaborados por E.T.A. Hoffmann (entre otros) como lo sublime y lo fantástico. ¿Quién no contempla Aquelarre o Saturno, devorando a su hijo sin sentir una chispa de lo sublime? ¿Quién no percibe lo fantástico en Asmodea? Es lógico, por ende, que "los movimientos artísticos de la segunda mitad del siglo XIX —impresionismo, decadentismo, simbolismo— encontraran en Goya a uno de sus dioses mayores..." (35). Es más: el traslado de sus restos en 1900 marcó otro momento importante, tanto en la canonización del pintor como en la consagración del "nacionalismo cultural" que se vivía en la España de fin de siglo (39). Como escribe Romero Tobar:

En el campo de la crítica de arte, los traslados del cadáver pueden tomarse como la frontera demarcadora entre la recepción del Goya símbolo nacional que se había construido durante el siglo XIX y las nuevas perspectivas que irían consolidando los investigadores que estaban documentando con rigor aquellas circunstancias biográficas que explicaban, con las matizaciones pertinentes, la ejecución de muchos trabajos del maestro. (42).

Naturalmente, otra fecha clave es el centenario celebrado en 1928 para conmemorar la muerte del pintor. Después de la Primera Guerra Mundial, las interpretaciones de su obra cambian, igual que cambiarán después de la experiencia de la Guerra Civil ("espejo fecundo en el que se podían ver los hechos coetáneos" 47). Con la llegada de la web y otros modos electrónicos de investigación, ha proliferado el número de textos en que aparece Goya como "tema, personaje, motivo o alusión" (51).

Después de esta visión global de la presentación o recepción de Goya, Romero Tobar presenta, capítulo por capítulo, al pintor en sus múltiples formas artísticas (lo dicho arriba: tema, personaje, motivo, alusión), demasiadas para ser enunciadas en esta reseña. Antes de terminar su propio siglo, Goya aparece como figura literaria (marzo de 1799), en un poema titulado "Hermandad de la Pintura y Poesía," de José Mor de Fuentes.

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Interesan también las referencias a Goya en la poesía de Quintana, Moratín, Vargas Ponce, Arriaza o, más tarde, Ros de Olano, Príncipe y Borao, para no hablar del interés manifestado por él en Francia (Gautier, Musset, Baudelaire).Los cuadros inspiran poesía de varia índole, desde la meditación filosófica a la condenación de abusos sociales y políticos.

Los testimonios del dolorido decir provocado por la guerra de España se acrecientan en textos españoles de la posguerra y en las revistas publicadas en el exilio que, además de presentar el testimonio de los sentimientos de muchos escritores, sirvieron para desplegar la visión de un Goya como la fuerza incontenible del impulso rehumanizador y de denuncia social que, desde el expresionismo germano y la combativa estética de raíces marxistas, perfilaba un punzante filón político-social que habría de ser muy estimulante para los escritores de la mitad del siglo XX. (94-95)

El alcance global de Goya es notable. Desde Lawrence Ferlinghetti hasta Seamus Heaney, Anna Ajmátova, John Galsworthy y Ernest Hemingway, los cuadros y grabados de Goya han inspirado a los más grandes poetas y novelistas del mundo. Romero se detiene en Galdós, cuyas novelas y episodios nacionales nos brindan una perspectiva animada e histórica del genio del Fuendetodos.

Ficción y realidad son los dos extremos en los que se articula el efecto del faire vraie en las novelas de tema goyesco [...], un efecto que permite vislumbrar cómo el ejemplo de documentos reales y su transposición a los recursos expresivos de un género literario como la novela hacen posible la construcción de un edificio literario en el que lo ficticio parece verdadero. (257).

Romero Tobar también nos lleva por los espacios geográficos de Goya

—el Museo del Prado, Madrid, Zaragoza— referenciados en la obra artística de un sinfín de escritores. Con sumo cuidado, elegante prosa y una capacidad de condensación envidiable, comenta cada libro, cada escritor, cada director de cine, cada obra que llega a sus manos (y que ha buscado y encontrado después de años de concentrada investigación).

Goya en el teatro y en el cine captan la atención de Romero Tobar ("el esperpentismo lo ha inventado Goya," declara Max Estrella, en Luces de bohemia de Valle Inclán). Un ejemplo muy conocido, pero solo uno de muchos (porque los hay de Gaspar, Villaespesa, Cheriff, Alberti y otros), será El sueño de la razón de Buero Vallejo. En el cine es —¿cómo no?— Buñuel que se siente seducido por las imágenes de su compatriota. Buñuel escribió un guión original para Paramount Productions en 1937, obra que nunca, a pesar nuestro, se realizó en forma cinematográfica. Pero Buñuel recibió un encargo diez años antes (1927) para "filmar una película de Goya" (Romero reproduce la carta en la página 322). De allí a Perojo, Delgado, Orduña, Saura, Bigas Luna y Josefina Molina (los dos últimos dos

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no se mencionan; véase mi estudio, "La Ilustración ilustrada. El XVIII en el cine español," de próxima publicación).

Romero Tobar nos brinda un recorrido estupendo de Goya como tema e inspiración literaria en la literatura y el cine español y mundial. El siglo XXI aportará más. Goya no se olvida, no se puede olvidar. Seguirá inspirando a las generaciones venideras de escritores e intelectuales.

∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂ Leandro Fernández de Moratín. La moj iga ta . Ed. Sally-Ann Kitts. Clásicos Castalia 328. Madrid: Castalia, 2015.

Jesús Pérez-Magallón

McGill University Hace tiempo, en esta misma revista, escribía yo sobre lo imposible que resultaba encontrar una edición aceptable de El viejo y la niña, y lo mismo hubiera podido decir de La mojigata, en tanto se multiplican las ediciones de La comedia nueva y El sí de las niñas. Y empiezo así porque ahora no se podría decir lo mismo, puesto que Sally-Ann Kitts nos ofrece una magnífica edición de La mojigata en Clásicos Castalia. Con mucha razón Kitts realza la importancia y significación del manuscrito M-1 de la colección Hook, que ella llama H. Sobre ese manuscrito ya había llamado la atención la misma investigadora en 2008. El manuscrito proviene de lady Holland, Elizabeth Vassall Fox, y fue adquirido por el profesor David Hook, que obviamente lo puso a disposición de la editora. Puesto que tal copia fue ofrecida por Moratín a lady Holland después de que se hubiera publicado la primera edición de la obra, se pregunta Kitts: “¿por qué Moratín le regaló a Elizabeth una copia manuscrita de su obra recién estrenada y no un ejemplar de la primera edición, corregida y autorizada por el autor?” (45). Se responde la editora que dicho manuscrito “representaba lo que realmente quería decir Leandro con esta obra” (45). Y es muy posible que esa sea una respuesta acertada. Sin embargo, tal vez sería legítima otra pregunta: ¿y por qué al preparar sus Obras dramáticas y líricas en París no restauró Moratín su texto original, si era el que realmente expresaba lo que quería decir con la obra? Porque el argumento de lady Holland de que el texto manuscrito podría ofender a los devotos no tenía ya curso legal en el París de 1825. Así, en el terreno de las suposiciones, también podríamos imaginar que, precisamente porque Moratín conocía la reputación liberal de lord Holland, prefería que ellos tuvieran—y se llevaran de regreso a Inglaterra—una versión que lo dibujaba a él bajo una luz un poco más anticlerical y por tanto más antisupersticiosa.

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¿Con alguna malévola intención? Difícil saberlo. Pero el anticlericalismo es algo que el dramaturgo enfatizó a lo largo de toda su carrera y las notas para el Auto de fe—e incluso las que puso a sus poesías sueltas—son la prueba más evidente. Según informa Sally-Ann Kitts, “la presente edición utiliza como testimonio base el ms. M-1 (exHoland House) (designado H) y ofrece el cotejo de este con la edición príncipe de 1804 (designado P)” (85). El criterio podría ser discutido, porque es discutible suponer que un manuscrito de 1804 representa la última voluntad del autor—que es lo que tiende a tratar de reconstruir mediante los testimonios existentes la crítica textual—pero su pulcritud al editarlo es muy notable. Para completar lo que no se encuentra en el manuscrito H, finalmente nos ofrece también otros materiales de la edición princeps, desde el epígrafe de Publio Sirio, la poesía dedicatoria que Moratín escribió para el príncipe de la Paz—la que comienza “Esta que me inspiró fácil Talía” o sea la “Epístola Al príncipe de la Paz. Dedicándole la comedia La mojigata,” que publicó Moratín en París en 1825—, la “Advertencia” que el dramaturgo escribió para la edición parisina de las Obras dramáticas y líricas, y el “Prólogo” manuscrito que nunca publicó Moratín en vida y se conserva en la Biblioteca Nacional. Es también llamativo, aunque perfectamente comprensible por problemas básicos de extensión, que la anotación sea abrumadora y casi exclusivamente textual, con lo que se difuminan numerosas referencias intertextuales, apropiaciones y traslaciones, resonancias y parentescos, que sitúan la obra de Moratín en el contexto del teatro español y europeo de su tiempo, idea que la editora sustenta con razones sólidas. La edición va precedida de una Introducción biográfica y crítica en la que Kitts nos ofrece un bosquejo biográfico de Leandro Fernández de Moratín (9-25), una breve ubicación del autor en el teatro contemporáneo (25-28); y a partir de ese momento se concentra en La mojigata: esta obra como pieza neoclásica (28-31), sus antecedentes e influencias (31-33), su génesis e historia manuscrita (33-41), la importancia del ms. H (41-46), las ediciones impresas (46-47), su estreno y otras representaciones ( 48-50), los efectos de la censura y autocensura en la composición de la obra (50-55), la forma de las diferencias entre el ms. H y la edición princeps (55-57), las diferencias en el desarrollo de los caracteres y el mensaje ideológico de la obra (57-64), para concluir con una lectura de La mojigata (65-72). Le siguen una noticia bibliográfica (73-81), una nota previa (83-85) y los agradecimientos (87). El texto del ms. H, con una abundante anotación que sigue los criterios señalados más arriba, va seguido de unos apéndices (387-411) que nos ofrecen los textos completos, cuando son extensos, de las variantes de la princeps respecto a H. Ahora esa comedia de Moratín—innecesario resulta decir que clave en una obra tan limitada numéricamente como la suya—está al alcance de los estudiosos, de los estudiantes y del público que pudiera tener algún interés. Y eso gracias al esmerado y cuidadoso trabajo de Sally-Ann Kitts.

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∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂∂ Jesús Torrecilla. España a l r evé s . Los mi tos de l pensamiento progre s i s ta (1790-1840) . Madrid: Marcial Pons Historia, 2016.

Fernando Durán López Universidad de Cádiz

En la última década han sobreabundado en España los estudios sobre procesos de nacionalización y construcción de identidades, centrados en el tránsito del XVIII al XIX, y sobre todo en este último siglo. Como suele ocurrir, la conciencia de un hueco notorio que precisa llenarse se suma al peligro de la moda y el exceso. En cambio, han sido harto más escasos los abordajes desde el campo literario, si bien historiadores y politólogos han recurrido a la literatura, con desigual fortuna, para articular sus argumentos. Este libro de Jesús Torrecilla plantea el estudio de los imaginarios y ficciones de los escritores, aunque el título eluda referirse a la literatura y se publique en una de las colecciones de historia más reputadas del momento. La tesis central de la monografía se expone en una introducción que, en una cincuentena de páginas, argumenta que el pensamiento progresista español (equívoco término con el que se refiere básicamente al liberalismo hijo de la revolución francesa) opera a partir de 1789 una radical transformación de los mitos nacionales, que ofrece una alternativa al discurso tradicional conservador (centralidad de Castilla, exaltación de la Reconquista y el Imperio, unidad católica) que oponía españolidad a modernidad. Los ilustrados habían intentado disputar ese discurso a los reaccionarios para evitar ser expulsados del cuerpo nacional, pero los liberales optarán por contraponerle una mitología nueva e inversa, donde la verdadera españolidad se situaba en las libertades civiles representadas por los fueros medievales y la revuelta comunera, en la tradición política de los reinos aragoneses y el respeto a la diversidad regional, y en la España musulmana barrida por el fanatismo intolerante y excluyente. Se presta una particular atención a la impugnación del mito de la Reconquista y al subsiguiente contramito que identifica lo más genuino de España con la tradición de los musulmanes vencidos, a partir sobre todo del libro de José Antonio Conde. Siguen cuatro capítulos. El primero se dedica a «La conflictiva relación de los liberales con el pueblo», a la compleja articulación del eje conceptual vulgo/ pueblo/nación, en que el hilo del razonamiento se remonta hasta Feijoo y el elitismo intelectual de la primera Ilustración, que los liberales tenían que compaginar con su idea rectora de la soberanía nacional (que no popular, como repetida y erróneamente dice Torrecilla). El análisis discurre por cauces bastante conocidos y sin mayor novedad, aunque destacaría el

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excelente estudio estilístico de la Centinela contra franceses de Capmany (pp. 72-74, si bien considero una innecesaria distorsión identificar su forma «pasional» de argumentar con la prosa romántica) y el análisis de los escritos, injustamente olvidados, de José Somoza (pp. 91-98). El segundo capítulo aborda el mito comunero y foralista, la idealización liberal de las «libertades» del Medievo, como el expediente empleado por los liberales para naturalizar las ideas revolucionarias y evitar identificarlas con su origen francés. En esta sección donde se halla mayor novedad es al afirmar que el mito comunero posee una doble naturaleza: defensa de la libertad frente al despotismo absolutista y defensa de una España descentralizada, donde la identidad nacional bascula sobre lo aragonés más que sobre lo castellano. Pero reivindicar las antiguas tradiciones de otros reinos españoles no significa postular un modelo descentralizado y «plural» de nación, o al menos los escasos ejemplos aducidos (Antonio Puigblanch y Víctor Balaguer, p. 24; y pp. 141 y ss.) no proporcionan la convicción necesaria. El tercer capítulo versa sobre «El mito de Al-Andalus» y gira inicialmente sobre el cambio de paradigma en la cuestión que supone la obra de José Antonio Conde y su eco entre los escritores liberales. El cuarto, sin embargo, supone un giro metodológico, porque no se centra en un mito progresista, sino en dos autores particularmente complejos en sus formas de entender la identidad nacional, a caballo entre lo propio y lo foráneo: Blanco White y Larra, formando tándem a partir de algunas semejanzas parciales en cuanto a su relación crítica con España, que no deberían ocultar la extrema disparidad de sus figuras públicas y privadas. Las tesis larga y eficazmente desarrolladas en el libro no son nuevas en sí mismas, aunque el análisis de conjunto y la argumentación —un tanto repetitiva— son convincentes en su mayor parte y en algunos momentos excelentes. Un punto fuerte es el amplio abanico de autores y textos literarios manejados como fuentes, tanto poemas, como novelas, piezas dramáticas, ensayos, libros de historia, memorias o escritos periodísticos. Autores recurrentes en el volumen son Quintana, Marchena, Alcalá Galiano, Martínez de la Rosa, Rivas, Mora, Mendíbil, Blanco White, Larra…, pero a estos se suman otros muchos menos habitualmente frecuentados, que suponen el principal valor del estudio, de rica documentación primaria. En lo que excede del análisis literario, cabría reprobar el uso de anacronismos, como la repetida calificación de «democrático» para el programa y la ideología de los liberales y otras imprecisiones igualmente perturbadoras en los conceptos histórico-políticos.

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