https://orcid.org/0000-0002-6874-903X
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Abstract
Their liminality in a patriarchal society and the cultural apprehensions surrounding widows explain why literature has rarely been sympathetic to them. This has been particularly the case with the seductive ones, the viudas alegres who are perceived as a threat to the social order. With a didactic and ideological purpose in mind, José María de Pereda condemns Madrid’s viudas verdes in La Montálvez (1888), while in Clemencia (1852), Fernán Caballero combats the backlash against widows by creating an impeccable role model and representative of Spain’s periphery. This article reads both novels as counternarratives of widowhood and examines how their authors develop two very different narratives to control and confine female excess –sexual in one case, intellectual in the other– within a conservative gender and national paradigm.
Notes
1 For an overview of the novel’s critical reception, see Bonet 428–32. While sales of the novel were strong, critics were not so benevolent, accusing the author of a lack of knowledge of madrileños and attacking the novel’s excessive moralizing and ideological rigidness.
2 The urban location notwithstanding, Bonet still detects regionalism in La Montálvez. He interprets the novel “como réplica ‘regionalista’ al madrileñismo!” charged with “agresividad, desprecio, distancia mental y geográfica…” (424).
3 We might add that this post-nuptial narrative is equally present in La mujer del César, a precedent for La Montálvez. According to Bonet, in this novel we can already observe “el rigorismo didáctico” and “la manipulación ‘cristianizadora’ del determinismo ambiental, tan decisiva en La Montálvez” (443). Gutiérrez Sebastián notes that in both novels Pereda “[c]ensura la ‘supuesta’ debilidad moral de la mujer de la alta sociedad” (130).
4 Pedro Sánchez first marries the superficial and self-serving Clara. When he finally marries the virtuous and loyal Carmen, he soon loses her and their son.
5 He also indicates that he did not know then the actual gender of Fernán Caballero, a pseudonym for Cecilia Böhl de Faber. I will use both names indistinctly.
6 The widows in La Montálvez have a notable precursor in Obdulia Fandiño in La Regenta (1884), a novel that features three emblematic widows: Obdulia, doña Paula and doña Petronila (and, eventually, Ana Ozores). Although they embody different archetypes, Clarín undertakes an extraordinarily merciless portrayal in all three cases. From her dress to her scandalous sexual conduct, Obdulia challenges all the social expectations of a proper widow. We also find non-chaste or “fallen” widows in Pardo Bazán’s Insolación (1889) and Valera’s Pepita Jiménez (1874).
7 For the repeated use of sensorial and eschatological images (charca, ciénaga, fango, peste, etc.), to represent the moral decay in the novel, see Bonet 444-47.
8 Pepe Guzmán had already warned Verónica about the looming dangers facing their daughter, an “inocente corderilla” in a house “llena de lobos” (242). It is highly significant that Verónica herself is fearful of her friends’ proximity to the child (247).
9 Aristocrats were criticized for their ostentation, idleness, parasitism, hypocrisy, political absenteeism and corruption, among other failures (Bonet 438; Gutiérrez Sebastián 138).
10 In La mujer del César, Pereda creates another cruel portrait, that of the aging countess of Rocaverde, a viuda verde who is partially responsible for endangering Isabel’s honor.
11 I would like to thank one of the anonymous readers for raising the possibility that Pereda’s depiction of Madrid’s aristocracy might be influenced by the negative views of Spanish Queens María Cristina and Isabel II. Although due to space limitations I am unable to explore this insightful suggestion in this article, I would contend that, in the case of La Montálvez, the Reina Regenta María Cristina presents more similarities with the fictional protagonist: A widow who very soon after her husband’s death (Fernando VII) secretly wed a man of inferior social standing, which, according to public perception, demonstrated her uncontrollable sexual urges. Consequently, she was also seen as an unfit mother who had abandoned her daughters in order to follow this man. In regards to Isabel II, her licentious sexual life as an adulteress was connected to her failure as a mother. For more on the conflation of private life and politics during the reigns of María Cristina and Isabel II, see Burguera.
12 Interestingly, in a conversation between her and Paco Guzmán, the latter disparages Spain’s “plaga de viudas” whom he views as a heavy financial burden for the nation and “sanguijuelas monstruos” (307; 306). This confirms the general perception, according to Moring and Wall, that “widows in the past were passive recipients of assistance from society and private charities” (63), a perception that ignores the fact that poverty resulted, above all, from social position, not marital status.
13 In her novel La farisea, Böhl de Faber represents the fraudulent widow, who hypocritically pretends to be the perfect widow, and who has also been a target in literature and moralist treaties (Walter 300; 304).
14 For a more in-depth analysis of Clemencia’s marriage and religious intertexts, see Kairua 21–22.
15 In La Gaviota, the Duchess of Almansa is portrayed as a virtuous, self-sacrificing mother and wife who is able to suffer in silence her husband’s neglect because she does not read novels and does not aspire to be emancipada (147–48). We must remember Pardo Bazán once more, particularly her Memorias de un solterón (1896), a novel that engages very differently with the subject of the mujer emancipada or mujer nueva.
16 For Schneider, in contrast to Madrid, the allegorical Villa-María is a space of existential security where social mobility is unknown (216).
17 Through the abbot, Böhl de Faber presents “todo un plan educativo para la mujer” (Miralles 28) and makes important statements regarding women and knowledge. For example: “Debes sólo formarte un ramillete con las flores del árbol del saber, puesto que, como mujer, tienes que considerar tus conocimientos, no como un objeto, una necesidad o una base de carrera, sino como un pulimento, un perfeccionamiento, es decir, cosa que serte debe más agradable que útil” (179).
18 The widow Pepita Jiménez demonstrates similar “masculine” knowledge, in her case agricultural, but, as if she were following the advice of Fernán Caballero’s abbot, “con modestia y naturalidad, sin mostrar deseo de pasar por muy entendida” (Valera 22).
19 The words of the Count of Genazahar, whom Pepita Jiménez has rejected, capture this representation in Valera’s novel (106).
20 The critique of cosmopolitanism shines through the words of Sir George, who has travelled the world, but lacks the sensitivity to admire it: “He recorrido los Alpes, los Andes y el Bósforo; he visto el Ganges, el Niágara, el Rhin; he cruzado el mar Pacífico, el Atlántico y el del Sur, y en ellos observado sus tempestades; y nada de todo esto he podido admirar gozando; nada en relación con mi íntimo sentir; sólo ha surgido en mí este pensamiento: ¡Qué de afectación hay en los poetas!” (325; original emphasis)
21 Kaiura refers to the following dialogue as proof of a certain degree of agency (27): “Clemencia—dijo furioso sir George—, yo no sufro rivales.
—Ni yo exigencias despóticas—contestó en tono firme Clemencia” (339).
22 Referring to the difficulties and prejudices female authors face, Rosalía de Castro sarcastically writes: “Sobre todo los que escriben y se tienen por graciosos, no dejan pasar nunca la ocasión de decirte que las mujeres deben dejar la pluma y repasar los calcetines de sus maridos, si lo tienen, y si no, aunque sean los del criado” (494).