As the character who holds the key to Francisco de Goya's survival or demise in Buero Vallejo's El sueño de la razón, Leocadia Zorrilla, the painter's young mistress, has been decidedly overlooked as one of the drama's central figures. She has been studied primarily from the perspective of her role as the young, passionate woman who serves as a constant reminder to Goya of his declining virility and old age.¹ Although this facet of her character provides the audience with greater insight into Goya's disturbed mind, Leocadia's role is far more complex and intriguing than that of a beautiful temptress. She is a perplexing melange of contradictions, at once adoring and vengeful, determined and fearful, cold and flirtatious. Her role is further complicated by the deaf Goya's bifurcation of her into the Voice of Leocadia and Judith-Leocadia in his imaginary world, a process which results in three representations of the Leocadia character: the “real” Leocadia and the two imaginary ideations of her that are filtered through Goya's consciousness. With these three representations, Buero creates a composite entity who has the ability to transcend the concrete, imaginary and oneiric levels of the drama. In addition to her three intratextual faces, the composite Leocadia is enriched by certain irrefutable intertextual bonds that she shares with the biblical figure of Judith. Similar in character, deed and motive, the composite Leocadia and Judith share a kinship that cannot be refuted. In fact, it is the similarities between these intertextual sisters that serve as the glue that holds the fictional composite of Leocadia together. An examination of the affinity between Buero's female protagonist and the biblical Judith will reveal how Leocadia and Goya's imaginary mutations of her ultimately affect the artist's salvation.

The connection between Judith and Leocadia is revealed early in the drama by both Goya and Leocadia. When Goya is asked by Doctor Arrieta if his painting of Leocadia is another “Judith,” the artist replies: “Otra Judith? O Judith otra Leocadia. ¿Quién sabe?” (132). On a different occasion, Leocadia's connection with the biblical heroine is suggested by way of a projection of the painting of “Judith and Holofernes” on stage as Leocadia explains her role within some of the canvases to Arrieta.² Both of these scenes serve to introduce the reader to a relationship that will become increasingly important as the drama develops. It is clear from both Goya's interpretations of Leocadia's role in the paintings and her own opinions of her presence in his works, that she is perceived by the artist as a dangerous threat. Leocadia describes her role in the “Aquelarre” and “Asmodea” to Arrieta as follows: “[Goya] dice que soy una bruja que le seca la sangre. ¡Mire esa otra! (Arrieta se enfrenta con ‘Asmodea’.) La mujer se lleva al hombre al aquelarre y él va aterrado, con la boca taponada por una piedra maléfica … La mujer soy yo” (125). Similarly, when Goya is explaining his painting of “Leocadia” to the doctor he says: “Esa peña [donde se reclina] es una tumba. Ahí nos ha metido a su marido y a mí. [Pensé en pintarme yo mismo dentro de la roca, como si ésta fuera de vidrio.] [Pero … no me atrevi]” (131–2). While the threat that Leocadia poses to Goya is generally attributed to the artist's fear of his waning virility, there is another explanation for her role as femme fatale. Leocadia is the only person who understands that Goya's “illness” is denial. She says to the doctor: “¡La locura de Francho es justamente ésa! ¡Que se niega a un cambio de aires! Que no tiene miedo” (127). Therefore, Leocadia is dangerous, not solely because of her beauty and age, but also because of her awareness of the truth behind Goya's supposed madness. This is why she is represented in Goya's canvases as a potentially malevolent and dangerous force.

The irony of the representations of Leocadia as Asmodea and Judith is that while the paintings of these figures may communicate fear, the models themselves are perceived as agents of hope. Goya sees Asmodea as the entity who has the power to remove him from the dangerous political situation in which he finds himself with Fernando VII (134), and Judith, in her biblical role, is the savior of an entire race of people. The fact that Goya associates Leocadia with both evil and hope suggests that while his conscious mind is not yet ready to confront his demons and fears, his subconscious mind is aware of Leocadia's ability to see through him and to hold him accountable for his denial. This is specifically why she is depicted in the paintings as an agent of fear (in her ability to threaten his safe haven of denial) and as an agent of hope (in her ability to release him from the dangers of that same denial). The connection that Goya makes between his mistress and the biblical figure of Judith throughout the drama most aptly communicates his subconscious awareness of Leocadia's power and influence over him. The complex and intimate bond that Buero develops between Judith and the composite image of Leocadia is revealed gradually through Leocadia's actions and words, Goya's cerebral representations of her as the Voice of Leocadia and Judith-Leocadia, and the reader's knowledge of the biblical story of Judith.

Judith is the biblical heroine who saves the Israelites from the Assyrians by deceiving and murdering Holofernes, the general of the enemy army. She lies, deceives, seduces and kills to save her people for the glory of God. Judith's character has presented critics with much consternation due to her inconsistent and often paradoxical behavior. According to Moore, Judith serves as an exemplum of irony:

Judith's entire life was ironic. A childless widow, she gave spiritual and political life to her people. A wealthy woman after her husband's death, she lived very simply, sometimes almost to the point of starving herself. In a sexist society where the roles of men and women were sharply delineated and kept quite separate, Judith played both roles with eminent success. Unwilling to eat food that was not kosher, she did not hesitate to tell bold-faced lies. A “soft” and feminine woman, she murdered Holofernes herself, praying to God to give her the strength to do so.

(80)

Goya's tripartite image of Leocadia shares many of these same attributes. Throughout the drama, the complex character alternately assumes the roles of a helpless female, a loving and seductive woman, a deceitful and wily schemer, a verbally and physically abusive mistress and a homicidal temptress depending on Goya's ideation of her at any particular moment. The artist's confusion about Leocadia's intentions is clear from his alternating real and imagined images of her as treacherous, deceitful and dangerous.

Goya's fear of Leocadia suggests that he envisions her to have a certain power over him that he cannot completely control. In both the case of Judith and Leocadia, this power is equated with an ability to seduce. In the same way that the biblical heroine seduces Holofernes in order to get close enough to him to murder him, Goya's paranoia leads him to interpret his mistress's encounter with the young sergeant as an act of seduction. While we will never know what actually does transpire between Leocadia and the soldier on the bridge, it is most likely that she attempts to explain Goya's “illness” to the young man in order to persuade him to let her family leave the country peacefully. What stands out in both interpretations of Leocadia's actions above is not her ability to seduce, but her strength of character and her ability to act when confronted with a life-threatening situation. Surrounded by ineffectual male characters, Leocadia and Judith are forced to act alone in order to save themselves and those around them.³ Goya, for instance, refuses to heed his mistress's warnings regarding the danger he is in from Fernando VII and his ruthless entourage. Instead of taking action, he complacently and naively hopes that his mythical flying men will come and save him.⁴ Similarly, in the biblical story of Judith, the Bethulian magistrates wait for God to miraculously intercede for them against the impending threat of an Assyrian takeover. It is Judith who chides them for putting God to the test and it is she who sets out to defeat the enemy. Leocadia, possessing the same kind of insight as Judith, and understanding that her words will be ineffectual against Goya's denial, implements a plan of her own to save them both. When faced with the tremendous ramifications of not acting, and in the absence of male leadership, Judith and Leocadia use their strength and power to combat the impending peril.

Residing in patriarchal societies where sexism is the norm, both Judith and Leocadia have to transcend traditional gender roles in their stories in order to realize their goals.⁵ For instance, one of the reasons why Goya does not heed Leocadia's words of warning at the beginning of the drama is simply because she is female. The painter belittles, subverts and dismisses Leocadia's impassioned plea, “(¡Debemos irnos!)”, by responding in the following manner: “¿Piensas que no te veo el juego? ¡Sueñas con Francia … y con los franceses! ¡Pero a mí no me adornas! ¡Todavía soy hombre para obligarte a gemir de placer o de miedo!” (142). On the other hand, when presented with similar advice from the male Dr. Arrieta, the painter listens intently to the suggestion (even though he still refuses to act). He asks the doctor: “¿De veras piensa que … estoy en peligro? ¿De muerte?” (139). Leocadia, cognizant of the fact that, as a woman, her verbal efforts will be to no avail, assumes the traditional male role of initiator and activist to achieve her goal. As the drama progresses and Goya's cerebral representations of Leocadia come to the fore, the hybrid character begins to exhibit a peculiar combination of both male and female traits, not unlike Judith in the biblical story.

With regard to the biblical heroine's androgynous nature, Moore explains:

What makes Judith's androgyny so unusual and fascinating … is that her “masculinity” and her “femininity” are sequential rather than simultaneous. That is, as a widow she is asexual; in Bethulia with the elders, Judith “plays the man”; in the Assyrian camp, she acts the woman until she resumes her manly role by cutting off Holofernes' head; then back in Bethulia she continues to act the man until the defeat of the Assyrian army, after which she reverts permanently to the asexuality of her widowhood.

(65)

The composite Leocadia's androgyny also follows a sequential pattern. Although not a widow, she is forced into ever lengthening periods of celibacy as a result of the artist's waning virility. She tells Dr. Arrieta: “Meses enteros en los que me evita por las noches y ni me habla durante el día … Porque … ya no es tan vigoroso …” (127). In her role as Goya's mistress, Leocadia initially plays the pleading female, but then quickly assumes a male role by creating and implementing a plan to enlist the aid of a young sergeant in the king's army. While in the soldier's company, Leocadia ostensibly adopts the stance of a desperate and helpless female in order to gain his sympathy. Her alternating chain of masculine and feminine behavior takes on a new dimension when Goya finds out about her rendezvous with the sergeant. It is this meeting that precipitates the painter's metamorphosis of Leocadia (his mistress) into the imaginary Voice of Leocadia.

Although one of the painter's cerebral creations, the Voice is clearly an extension, albeit a distorted one, of the original Leocadia. It represents the embodiment of Goya's fears with regard to his mistress's intentions and her knowledge about the truth of his denial. Prior to her encounter with the sergeant, Leocadia had relied on words and signing in order to shake Goya from his complacency. When her words turn to actions, however, Goya's mind no longer envisions his mistress as an easily dismissed female, but as the Voice of Leocadia—a source of power and fear. Even though Leocadia is not aware of the existence of the Voice in Goya's mind, she, and her actions, nevertheless serve as the catalyst for the artist's cerebral representations of her as both the Voice and Judith-Leocadia. It is in the two imagined images of Leocadia that the reader can truly begin to understand the artist's perception of his mistress as a threat to his safe haven of denial.

The Voice of Leocadia exhibits a peculiar combination of both masculine and feminine characteristics. The air of dominance that it projects suggests masculinity, but the repeated use of feminine pronouns and articles evokes its basic femininity. The impalpable Voice displays its male and female facets in the following conversation with Goya:

¿No crees a tu Judith? ¿A tu Judas? … Acabaré contigo. Judith tomará el cuchillo mientras maůllan los gatos y el murciélago revolotea y se bebe tu sangre y Judas te besa y Judith te besa y te hunde la hoja y grita que la quisiste estrangular y que tuvo que defenderse. Teme a Judith, teme al rey, el rey es el patibulo y Judith es el infierno …

(180)

Here the Voice considers itself on a par with Judas and Fernando VII in terms of power and influence (traditionally masculine traits), while at the same time retaining an underlying facade of femaleness. The Voice manages to manipulate and then transcend traditional gender roles by threatening to kill Goya (an act of aggression that is characteristically associated with males) and then explaining to him that, after committing the murder, she plans to exonerate herself by pleading self-defense (the woman as victim) (180).

When the third and final representation of Goya's composite Leocadia appears on stage in the guise of Judith-Leocadia at the end of the painter's macabre nightmare, she again emits an aura of strength and power that is traditionally male. She is also obeyed by the other creatures in the dream, demonstrating her authority over them (198). Before she can decapitate Goya, there is a knocking at the door on the waking side of the dream that prompts her, and her oneiric companions, to retreat into the recesses of the painter's mind. The two characters left on stage after the nightmare are Goya and his mistress, Leocadia. At this point in Leocadia's sequential androgyny, all of the power that Goya imagines her to have is stripped from her by the sergeant who brutally rapes her. As a result of this egregious act, Leocadia reverts to a traditionally female stance, having been debased and abused by the soldier. When Goya threatens to kill her after the soldiers depart, the Voice of Leocadia reemerges in the painter's mind and resumes its male role of strength and bravery by speaking the “truth” about herself and Goya and then requesting death by the painter's hand. The final image of Leocadia (as mistress) is that of a fragile, meek, battered female whose sexuality has been taken from her forcibly by the Voluntario realista.

Although the androgynous nature of Leocadia and Judith serves to reveal important similarities between the two women with regard to character development, it is the end to which they use their androgynous talents that fuses them together on a thematic level. The common theme that runs through both of their stories, and which both Judith and Goya's tripartate image of Leocadia attempt to manipulate by means of their male and female attributes, is fear.⁶ In order to affect salvation, the ultimate goal of the two women, they must first successfully instill fear in their enemies.⁷ In the Apocrypha, the Bethulians are paralyzed by their fear of the Assyrian army. Judith is the character who successfully turns fear back on the enemy army by disposing of their leader, Holofernes. It is specifically the displacement of fear onto the Assyrians that will precipitate their defeat. At the end of El sueño de la razón, Goya finally understands that his mind created the Voice of Leocadia and Judith-Leocadia in order to help him confront the fear that had plunged him into a state of moral blindness⁸ and complacency. Whereas Judith's goal is to kill Holofernes in order to save her people, the composite Leocadia's mission is not to kill Goya, but to destroy his denial in order to save him from himself.⁹

As was noted earlier in this study, Leocadia recognizes fear, or the lack thereof, to be the cross that Goya bears from the onset of the play. Although ostensibly unafraid, Goya is aware of his precarious position vis-à-vis the king and yet chooses to remain impassive. Leocadia explains to Arrieta:

Francho es un liberal, un negro, y en España no va a haber piedad para ellos en muchos años … La cacería ha comenzado y a él también lo cazarán. ¡Y él lo sabe! Pues permanece impasible. Pinta, riñe a los criados, pasea … Y cuando le suplico que tome providencias, que escape como tantos de sus amigos, grita que no hay motivo para ello.

(128)

He knows he is in danger but stubbornly refuses to take action. Leocadia is convinced that the only cure for Goya's denial is for him to face his repressed fears. She begs Dr. Arrieta for help: “Infúndale ese miedo que le falta, doctor” (128). This the doctor attempts to do by reminding Goya of the mortal danger he is in and the urgent need for him to flee the country. The painter's response, however, reveals the depths of his denial: “¡Tengo que pintar aqui! ¡Aqui!” (139).

Painting and fear are intimately related in El sueño de la razón. Goya, in effect, deals with his fears of Fernando VII and waning virility by transposing them into his Pinturas negras. The paintings thus become the repository for his displaced fears. Although Goya frequently stresses his need to paint, his definition of the verb pintar is restricted to the retouching of the Black Paintings. The once prolific artist who never retouched his works, now obsessively stands guard over his macabre creations as though expecting them to leap suddenly from their frames. Goya's constant retouching can be interpreted as a desperate symbolic effort to keep the monstrous by-products of his fear at bay. With each stroke of the paintbrush he fervently, yet futilely, works to preserve the mental barrier that precariously separates him from his demons.¹⁰

In the process of transposing his fears into the paintings, Goya also attempts to disassociate himself from his once vivid imagination and active reason.¹¹ Although both of these attributes are essential components of his being, the painter treats them as though they are entities separate and distinct from himself. He blames his imagination, not himself, for engendering the fear that is inherent in the Pinturas negras,¹² and he blames his reason for abandoning him, instead of himself taking responsibility for its waning. Goya, incorrectly assuming that imagination, reason and fear are his enemies, displaces them all into the Black Paintings where he hopes they cannot threaten him.

Leocadia, aware that mere words will be of no avail in breaking through the mental wall that separates the painter from his fears, reason and imagination, takes matters into her own hands by attempting to communicate with the sergeant, ostensibly to gain his trust and to enlist his help. Goya, however, interpreting her actions as lascivious, unwittingly brings himself face-to-face with his fear of sexual impotency. Leocadia, therefore, whether knowingly or not, is the character who makes the initial crack in his wall of denial by making him confront one of his repressed fears. As a result of Leocadia's actions, Goya's mind begins to view his mistress as an increasingly powerful threat as is seen in his creation of the two imagined faces of her as the Voice of Leocadia and Judith-Leocadia.

In the process of awakening his fears of sexual inadequacy, Goya's interpretation of Leocadia's actions also reignite his almost dormant imagination. Even with his obsessive retouching of the Pinturas negras, Goya is never able to separate himself completely from his imagination. From the onset of the drama the deaf painter hears cats meowing, the flapping of wings and the voice of his absent daughter, all of which are distant but disturbing reminders to Goya of his still lurking imagination.¹³ At the beginning of the play, the painter simply dismisses or ignores the isolated sounds in his mind, refusing to communicate with them or to acknowledge them as “real.” Leocadia's rendezvous with the soldier, however, prompts a discourse between Goya and the creatures of his imagination. As Goya's wariness of Leocadia grows, the Voice of Mariquita begins to take an increasingly active role in his imagination, reinforcing his suspicions about Leocadia's infidelity (174–78). The painter lets himself be influenced by the Voice of Mariquita and acts upon her advice by accusing Leocadia of sexual indiscretion (178). Once Goya opens the door of his cerebral safe haven to Mariquita's voice, all of the other creatures of his imagination and his paintings begin flooding back into his conscious mind. Leocadia's actions, therefore, serve as the impetus for the forging together of Goya's concrete and imaginary worlds.

The creatures of Goya's imagination, including Judith-Leocadia, reacquaint the artist with his repressed fears in the play-within-the-play that is dreamed by Goya at the end of the drama. It is the actions of the live Voluntarios realistas following the dream, however, that serve to actualize the fears that Goya had previously only imagined. In the brutal rape of Leocadia, the artist's own beating and the sergeant's menacing promise to return, Goya is forced not only to recognize his fears, but to experience them personally. It is the fear that Goya is made to imagine and experience as a result of the nightmare and the soldiers' assault that releases him from his complacency and infuses him with a desire to act that manifests itself in an irrational rage against his mistress.¹⁴ Whereas before Goya transposed his fears into his paintings, after the soldiers' departure he attempts to displace those same fears onto Leocadia by threatening to shoot her. Just as he is about to pull the trigger, however, his still recuperating reason intervenes and fills Goya's mind with the imaginary Voice of Leocadia. It is the words that she utters that will, according to Halsey: “… evince all the insight of [Goya's] hallucinations” (Antonio 123). She admits her guilt but makes the artist consider his complicity in the tragedy of their lives. Her unanticipated request for death by his hand causes the last remnants of his denial to dissipate and the force of his reason to return.

With reason guiding him anew, Goya admits to his responsibility for his suffering and recognizes the composite Leocadia's role in his enlightenment when he responds to her ethereal voice as follows: “Nunca sabré qué has dicho. Pero quizá te he comprendido. Y a mí también me he comprendido. ¡Qué risa!. … El viejo carcamal amenaza a su joven amante porque no se atreve a disparar contra otros. … ¡Cuando ellos entraron yo no llegué a tiempo a la escopeta porque no quise! Porque no me atreví a llegar a tiempo” (208). He then says to his mistress: “¿Qué han hecho de mí, Leocadia? ¿Qué he hecho yo de mí?” (210). His catharsis from a state of moral blindness to one of moral enlightenment is precipitated by the composite Leocadia's successful efforts to bring the painter face-to-face with his fears in his daily life, in his imaginary world and in his dreams.

Both the biblical Judith and Buero's composite image of Leocadia, through their actions, manage to communicate a very important message about fear: that inactivity in the face of terror will inevitably lead to defeat, whereas fighting against fear will pave the way to victory (whether physical or psychological). Goya, for example, has to leave Spain at the end of the drama (outwardly an indication of defeat), but he does so having confronted his fears and accepted them as part of who he is (personal victory).¹⁵ Goya and the Israelites demonstrate that fear, when left unchecked, has the power to paralyze and destroy. Judith and Leocadia, on the other hand, show that all individuals have a responsibility, to themselves and to others, to be the masters of their own fears.

Having addressed some of the similarities between the stories of Judith and Leocadia with regard to character and theme, it is now necessary to examine one area in which the plots of the two works differ. Whereas Judith successfully decapitates Holofernes in the biblical story, Judith-Leocadia is prevented from completing the same task in El sueño de la razón. In order to explain how the two stories remain similar even in light of this divergence in plot, the intentions of the two heroines must be reexamined. Judith's plan from the onset is to seduce and murder Holofernes, because he is the leader of the forces that threaten the Israelites. Buero's composite of the Leocadia character, on the other hand, is not attempting to murder Goya, but to eliminate the fear that threatens to destroy him. In this sense, both Judith and Judith-Leocadia successfully commit a murder, one real and the other symbolic. When considered in this light, it is summarily important that Judith-Leocadia does not cut off Goya's head, because such an act would imply the death of reason and imagination. With the loss of these two attributes, Goya would also lose his battle against his fear and become one with the king and the other monsters trapped within the sleep of reason.

The significance of Judith-Leocadia's failed attempt at decapitation in Buero's play can be elucidated further by examining the Black Painting of “Judith and Holofernes” that is projected on stage periodically throughout the drama. In the painting, only a small portion of Holofernes's head is visible. Nordstrom explains that “… no es fácil distinguir a la víctima, a la derecha y en la parte inferior del cuadro, pues sólo se distinguen partes de la cabeza y del hombro izquierdo” (241). With this description in mind, the final frame of the metaplay, when Judith-Leocadia is about to decapitate Goya, can be interpreted as a dramatized version of the implied action of the Black Painting. Goya, like the blurred Holofernes in the painting, is both within the fictional frame and outside of it. He narrowly escapes Judith-Leocadia's blade by slipping out of the nightmare and back into his waking life. In addition, although the Judith in the painting has a hint of blood on her face, her knife appears clean suggesting that she has not yet completed her task. The ambiguity of the Pintura negra correlates well with Buero's play because it demonstrates that the symbolic threat of death is more important than the physical act of killing. The focus of the painting is not Holofernes's death but Judith's power. It is she whom Goya wishes us to see, not Holofernes. Buero portrays his composite Leocadia in similar fashion, even though her omnipresence is not as apparent as that of Judith in the painting. Her pervasiveness can only be ascertained by visualizing the three faces of Leocadia as one composite entity. She is the only character, with the exception of Goya, who has the ability to transcend each of the three levels of the play: the concrete world of the painter's home, Goya's imaginary world, and the metaplay that is a dramatization of the etching of the “Sleep of Reason.” When considered in this manner, Leocadia has the same looming effect as Judith in the painting. Goya, on the other hand (prior to his reconciliation with his reason and imagination), is much like the blurred entity at the bottom right of the canvas: nondescript, unwary and helpless.

Leocadia, and Goya's cerebral representations of her as the Voice of Leocadia and Judith-Leocadia, save the artist's reason and imagination by forcing him to confront his fears. She represents both the threat of death and the promise of life. These paradoxical traits remind us again of the biblical Judith whose many different facets help her to successfully defeat Holofernes. The composite Leocadia, like Judith, exhibits a curious mixture of traditionally masculine and feminine traits, is willing to sacrifice herself for the good of another, is a pillar of strength in the face of collective weakness, and represents the voice of reason in an otherwise irrational world. In his melding of the biblical character of Judith with that of Leocadia, Buero creates a hybrid entity that has the strength to challenge Goya's fierce denial and to force him to face his destiny. Without her help and perseverance, Goya would most likely have ended up on the wrong side of the fictional frame as one of the creatures of the sleep of reason.

Notes

1. Most references to Leocadia are fleeting and deal primarily with Goya's perceptions of her. The following articles mention Leocadia specifically as she relates to Goya's fears of aging and sexual impotence vis-à-vis her own youthfulness and virility: Casa's “The Darkening Vision: The Latter Plays of Buero Vallejo; Halsey's “Goya in the Theater. Buero Vallejo's El sueño de la razon”; Rotert's “Monster in the Mirror”; and, Herzberger's “The Painterly Vision of Buero Vallejo's El sueño de la razón.”

2. Recognizing herself as one of the subjects of Goya's Pinturas negras Leocadia says to Arrieta: “Esas pinturas me aluden” (125).

3. Moore describes the passivity of the Bethulian males in contrast to the assertiveness of Judith as follows: “It is the final measure of Judith's stature and of the magistrates' passivity that they immediately approved her proposal and allowed two defenseless women to go out and brave the Assyrian army. God, they assured her, would be going with her. (But none of the men of Bethulia would.) The magistrates, in their passivity and lack of faith, serve well as foils for the assertive, believing Judith” (186). In Buero's play, Goya is not the only ineffectual male. Although well intentioned, Father Duaso and Doctor Arrieta fail to intervene on Goya's behalf in a timely manner. A clear comparison can be made between Buero's Arrieta and the biblical figure of Achior. Moore refers to Achior as the “honest but ineffective advisor” (59). Arrieta similarly serves as advisor to both Goya and Leocadia. At every turn he attempts to justify and rationalize Goya's behavior even while suspecting that he may truly understand the painter's curious “madness.” He, like Achior, is an intermediary and a counselor, but he is unable (for whatever reason) to act in time.

4. Goya, unable to face his fear, turns to his mythical flying men as a source of hope and inspiration. He explains his hopes for the flying men to Dr. Arrieta as follows: “Le confesaré mi mayor deseo: que un día … bajen. ¡A acabar con Fernando VII y con todas las crueldades del mundo! Acaso un día bajen como un ejército resplandeciente y llamen a todas las puertas. Con golpes tan atronadores … que yo mismo los oiré” (138).

5. Referring to Judith's complex gender roles in the biblical story, Montley says: “In her marvelous androgyny, Judith embodies yet somehow transcends the male/female dichotomy. To this extent, she is a heroine who rises above the sexism of her author's culture” (40).

6. With regard to the biblical story of Judith, Moore says that each part of the book “… has as its major chiastic feature its own repeating theme: in chaps. 1–7, the theme is fear or its denial, and men play all the leading roles; in chaps. 8–16 it is beauty, mentioned or implied, and a woman has center stage. Thus, just as fear of the Assyrians had a ‘domino effect,’ knocking down successive nations and peoples in chaps. 1–7, so Judith's beauty bowled over one male after another” (57). Buero Vallejo similarly stresses the importance of fear as a theme in his play when he says: “En El sueño de la razón, el terror lo comprende todo y a todos concieme” (Fernández-Santos 20). See also Casa's article for more on the role of fear in El sueño de la razón.

7. Goya is Leocadia's enemy in the sense that he, without realizing it, puts his family in tremendous jeopardy as a result of his own moral blindness. The enemy against which Leocadia fights in the drama is not Goya per se, but the state of denial in which he resides.

8. Halsey explains that moral blindness is a common trait of Buero's tragic heroes. The following explanation of the relationship between moral blindness and tragedy can clearly be applied to Goya in El sueño de la razón: “The tragedy … deals with the reason for suffering and the relationship to moral responsibility. … The universe imposes limitations, but it is the individual's own moral blindness—his self-deception or unwillingness to confront the reality of his situation, as well as his innate egoism—which prevent him from overcoming these limitations and which bring down upon him suffering and grief” (Antonio 23). Goya ultimately learns to accept responsibility for his situation with the help of Leocadia.

9. Sikka divides Buero's dramaturgy structurally into three different categories, each of which examines the role of his female characters. Leocadia clearly fits into the first of the categories: “In the first, there is a male protagonist whose spiritual awakening is precipitated by a woman's actions, her knowledge, or by something that happens to her. Since the audience identifies with the protagonist, the woman functions as spiritual catalyst for the spectator as well as the fictional character …” (18). At this point in the analysis of Leocadia's role, it is her knowledge and her actions that serve to awaken Goya. Sikka clearly sees the role of women in Buero's plays to be pivotal. Similarly, Ruggeri Marchetti stresses the importance of the female character in the structure of Buero's plays as follows: “… como sede de consciente coraje reolucionario o de abnegación sublime, el personaje femenino ocupa muy a menudo el papel de protagonista principal en el microcosmos dramático. Y lo hace tanto en el plano de la importancia funcional dentro de la dinámica teatral, como en el del contenido psicológico e ideológico. Y es que para Buero la mujer, con sus humanos defectos y virtudes, con su problema de inserción en la estructura social, asciende a categoría primaria” (41).

10. As the paintings represent truth in this play (Weimer 30). Goya cannot keep them silent. Other forms of conventional communication may fail in El sueño de la razón, but the Pinturas negras speak volumes about the reality of Spain.

11. In his conversation with Fernández-Santos, Buero describes the relationship between Goya's waning reason and his Pinturas negras as follows: “Probablemente se dio cuenta de que su propensión racionalista se le quedaba corta y no llegaba a agotar la significación profunda que entreveía en el mundo. Es muy posible que de esta convicción surjan las ‘pinturas negras’ … Goya, voluntariamente, limita sus excesivas pretensiones racionales—porque su razón está a punto de soñar—y abre la puerta a lo enigmático. Abandona entonces sus pretensiones de pintorfilósoío y retoma el camino de la pintura pura” (22). In addition, Ashworth notes the independent yet precarious position of Goya's reason and imagination when he observes that: “Buero's play is a dream-like collaboration of assaulted reason and threatened imagination …” (70).

12. Describing the power and autonomy of Goya's imagination Herzberger explains that: “Goya is aware that an undefined and even uncontrolled imagination impels the course of his painting” (98). In Goya's mind it is this uncontrolled imagination that engenders the fear in the Pinturas negras. Describing the paintings to Dr. Arrieta he says: “Estas paredes rezuman miedo” (184). In addition, Nicholas suggests that Goya's imagination may not only be distinct from the painter, but may also be able to exert control over him: “… the art object or process may have a reality independent of the artist (of life); it may, in fact, determine the artist's very existence. … the protagonist's involuntary visions and premonitions terrify him not only because he cannot control them, but because they seem to be able to control him” (30).

13. Herzberger describes the looming presence of Goya's imagination as follows: “Buero portrays Goya's imagination as splendidly autonomous, but never remote” (98).

14. It is Leocadia's rape, according to Sikka, that prompts Goya's awakening: “… it is the fate of the woman which causes the male protagonist to perceive the truth of his existence. When the soldiers rape Goya's mistress Leocadia in his presence and he is helpless to prevent it, he comes to realize the fact of his absolute vulnerability” (19).

15. Halsey discusses the inner victory of many of Buero's tragic heroes when she states that “The dreamer's outward defeat thus signifies his inward victory. As is the case in all tragedy, moreover, his outward defeat implies the survival of his inner ideals and hopes” (“Dreamer” 285). Schwartz also explains the importance of this inner victory as follows: “Buero Vallejo encourages the hope which lies in the human soul, postulating the possibility that one has of gaining victory over himself, because as long as man fights for faith and against his own evil, humanity and the world will survive” (823).

Works Cited

Ashworth, Peter. “Silence and Self-Portraits: The Artist as Young Girl, Old Man and Scapegoat in El espíritu de la colmena and El sueño de la razón.” Estreno 12.2 (1986): 66–71.

Buero Vallejo, Antonio. El tragaluz. El sueño de la razón. Madrid: Espasa Calpe, 1990.

Casa, Frank P. “The Darkening Vision: The Latter Plays of Buero Vallejo.” Estreno 5.1 (1979): 30–33.

Fernández-Santos, Angel. “Sobre El sueño de la razón: Una conversación con Antonio Buero Vallejo.” Primer Acto 117 (1971): 18–27.

Halsey, Martha T. Antonio Buero Vallejo. New York: Twayne, 1973.

———. “The Dreamer in the Tragic Theater of Buero Vallejo.” Revista de Estudios Hispánicos 2 (1968): 265–85.

———. “Goya in the Theater: Buero Vallejo's El sueño de la razón.” Kentucky Romance Quarterly 18 (1971): 207–21.

Herzberger, David. “The Painterly Vision of Buero Vallejo's El sueño de la razón.” Symposium 39.2 (1985): 93–103.

Montley, Patricia. “Judith in the Fine Arts: The Appeal of the Archetypal Androgyne.” Anima 4 (1978): 37–42.

Moore, Carey A., ed. and trans. Judith. The Anchor Bible 40. New York: Doubleday, 1985.

Nicholas, Robert. “Antonio Buero Vallejo: Stages, Illusions and Hallucinations.” The Contemporary Spanish Theater: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Martha Halsey and Phyllis Zatlin. Lanham, MD: U Press of America, 1988. 25–48.

Nordstrom, Folke. Goya, Saturno y melancolía: Consideraciones sobre el arte de Goya. Trans. Carmen Santos. Madrid: Visor, 1989.

Rotert, Richard W. “Monster in the Mirror.” Estreno 17.2 (1991): 34–42.

Ruggeri Marchetti, Magda. “La mujer en el teatro de Antonio Buero Vallejo.” Anthropos 79 (1987): 37–41.

Schwartz, Kessel. “Buero Vallejo's Valleys and the Concept of Tragedy.” Hispania 51.4 (1968): 817–24.

Sikka, Linda Sollish. “Buero's Women: Structural Agents and Moral Guides.” Estreno 16.1 (1990): 18–22.

Weimer, Christopher. “Logocentrism in Crisis: Buero Vallejo's El sueño de la razón as Post-Structuralist Text.” Estreno 20.2 (1994): 28–32.