SOURCE: "Cela's La Colmena: The Creative Process as Message," in Hispania, Vol. 55, No. 4, December, 1972, pp. 873-80.

[In the following essay, Spires asserts that the theme of Cela's La colmena can only be understood by experiencing its form.]

Camilo José Cela's La colmena has received almost universal acclaim as one of the most important post-Civil War Spanish novels largely on the basis of its interesting stylistic innovations and/or its social content, i.e., the social-moral atmosphere of Madrid immediately after the Spanish Civil War. Although these two aspects are of historical significance, to speak of the novel primarily in these terms tends to characterize it as a static document when in fact anyone who reads the work finds it to be first and foremost a dynamic, if perplexing, experience of discovery. The novel's dynamism can perhaps best be explained by studying the temporal and tonal paradoxes with which the reader is confronted, for it is in fact the reader's experience of and participation in the creative process of La colmena that reveals its thematic content and the revelation answers the charge that the novel lacks profundity.

Tonal paradox in the novel results form the narrator's fluctuating displays of cold detachment and anguished outrage. Temporal paradox is experienced by the reader as he is made to feel timelessness yet recognizes the existence of a governing temporal order. Since the first chapter serves as an excellent window on the novel, I shall focus my study of this latter phenomenon on the initial chapter. The obvious point of departure for studying this experience-through-paradox-process is the novel's structure.

The most obvious structural aspect of La colmena that the reader encounters is the fragmentation of episodes and the non-chronological development of action. For example, the narrator's point of focus may begin with a conversation in progress between two personages, leave them abruptly in the middle of their discourse of their discourse to pick up the conversations or thoughts of other characters, and then return to the original dialogue which is often resumed without any apparent temporal progression. The absence of a chronological order in presenting the fragments further complicates this technique. An episode whose fragments appear at the beginning of a chapter may be temporally simultaneous with another episode whose fragments appear in the middle or near the end of the chapter. Such a technique is in opposition to the traditional time-progression nature of the novel form since there is no necessary correlation between temporal simultaneity and juxtaposition. As a result of these devices, the reader experiences the sensation of arrested temporal progression. Also he has the illusion that each fragment exists independently of everything that precedes and follows it; consequently, each action and personage that appears within a fragment tends to assume an existence outside the temporal order of nature. The cruelty of the café proprietress. Doña Rosa, the plight of the aging prostitute, Elvira, the pathetic dreams of conquest of the cowardly bar owner, Celestino Ortiz, and the absurdity of Martín Marco's fluctuating sense of persecution and well-being, these and all other human traits portrayed in the novel become frozen in time as a result of the narrator's method of presentation. However, in addition to the sensation of timelessness apparent in the preceding examples, the careful reader cannot ignore the fact that there is an elaborate system of temporal associations that lies beneath the novel's apparent temporal chaos. The thematic significance of this temporal paradox can perhaps more clearly be understood in light of Henri Bergson's theory of duration.

Stated quite simply, Bergson rejected the common practice of equating time exclusively with space. In other words, true "time" is not restricted to the successive marks reached by the hands of a clock as they progress through space, but also includes the individual's personal experience of a given temporal span. The familiar statements, "time is standing still" and "time is flying" are popular expressions of this philosophical theory. Following this same line of reasoning, Bergson states that man's essential traits are timeless, a composite of his past and present existence. Duration, then, is this non-temporal aspect of an individual's being that may be revealed at any given moment through word or gesture. However—and here is the paradox—this non-temporal human essence present in every man is absolutely dependent upon the individual's temporal existence. Each man's non-temporal essence is peculiar to him and therefore ceases to exist with his death. Although duration superimposes itself on the separate ticks of a clock and in this sense is unaffected by temporal flow, in the final analysis it is dependent on the individual man, who cannot escape the tragic imprisonment of the temporal order of nature. La colmena, through its complex structure, in effect forces the reader to experience actively this abstract philosophical concept, even without benefit of critical analysis. As the reader observes Cela's techniques more carefully, he appreciates more completely the writer's creative process. In other words, he experiences to a greater extent the coming-into-being of the Bergsonian concept.

The time indicators that make the reader aware of the temporal structure of La colmena extend from very broad to extremely precise elements. First of all, there are frequent references to the progress of World War II that give the novel historical orientation. Also, the time span for the novel as a whole as well as for the individual chapters is specified and becomes obvious if one merely rearranges the order of the chapters to read: I, II, IV, VI, III, V, and the "Final." Such a rearrangement reveals that the action begins at the merienda hour of one day and ends at the cena hour of the next with the final chapter set two or three days later. Although there is some confusion occasioned by the overlapping of the time span of one chapter into the next, it does not require any extraordinary effort on the part of the reader to recognize that each series of episodes is enclosed within a temporal framework. Even within each framework the reader cannot ignore the existence of temporal associations that seem to specify the exact moment of some, if not all, the events presented. Unfortunately, this aspect of the novel's structure—with its thematic implications—has thus far been all but ignored by critics or, in at least one case, summarily and erroneously dismissed as unnecessary for an appreciation of the novel. On the contrary, a very fundamental thematic implication stems directly from the reader's appreciation of a dual effect: (1) the sensation of timelessness and (2) the awareness of a governing temporal order. The first chapter of La colmena is an excellent showcase for the techniques Cela uses throughout to create this paradoxical reality.

Doña Rosa is the chief point of focus in this chapter because she dominates the scene and also because she appears in fragments arranged in chronological order. The novel begins with a description of her as she lumbers through the maze of tables, apparently headed in the direction of the kitchen. At this point the narrator unceremoniously abandons Doña Rosa as he directs the reader's attention to several of the customers seated at the tables. Then, some twenty pages farther on, the reader's attention is once again directed to Doña Rosa as she shouts orders at the employees in the kitchen. In the midst of her verbal chastisement of one of the waiters, she suddenly turns to an unidentified employee and commands: "—Y tú, pasmado, ya estás yendo por el periódico." This apparently insignificant detail assumes considerable temporal significance when, near the end of the chapter, the narrator announces: "Alfonsito, el niño de los recados, vuelve de la calle con el periódico." In this way the reader is given the clue to the approximate time span for the chapter as the boy explains that his delay—which could not have been too excessive, considering Doña Rosa's comparatively mild challenge: "—Oye, rico, ¿dónde has ido por el papel?"—resulted from a line in front of the newsstand. However, these two passages are not easily connected because of the space between them and because of the appearance of so many new personages, most of whom seemingly have no connection whatsoever with the other customers. Yet, in spite of the difficulty in pinpointing this association, even the casual reader must sense that the activities presented in this first chapter are governed by a fairly well-defined temporal framework in which Doña Rosa, with her constant movement, serves as the pendulum.

Nevertheless, Doña Rosa alone cannot temporally link the isolated activities of the more than twenty characters who appear in this first chapter. Supplementing her role as chronometer are some minor incidents whose impact briefly touches several of the customers, thereby allowing the reader to recognize the simultaneousness of these customers' activities with the incident in question. An episode in which a young poet faints offers an excellent example of the manner in which this device is employed.

The poet first appears in the ninth fragment of the chapter as he is lost in deep concentration, and the narrator comments briefly about his background. Then, some twenty-three pages farther on, the narrator returns to the poet, this time to explain that the deep concentration is due to the boy's efforts to find the proper word for his poem to rhyme with río. This effort apparently has been too intense for, as the narrator enters the personage's mind, one sees that the words are becoming jumbled. Two fragments farther on, another customer notes that a young man seated near him seems to be on the verge of fainting but is unable to reach the boy before he falls to the floor. This customer, a moneylender by the name of D. Trinidad, helps the youth to his feet and escorts him to the rest room and, upon returning to his own table after this altruistic gesture, engages in the following brief conversation with an unidentified person: "—¿Le ha pasado ya?—Sí, no era nada, un mareo." A few pages farther on, one of the musicians who has been talking with Doña Rosa during a break leans over to ask of a man at one of the tables: "—¿Y el mozo?" The unidentified man responds: "—Reponiéndose en el water, no era nada."

By shifting the point of view from which the reader sees this scene—and in so doing altering the details but not the essence of the conversation—the narrator has managed to make the reader experience the temporal paradox. Multiple reference to a single, identifiable instant creates a sense of timelessness. Nevertheless, there is enough happening to communicate a vague awareness of temporal order, of sequential cause and effect. Similarly, this same incident involving the poet can be connected to the lecture of a man by the name of Vega to a student seated beside him. This rather brief lecture, which is split between pages 33 and 58, is given time-sequence orientation by Vega's warning that young men who waste their time sitting in cafes "al final se caen un día desmayados, como ese niño litri que se han llevado para adentro." Finally, a man by the name of D. Jaime Arce breaks his habitual silence to deliver a very brief, if emotional, commentary on the world's financial problems. In spite of the brevity of these remarks, D. Jaime appears on pages 24, 45 (where we read his comments), and 63; in other words, the fragments devoted to him span almost the entire chapter. Yet, the reader can pinpoint his remarks to the final moments of the chapter by means of the narrator's observation that D. Jaime, upon drifting back into his normal state of silence after delivering his harangue, notices the young poet emerging from the rest room after recuperating.

The incident of the poet demonstrates the manner in which a given event serves to cut horizontally across the network of independent activities in order to impress upon the reader an awareness that these are governed by a common chronological point of reference. This device is also evident with the arrival of the newspapers which provide a mutual topic of conversation that draws the customers into a concluding temporal bond. In fact, sequential time may be the only common link in the lives of these basically self-centered people and, by analogy, Man in general.

One other technique that seemingly rejects the time-progression laws of nature is repetition of a scene with variations. One example is the short conversation between D. Trinidad and the musician concerning the welfare of the poet. An even more striking example is the occasion when Doña Rosa sends Alfonsito out for the evening papers. She orders one of the waiters, Pepe, to get back to his job. This moment is then continued five fragments farther on: "Pepe el camarero, se vuelve a su rincón sin decir una palabra." As he stands sulking over the replies he should have given to Doña Rosa, he notices two small boys playing train and so approaches them to say: "—Que os vais a ir a caer…." The narrator then remarks: "Los niños le contestant 'no, señor,' y siguen jugando al tren…." The repetition of this scene occurs some twenty-five pages on: "Los niños que juegan al tren se han parado de repente. Un señor les está diciendo que hay que tener más educación y más compostura, y ellos, sin saber qué hacer con las manos, lo míran con curiosidad. Uno, el mayor, que se llama Bernabé, está pensando en un vecino suyo, de su edad poco más o menos, que se llama Chús. El otro, el pequeño, que se llama Paquito, está pensando en que al señor le huele mal la boca." Technically speaking, there has been a shift in the point of view from which the narrator presents the scene. In the first excerpt he simply records the scene as a disinterested observer; while in the second the narrator actually enters the minds of the two boys to present the incident as experienced by them. This repetition device even transcends chapters. For example, after Doña Rosa has Martín Marco ejected from her café, we are given the following scene:

Pepe vuelve a entrar a los pocos momentos. La dueña, que tiene las manos en los bolsillos del mandril, los hombros echados para atrás y las piernas separadas, lo llama con una voz seca, cascada; con una voz que parece el chasquido de un timbre con la campanilla partida.

—Ven acá.

Pepe casi no se atreve a mirarla.

—Qué quiere?

—¿Le has arreado?

—Sí, señorita.

—¿Cuántas?

—Dos.

La dueña entorna los ojitos tras los cristales, saca las manos de los bolsillos y se las pasa por la cara, donde apuntan los cañotes de la barba, mal tapados por los polvos de arroz.

—¿Dónde se las has dado?

—Donde pude; en las piernas.

—Bien hecho. ¡Para que aprenda! ¡Asi otra vez no querrá robarles el dinero a las gentes honradas!

The repetition of this scene is presented in chapter two:

El camarero entra en el Café. Se siente, de golpe, calor en la cara; dan ganas de toser, más bien bajo, como para arrancar esa flema que posó en la garganta el frió de la calle. Después parece hasta que se habla mejor. Al entrar notó que le dolían un poco las sienes; notó también, o se lo figuró, que a doña Rosa le temblada un destellito de lascivia en el bigote.

—Oye, ven acá.

El camarcro se le acercó.

—¿Le has arreado?

—Sí, señorita.

¿Cuantas?

—Dos.

¿Donde?

—¡Donde pude, en las piernas,

—¡Bien hecho! ¡Por mangante!

Again the point of view has shifted. In the first of the two passages the narrator merely records the scene as he observes it while in the second the point of view originates within Pepe's mind and we see how he experiences the incident. Thus, by fragmenting these moments and then repeating them several pages or even chapters farther on, the narrator has given spatial extension to these few minutes. This horizontal extension of a given moment forces the reader to concentrate on the human essence that is portrayed, rather than become absorbed by some potentially dramatic element. However, in spite of the challenge such a technique poses to our ingrained concepts of time, the fact remains that these moments, as a result of the initial association with Doña Rosa, can also be pinpointed within the time-progression of the novel. Once again the structure of the novel suggests that in spite of man's timeless essence, his physical being cannot exist outside the temporal order of nature.

This paradox of the temporal and the non-temporal not only coexisting but being mutually dependent is given explicit expression by the narrator at the end of the first chapter as he describes the clock in Doña Rosa's café:

Suenan las nueve y media en el viejo reló de breves numeritos que brillan como si fueran de oro. El reló es un mueble casí suntuoso que se había traído de la Exposición de París un marquesito tarambana y sin blanca que anduvo cortejando a doña Rosa, allá por el 905. El marquesito, que se llamaba Santiago y era grande de España, murió tísico en El Escorial, muy joven todavía, y el reló quedó posado sobre el mostrador del Café, como para servir de recuerdo de unas horas que pasaron sin traer el hombre para doña Rosa y el comer caliente todos los días, para el muerto, ¡La vida!

So again we see that temporal paradox constitutes one of the essential aspects of creation-in-process of La colmena that the reader experiences. He is made to feel—through fragmentation and nonchronological order—the timelessness of Man's essential traits, yet he also becomes a captive—through the network of time associations—of the temporal order of nature that imprisons all mankind.

The temporal paradox produces an appreciation of the circumstance in the process of becoming reality, rather than of a point fixed on the historical spectrum. This appreciation is further enhanced by a second phenomenon: tonal paradox. In fact, the two work in direct harmony since expressions of the narrator's emotional detachment correspond to representations of the timelessness of Man's nature, while his expressions of anguished outrage correspond to scenes demonstrating Man's imprisonment within the temporal order of nature.

The predominant tone encountered by the reader in La colmena is one of cold detachment and cynicism which is conveyed by the narrator's treatment of the various types of characters that appear in the novel. However, this cynical attitude is tempered by a paradoxical tone of anguish that appears from time to time throughout the work. Just as he has been drawn into the temporal structure, the reader is slowly pulled into the reality of this contradictory union of detachment and concern.

Perhaps the most obvious distancing device employed by the narrator is humor. According to Henri Bergson, laughter is dependent on an absence of emotional involvement between the observer and the object of ridicule. Therefore, by caricaturizing a personage in the novel, the narrator creates an emotional barrier between this personage and the reader. The portrait of a self-esteeming politician in the process of practicing a speech before the mirror is typical of the many humorous episodes in the novel:

Don Ibrahim adelantó un pie hacia las candilejas y acarició, con un gesto elegante, las solapas de su batín, Bien: de su frac. Después sonrió.

—Pues bien, señores académicos: así como para usar algo hay que poseerlo, para poseer algo hay que adquirirlo. Nada importa a título de qué; yo he dicho, tan sólo, que hay que adquirirlo, ya que nada, absolutamente nada, puede ser poseído sin una previa adquisición. (Quizás me interrumpan los aplausos. Conviene estar preparado.)

La voz de don Ibrahim sonaba solemne como la de un fagot. Al otro lado del tabique de panderete, un marido, de vuelta de su trabajo, preguntaba a su mujer:

—¿Ha hecho su eaquita la nena?

Don Ibrahim sintió algo de frío y se arregló un poco la bufanda. En el espejo se veía un lacito negro, el que se lleva en el frac por las tardes.

The reader's participation in the humor of this description begins with the narrator's self-correction in the first paragraph. This obvious mocking of D. Ibrahim's puerile insistence on imagining himself as actually standing in formal attire before his fellow senators conveys a condescending attitude. The impression is like that of an adult humoring a small child who insists on creating a make-believe world. This sense of superiority then paves the way for the comic climax which occurs when D. Ibrahim pauses to acknowledge the anticipated applause of his colleagues. The ensuing question of the neighbor that penetrates the thin walls, and D. Ibrahim's reaction to it—an insistence in maintaining his lofty fantasy in spite of the extremely earthy nature of the interruption—results in his almost total effacement. This example is typical of the manner in which humor is employed throughout the novel to help create the predominant tone of emotional detachment that the reader encounters.

There is a similar barrier created between the reader and the tragic figures of the novel. The following example concerning Elvíra, an aging prostitute who has just been dropped by her lover, demonstrates a more subtle manner in which emotional detachment is achieved:

La señorita Elvira sonríe. Doña Rosa entoma la mirada, llena de pesar.

—¡Es que hay gente sin conciencia, hija!

—¡Psché! ¿Qué mas da?

Doña Rosa se le acerca, le habla casi al oído.

—¿Por qué no se arregla con don Pablo?

—Porque no quiero. Una también tiene su orgullo, doña Rosa.

—¡Nos ha merengao! ¡Todas tenemos nuestras cosas! Pero lo que yo le digo a usted, Elvirita, y ya sabe que yo siempre quiero para usted lo mejor, es que con don Pablo bien le iba.

—No tanto. Es un tío muy exigente. Y además un baboso. Al final ya lo aborrecía. ¡qué quiere usted!, ya me daba hasta repugnancia.

Doña Rosa pone la dulce voz, la persuasiva voz de los consejos.

—¡Hay que tener más paciencia, Elvirita! ¡Usted es aún muy niña!

—¿Usted cree?

La señorita Elvirita escupe debajo de la mesa y se seca la boca con la vuelta de un guante.

The episode develops on the basis of dialogue between two characters rather than on the basis of what the narrator says about them. In other words, the narrator appears to restrict his utterances to the function of "stage directions" that provide the platform on which the dialogue performs. Nevertheless, the subtle use of a morphological device affects the reader's emotional response. At the beginning of the passage the narrator factually reports the action, but at the end he uses the diminutive form just as Doña Rosa does. Her use of "Elvirita" rather than "Elvira" communicates emotional warmth—a degree of intimacy which would appear to be foreign to the detached narrator. Indeed, by using this device, he creates an ironic contrast between the endearing connotation of this diminutive form and the image of a hardened, if pathetic, prostitute spitting on the floor and wiping her mouth with the back of her glove. Elvira is indeed a pathetic figure, but her crudeness makes the diminutive seem sarcastic—not when it is used by Doña Rosa, but when it is used by the narrator who initiates the scene by reference to "Elvira" and ends it by reference to "Elvirita." The irony that results from this manipulation by the narrator, while obviously also directed at Doña Rosa and her hypocritical amiability, creates an emotional detachment from Elvira's pathetic state of existence. The contrast is further intensified by Doña Rosa's immediately preceding statement, "usted es aún muy niña." However, the first hint of a paradox in tone is also evident here for, in spite of the narrator's cynical treatment of Elvira, there is an irrepressible tendency to feel sympathy for this pathetic woman. The conflict here between the reader's instinctive feeling of compassion and the morphological change employed by the narrator is, as we have suggested, one of the first indications of the novel's paradoxical tone.

The conditions that elicited an emotional conflict within the reader in the example concerning Elvira are even more pronounced in the following concerning a small gypsy boy who sings in the streets to earn his sub-standard living:

El niño no tiene cara de persona, tiene cara de animal doméstico, de sucia bestia, de pervertida bestia de corral. Son muy pocos sus años para que el dolor haya marcado aun el navajazo del cinismo—o de la resignación—en su cara, y su cara tiene una bella expresión de no entender nada de lo que pasa. Todo lo que pasa es un milagro para el gitanito, que nació de milagro, que come de milagro, que vive de milagro y que tiene fuerzas para cantar de puro milagro.

Detrás de los días vienen las noches, detrás de las noches vienen los días. El año tiene cuatro estaciones; primavera, verano, otoño, invierno. Hay verdades que se sienten dentro del cuerpo, como el hambre o las ganas de orinar.

In spite of the pathetic aspects of this boy's life, the narrator's portrait of him seems to indicate that he chooses to reserve any display of personal emotion. The repetition of certain words sharpens the edges of the tonal paradox as it produces a sense of the narrator's detachment. First of all, the narrator emphasizes the boy's infrahuman characteristics—"de sucia bestia, de pervertida bestia de corral." Although the lack of cynicism in his expression distinguishes him from adults, it is the same innocent but stupid facial expression of a dumb animal. This animalistic image is also strengthened in the final paragraph as the narrator suggests that the boy's powers of logic and reason are limited to recognition of a change in the elements and of the physical demands of his body. Finally, all these bestial aspects are vivified by the narrator's use of present tense verb forms. Yet, in spite of the overt tone of cynicism in this description, a certain sense of compassion for the plight of this poor urchin is also evoked. The clue to this dichotomy of emotions can best be seen in the passage, "todo lo que pasa es un milagro para el gitanito, que nació de milagro, que come de milagro, que vive de milagro y que tiene fuerzas para cantar de puro milagro." The ironic use of the word "miracle" to explain the pathetic existence of this small boy is in violent opposition to the detached tone conveyed by the rest of the description. And so the narrator reveals two paradoxical attitudes: (1) cold aloofness and (2) a certain feeling of anguished outrage. The irony produced by the insistence on "miracle" veers toward sarcasm, but certainly it is not directed at the boy, but rather at some higher Being. This implicit expression of the narrator's underlying outrage, evoked here by the boy's misery, is given explicit expression at various points in the novel.

The first example of this explicit tone of anguish occurs in the initial chapter: "Acodados sobre el viejo, sobre el costroso mármol de los veladores, los clientes ven pasar a la dueña, casi sin mirarla ya, mientras piensan, vagamente, en ese mundo que, jay! no fue lo que pudo haber sido, en ese mundo en el que todo ha ido fallando poco a poco, sin que nadie se lo explicase, a lo mejor por una minucia insignificante." The narrator seems to evoke a complete identification with these personages and their sense of hopelessness, an identification that is emphasized by the interjection "¡ay!" This same type of empathetic identification becomes even more evident a few pages farther on: "Flota en el aire como un pesar que se va clavando en los corazones. Los corazones no duelen y pueden sufrir, hora tras hora, hasta toda una vida, sin que nadie sepamos nunca, demasiado a ciencia cierta, qué es lo que pasa." The use of the first-person plural, "sepamos," explicitly associates the narrator with the plight of the café patrons and at the same time draws the reader into a similar emotional identification. These last two examples serve to underline the tonal paradox that characterizes this novel. Just as in the case of temporal paradox, this dichotomy in tone with which the reader is confronted is fundamental to the thematic implications of the work; in fact, the two paradoxes are directly related. For just as Man's essential traits are timeless, yet he as an individual is a prisoner of the temporal order of nature, so the tone of the novel fluctuates between cynical aloofness in the face of this timeless human essence and lyrical expressions of anguish at the realization of mankind's imprisonment in the inexorable temporal order of nature:

La mañana sube, poco a poco, trepando como un gusano por los corazones de los hombres y de las mujeres de la ciudad; golpeando, casi con mimo, sobre los mirares recién despiertos, esos mirares que jamás descubren horizontes nuevos, paisajes nuevos, nuevas decoraciones.

La mañana, esa mañana eternamente repetida, juega un poco, sin embargo, a cambiar la faz de la ciudad, ese sepulcro, esa cucaña, esa colmena….

¡Que Dios nos coja confesados!

As I noted at the beginning of this paper, it has been charged that La colmena fails as a novel because of its lack of profundity. Such a charge, I suspect, reflects an effort to locate its ideas explicitly stated. In La colmena, this cannot be done. Nowhere is the reader told that Man is both ludicrously timeless and tragically temporal; but this is exactly what we as readers are made to experience. So meaning, (i.e., theme or content) in this novel is in a very real sense the experience itself. To talk of stylistic innovations or social content as isolated facets not only fails to convey the dynamic nature of the novel, but in effect deprives it of its fundamental thematic message.