[In the following essay, Longhurst surveys critical reactions regarding Guzmán's authentic conversion.]

Interpretations of Guzmán de Alfarache have undergone a drastic change of direction over the last ten years or so, thanks largely to the efforts of American scholars. I am thinking mainly, though not exclusively, of the recent books of Joan Arias, Carroll Johnson and Benito Brancaforte.¹

What these books have in common (and they have a great deal in common) is above all that they have called into question the general assumption found not only in the religiously-orientated interpretation of Moreno Báez and A. A. Parker but also in the much more ideologically neutral studies of critics such as Donald McGrady, Maurice Molho, Edmond Cros or Francisco Rico, namely that the narrator in Guzmán de Alfarache is a reformed individual whose self-accusation and denunciation of sin are part and parcel of his change of heart.² More recent critics on the other hand see the narrator either as a hypocritical sycophant (Arias), or as a mentally sick person suffering from an unresolved Oedipal conflict (Johnson), or as a homosexual, heterodox and subversive individual whose cryptic attack on Christian values reflects the real author's Judaic allegiance (Brancaforte). What I think must strike the dispassionate observer of Guzmán criticism is the way in which so often interpretations have been governed by methodologies. Moreno Báez was interested in locating doctrinal elements, and having found them concluded that the work was a direct reflection of the Tridentine Counter-Reformation. Francisco Rico applied the concept of narrative point of view and discovered the work to have remarkable consistency and structural unity. Joan Arias adopted the approach of the New Criticism, in which any notions of the author's aims and of the historical context of the work are rigorously excluded and replaced by the critic's own norms and values, and she discovered an equally remarkable consistency of point of view, except that it was at the opposite end of the spectrum from that observed by Rico. Edmond Cros, who far from being a ‘new critic’ is a traditional French scholar who conducted meticulous historical research ranging over a broad front and covering many themes and subjects, concluded that the Guzmán was a compendium of many themes and subjects, a silva de varia lección. Carroll Johnson laid Guzmán on the psychoanalist's couch, and discovered a deep-seated neurosis originating in an unhappy childhood. Benito Brancaforte, an avowed castrista, found the novel to be a statement of converso heterodoxy which ironizes on Christian values and beliefs. Since I would obviously prefer not be accused of critical monism, I will readily concede the principle that all critical approaches are equally valid. But can all results be equally valid? Even while accepting that different critics will of necessity emphasize different aspects of the work, what is one to make of the simple fact that such a central point as the alleged conversion of the narrator is seen totally differently by different groups of critics? For one group, generally speaking European critics, the autobiography is the ultimate proof of Guzmán's change, while for another group, generally speaking American critics, it is the ultimate proof of his lack of change. In all fairness one has to say, I think, that it is the more recent, dissenting, critics who have gone to greater pains to study the text closely in search of evidence. Earlier critics tended to make the not unreasonable assumption that Alemán meant us to take the narrator's claim to have reformed at face value and that this in turn justified and explained the moralizing elements in the work. Parker, McGrady, Rico, Cros and Molho all see Guzmán's conversion as structurally and artistically necessary. But the more recent books of Arias, Johnson and Brancaforte, following on from an earlier article by María Norval, have come up with a good deal of material that shows that the earlier interpretation was a comfortable assumption that glossed over some very real difficulties.³ But if one is indebted to these American critics for having opened up the Guzmán debate in a singleminded and forceful way, one has to say that caution appears not to be part of their critical canon. Learning where to stop, far from being a virtue, would appear to be an inhibiting factor: all evidence is susceptible of limitless interpretation. Let me give a small example of this approach. Both Arias and Johnson make quite a lot of Guzmán's defensive way of writing, of his constant attempts to anticipate his readers' possible criticism, and they interpret this as a sign that Guzmán is trying to win over the readers' sympathies in order to present himself as victim and to appear better than he really is. The defensive way of writing is, I believe, correctly identified by Arias and Johnson; I have no doubt that it is there. But it so happens that exactly the same mode of writing is found in Mateo Alemán's own prologue, where we see an identical habit of trying to anticipate and to answer possible criticisms and objections. The balance of probability points to Guzmán's defensive way of writing as being in general no more than an unconscious reflection of Alemán's own manner of writing rather than a deliberate technique employed by the author to show up his fictional narrator's disingenuousness. Each particular manifestation will have to be judged on its merit and in its context: the danger of generalizing and of reading too much into such evidence needs, I think, to be borne in mind. I do not intend to turn this short essay into a review of existing criticism (though much recent criticism needs some pretty sharp reviewing); what I will do is to look at what seems to be the main evidence in favour of these two broadly antithetical positions over the question of the conversion, and then proceed to suggest what I see as a possible way out of the difficulty.

In presenting the case for a reformed reliable narrator and then for an unreformed unreliable narrator, I should perhaps make the prior point that in principle these two adjectives need not go together. If we remind ourselves that an unreliable narrator is defined as one whose norms can be readily distinguished from those of the implied author, that is to say we have a situation in which the author is inviting us to agree with him rather than with his narrator, we could in theory have a reliable but unrepentent narrator or an unreliable yet repentant one. In practice, however, these combinations can be virtually discounted. There are no grounds for believing that lying is an accepted norm for the author, so if Guzmán is unreformed he can hardly be a reliable narrator, for in that case the author would by definition entertain norms of hypocrisy and lying. The other possible combination, a repentant but unreliable narrator, cannot be so easily discarded, for one can indeed imagine a situation in which the author Alemán is presenting Guzmán's profession of Christian values as genuine while at the same time dissociating himself from those values. Nevertheless, what evidence there is to be inferred from the text points in the opposite direction. The identification between author and fictional narrator is at times so strong that there are occasions when Alemán forgets who the narrator really is, and writes from his own authorial point of view, making Guzmán write things which could not have formed part of his experiences. As one example out of many possible ones I will mention the occasion when Guzmán says “Esto propio le sucedió a este mi pobre libro, que habiéndolo intitulado Atalaya de la vida humana dieron en llamarle Pícaro y no se conoce ya por otro nombre”.⁴ In practice, then, the narrator is likely to be either reformed and reliable or unreformed and unreliable, although obviously the degree of reliability itself can vary throughout the course of the work.

Here, then, in a severely abbreviated form is the case for a reliable and repentant narrator:

Firstly, there is the evidence of Guzmán's confession. He tells us that he has changed his outlook on life, that he is “muy reformado” (p. 894). It is this change that compels him to admit his crimes in a manner akin to that of a sinner going to confession; in other words, the writing is itself an act of contrition, and in the course of narrating, Guzmán admits to crimes that were not public knowledge, crimes that he is now disclosing to the world out of his own volition.

Secondly, there is Guzmán's rejection of sin. In his account he denounces not only his own sins but sin in general. This suggests that he hopes to persuade the reader of the ultimate folly of a life of crime and deception, and that he is moved by a desire to renounce a sinful way of life himself, and this desire, qua desire, is valid whether or not he lives up to it once he has left the galleys. It is current at the moment of writing and that is what counts, just as it is what counts in the sacrament of confession.

Thirdly, there are the implications of the author's own words in his prologue, words which suggest (although they do not prove) that he himself believed in the reform of his narrator. In the “Declaración para el entendimiento de este libro” at the beginning of the work, he tells us that if ignorant criminals waiting in the death cell are known to have engaged in preparing speeches for the scaffold, how much more reasonable it is to expect it from a man of clear understanding, helped by his training and taught by experience (p. 96). When Guzmán constantly tries to forestall possible scepticism on the part of the reader towards his sermonizing, he is only trying to justify what Alemán himself has tried to justify in the “Declaración” when he says that “no es impropiedad ni fuera de propósito si en esta primera parte escribiera alguna doctrina” (p. 96). And in the prologue to Part II, Alemán, complaining of Mateo Luján's complete misconception of the story, states that “lo que […] en esta historia se pretende […] sólo es descubrir—como atalaya—toda suerte de vicios y hacer atriaca (antidote) de venenos varios, un hombre perfecto, castigado de trabajos y miserias, después de haber bajado a la más infima [miseria] de todas, puesto en galera por curullero della” (p. 467). Here Alemán suggests that it is from the depths of his misery and suffering (or symbolically from Purgatory) that Guzmán reaches out for perfection. Once again there is a strong correlation between what Guzmán says of himself and what Alemán says of him, and those critics who see the narrator's claims to be undergoing great suffering as a cynical appeal to the reader's sympathies are choosing to ignore the author's own stance.

Fourthly, there is the inclusion of doctrinal truths. Some of the moralizations of Guzmán (though fewer, I believe, than Moreno Báez suggested) appear to incorporate doctrinal elements that had been reinvigorated by the Council of Trent. This by itself certainly does not make of Guzmán a repentant narrator who is sincere in what he preaches; but looked at from the point of view of the real author it does not seem all that likely that he would have put doctrinal truths in the mouth of a cynical, unchristian commentator who did not mean a word he said, since this would have detracted from the validity of the doctrines. This must not be confused with the technique of exemplum ex contrario—Guzmán's life is that, but not his preaching. It is of course conceivable that Alemán composed his work as a covert attack on Christianity and that he was subtly denouncing the doctrines and moral preaching that Guzmán enunciates. But what contemporary evidence there is more than suggests that far from being suspect the Guzmán was praised for its orthodoxy and for its moral content. We also know that Alemán had been trying for some time to obtain permission to emigrate to America and had run into problems because of his Jewish ancestry. To have written a work of questionable orthodoxy or open to accusation or even suspicion of anti-Catholicism would have ruined his chances of emigrating for good.

Those four points, then—Guzmán's confession, his denunciation of sinful practices, the implications of Alemán's own words, and the inclusion of doctrinal truths—cover the main evidence in the case for a repentant narrator. Here now is the case for an unreliable and unrepentant narrator:

Firstly, there are certain attitudes and statements of the narrator that cast serious doubt on his repentance. Although Guzmán may say that he is a changed man at the time of writing, what he writes and the way he writes it reveal at times attitudes that are difficult to reconcile with his professed new outlook. Various things he writes about other people indicate that he is still governed by feelings of hatred or vengeance at the moment of writing. Guzmán acknowledges and condemns his vengeful nature, but he expresses no feelings of pity or sympathy for those who had been victims of it. Guzmán the narrator also appears rather proud of some of his exploits, and contrariwise is frequently ungenerous in his comments on other people. He also sometimes make comments that strike one as rather cynical, as when he appears to regret the absence of a sister who might have boosted the family's waning fortunes.

Secondly, there is the question of Guzmán's philosophical outlook. Guzmán as narrator reveals a thoroughly jaundiced view of the world and of the human condition. Time and time again he insists that evil is so deeply ingrained in human nature that fundamental change is difficult to the point of being impossible. Far from the book sustaining the message that man's inherent tendency to evil can be overcome if he avails himself of God's grace, the emphasis falls much more often on the deterministic nature of evil. Not only does Guzmán blame his origins, but he is also sceptical of other people's ability to do good. How then can the reader be expected to believe that Guzmán has managed to break through the circle of evil when he himself appears to believe so strongly in its imprisoning embrace?

Thirdly, there is the question of Guzmán's reform in the galley. The transition in the narrative from material considerations to spiritual ones is so abrupt that one is forced to wonder whether Alemán is not inviting us to read more into this episode than Guzmán is prepared to admit. In any case Guzmán's behaviour after the moment at which he is overcome by remorse is at best ambiguous: it reveals an instinct of self-preservation rather than self-sacrifice. He serves his new master with absolute devotion and chooses to ignore his maltreatment, but only “pareciéndome que podría ser—por él o por otro, con mi buen servicio—alcanzar algún tiempo libertad” (p. 894). He is still hoping for freedom, and Soto's conspiracy gives him a chance to earn that freedom in a calculated way. Because of his loyalty to the king, Guzmán is recommended for a royal pardon. Since an act of rebellion by those who were effectively in the service of the king (convicts in the galleys were classed as conscripts and wore military garb) was high treason, no blame can attach to Guzmán for the bloody outcome of his disclosure, and indeed one can reasonably speculate that this was the only way in which Alemán could contrive the release of his personage from his life sentence. But the fact remains that this is the very last episode in Guzmán's narration and it shows him as a schemer and as more interested in saving his own skin than those of others, for he makes no attempt to dissuade his fellow prisoners from committing treason. One is also forced to consider whether part of Guzmán's motives in giving away the conspiracy may not be to exact revenge on Soto for the suffering which Soto had inflicted on him earlier.

Fourthly, there is the question of certain fears and apprehensions which appear to haunt the narrator and which suggest nervousness about the reception his account is going to get. In the last-but-one chapter, following upon his claim to have reformed, he writes: “[…] mucho quedé renovado de allí adelante. Aunque siempre por lo de atrás mal indiciado, no me creyeron jamás. Que esto más malo tienen los malos, que vuelven sospechosas aun las buenas obras que hacen y casi con ellas escandalizan, porque las juzgan por hipocresía” (p. 890). This concern at his failure to persuade others of his reform is still apparent in the very last chapter of his account when he complains that nobody believed in his innocence because of his past life. What Guzmán is clearly doing throughout this last chapter is using his innocence to win over the reader: the reader after all is not going to identify with those who are falsely accusing Guzmán. By playing on the reader's sympathy, Guzmán is in effect trying to preempt the rejection by the reader of the genuineness of his reform. Those readers who doubt his reform will be just like his torturers. He is so concerned about convincing others of his newly-found honesty that his motives become suspect. Guzmán at times also gives the impression that he is under attack from all sides, and this applies not merely to his life as a criminal but even more to his account: he is aware that if as a galley-slave he lacks social acceptability, as a reporter he lacks credibility. Guzmán's fears may be a fear of the reader, or of other people, or of repressed anxieties about himself or his lineage or of whatever the critic cares to speculate about, but they do suggest that the man who is prey to such nervousness and insecurity is not at peace either with God or with himself.

These four points, then, cover the main arguments in the case for an unreformed and unreliable narrator: Guzmán's unforgiving attitude towards others, his philosophical outlook, his behaviour in the galley, and his apprehensions. The evidence for a repentant narrator and for an unrepentant narrator seems finely balanced. If the critic is prepared to be selective he will not have any difficulty in arguing a tenable case for either position. I said earlier that critics' attitudes towards Guzmán the narrator appear to have been governed very largely by their acceptance or rejection of Guzmán's conversion. What is perhaps surprising is that none of the critics for whom the question of conversion looms so large has enquired as to what concept of conversion it is that is sustained, or for that matter rejected, in this novel. In the Catholic Church conversion can basically be of three kinds: (1) confessional conversion, which is conversion from another religion to the one true Church through which Christ intended men to come to salvation; (2) religious conversion, which involves moving from a position of indifference to Christ to total acceptance of Him and self-dedication to His work; (3) moral conversion, which involves exchanging a life of sin for a life of holiness.⁵

Of these three kinds of conversion the first is the one most commonly understood by the term. It involves of course a movement from one set of tenets or beliefs to another. A Jew may be converted to Catholicism, but a bad Catholic cannot be converted to Catholicism; he may become a good Catholic, but that is not a conversion in this sense: his intellectual convictions do not change, only his personal commitment to the prescribed rules. This is not in any way a new definition; for even though this notion of conversion is not on the whole given prominence in the New Testament, it was one which by the sixteenth century had a very long tradition and was perfectly current in Spain, a country with a history of change among its population from one set of religious beliefs to another.⁶ Conversion in the Catholic Church has tended to mean not merely an ethical or moral change in the individual, but a moral change brought about through intellectual conviction of the truth of a system of beliefs and of the authoritative voice of the Church, and indeed many sixteenth- and seventeenth-century theologians (Melchor Cano, for example) held that the beliefs were more important than the moral outlook. This kind of conversion, where faith is supported by an intellectual conviction of the truth, is thus the one that has always been specially favoured by the Catholic Church, with St Augustine as the supreme example. Can a parallel be discerned between Augustinian conversion and that of the narrator in Alemán's novel?

St Augustine turned from Manicheism to Catholicism via Neo-Platonism, the latter philosophic system seeming to point to Christian revelation and without which indeed his conversion might not have occurred. His conversion, unlike Guzmán's, was a process of several years, not of one night, and involved deep study and meditation.⁷ In Alemán's novel Guzmán is sent to university to study, but there is no search for the truth, and it is perfectly obvious, since Alemán says so himself in the “Declaración” and in his objection to Mateo Luján's apocryphal Part II, that the primary object of sending Guzmán to the seminary is to forestall any objections to the autobiography and the homilies on the grounds of verisimilitude.

The examples of conversion that St Augustine cites in his Confessions also point to the concept of conversion as a process of discovery, above all through the written word. Such is the case of Victorinus, a leading practitioner of pagan rites in Rome who became a Christian after studying “the Holy Scripture and […] all the Christian writings with greatest care, examining them in detail”; and of the two Romans who while in Trier came across the Life of Anthony and were so impressed that they gave up secular affairs to become monks (Ibid., pp. 198-200, pp. 211-212). The only point of contact between St Augustine's conversion and Guzmán's is that they both weep with sorrow at their wretchedness, but even here there is some divergence. For Guzmán the tears lead to exhausted sleep from which he awakes a new man; for Augustine they lead straight back to St Paul, whose epistles he had been reading, and it is the Pauline text that finally resolves his interminable doubts. St Augustine's attitude to conversion and his view of it as a process is also abundantly clear in his treatise Faith and Works, where he unambiguously asserts the need for a long period of instruction and preparation in the Christian way of life before a catechumen is deemed to be ready for baptism.⁸

It is clear, too, that St Augustine holds that in the process of conversion to the one true God and the one true Church the role of reason is important. To begin with God is accepted on the basis of belief; once that belief is held all else follows rationally. Reason does not stand in the way of faith, but, on the contrary, supports it: “God infused into human life a capacity for reason and intellection”.⁹ In this way St Augustine holds that “all those things which to begin with we simply believed, following authority only, we come to understand. Partly we see them as certain, partly as possible and fitting.”¹⁰ Our rational nature, argues St Augustine, is given to us by God so that we may attain understanding of him. And although reason comes after faith, we still use our reason in deciding what is proper and reasonable to believe: “Authority demands belief and prepares man for reason. Reason leads to understanding and knowledge. But reason is not entirely absent from authority, for we have got to consider whom we have to believe, and the highest authority belongs to truth when it is clearly known” (Ibid., p. 247). Conversion for St Augustine was clearly not a matter of blind acceptance but of intellectual conviction. Throughout most of his writing he will respect and even emphasize the view that the quest for God is a rational one and that reason points to God. And reason is, for St. Augustine, totally distinct from experience. We may learn by experience, he says, but we judge by reason; and it is reason, not experience, that can “advance from visible to invisible things on its ascent from temporal to eternal things” (Ibid., p. 251). St. Augustine described himself as a genuine seeker of the truth (Ibid., p. 235), and truth cannot be perceived but by the intelligence alone, precisely because, as a Neo-Platonist, Augustine held that

all rational life obeys the voice of unchangeable truth speaking silently within the soul. If it does not so obey it is vicious. Rational life therefore does not owe its excellence to itself, but to the truth which it willingly obeys. The lowest man must worship the same God as is worshipped by the highest angel. In fact it is by refusing to worship him that human nature has been brought low. The source of wisdom and of truth is the same for angel and man, namely the one unchangeable Wisdom and Truth.

(Ibid. p. 280)

The Platonic adherence of Augustine, so very obvious in this passage, leads him to a view of the universe and of man that is very different in emphasis from Alemán's. For Augustine “there is no evil in the universe”. Evil is indeed contrary to the rational nature of the human soul:

Accordingly, since the vice of the soul is not its nature but contrary to its nature, and is nothing else than sin and sin's penalty, we understand that no nature, or if you prefer it, no substance or essence, is evil. Nor does the universe suffer any deformity from the sins and punishment of its soul. Rational substance which is clear of all sin and subject to God dominates other things which are subject to it. But rational substance which has committed sin is appointed to where it is fitting, so that all things should be glorious, God being the maker and ruler of the universe. The beauty of the created universe is free from all fault. …

(Ibid., p. 247. My italics)

This Augustinian statement on life and human nature reveals a rather different attitude from that of Mateo Alemán, who continually emphasizes man's evil nature, his corruption and his virtual inability to break through the encompassing circle of evil. The following is one of dozens of passages found in the novel promulgating this bleak view of the human condition and even of nature at large:

Es tan general esta contagiosa enfermedad, que no solamente los hombres la padecen, mas las aves y animales. También los peces tratan allá de sus engaños, para conservarse mejor cada uno. Engañan los árboles y plantas, prometiéndonos alegre flor y fruto, que al tiempo falta y lo pasan con lozanía. Las piedras, aun siendo piedras y sin sentido, turban el nuestro con su fingido resplandor y mienten, que no son lo que parecen. El tiempo, las ocasiones, los sentidos nos engañan. Y sobre todo, aun los más bien trazados pensamientos. Toda cosa engaña y todos engañamos.

(p. 508)

In associating Alemán with Báñez in the Báñez-Molina theological controversy some critics (to a degree Rico, but more especially Cros) have concluded that Guzmán de Alfarache reveals an Augustinian rather than a Thomistic affiliation. I can myself see no very convincing grounds for sustaining this proposition, and the implication (again found in Rico, p. cxlv, and Cros, p. 143) that the Báñez-Molina controversy can be reduced to a confrontation between Augustine and Aquinas because one propounded a theology of faith and predestination and the other one of free will and good works seems almost tantamount to confusing St Augustine with Calvin. The latter held that information gathered by the reason from the sensory world is of little help in man's quest for the living God. St Augustine's position was altogether different. For him the wonderful capacity of man to think rationally and creatively was itself a reflection of a rational creator. Reason will not by itself lead to the true God, but it does complement belief in that true God once the discovery has been made. St Thomas went further in arguing that despite being impaired by the Fall, reason can nevertheless lead man to the discovery of God before it requires the assistance of grace to convert intellectual reasoning into religious faith. In the virulent debate between free will and predestination in the sixteenth century, St Augustine was much abused, and not only by the main ‘predestinationists’ in the Catholic camp, the Dominicans, but also by members of the Augustinian order itself, as witness Malón de Chaide, who even misquotes St Augustine. It is worth recalling that in his treatise Faith and Works St Augustine denounced as erroneous the contention that there need be no connection between faith and good works. So far as a direct Augustinian influence on Alemán is concerned, my own conclusion would have to be that such an influence remains ‘not proven’. More specifically it can be said that not only is Guzmán's conversion not comparable to that of St Augustine, but moreover Alemán's philosophy of life appears to have little in common with that of the Bishop of Hippo. For despite life's miseries and human frailty, which he acknowledged, St Augustine (unlike Alemán) at the same time often remarked on the great achievements and the great intellectual capacity of the human mind, of which the following passage is but one of several instances:

And even in those arts where the purposes may seem superfluous, perilous and pernicious, there is exercised an acuteness of intelligence of so high an order that it reveals how richly endowed our human nature is. For, it has the power of inventing, learning and applying all such arts.

Just think of the progress and perfection which human skill has reached in the astonishing achievements of cloth making, architecture, agriculture and navigation. Or think of the originality and range of what has been done by experts in ceramics, by sculptors and by painters; of the dramas and theatrical spectacles so stupendous that those who have not seen them simply refuse to believe the accounts of those who have. Think even of the contrivances and traps which have been devised for the capturing, killing, or training of wild animals; or again, of the number of drugs and applicances that medical science has discovered in its zeal for the preservation and restoration of men's health; or again, of the poisons, weapons, and equipment used in wars, devised by the military art for defence against enemy attack; or even of the endless variety of condiments and sauces which culinary art has discovered to minister to the pleasures of the palate.

It was human ingenuity, too, that devised the multitude of signs we use to express and communicate our thoughts—and, especially, speech and writing. The arts of rhetoric and poetry have brought delight to men's spirits by their ornaments of style and varieties of verse; musicians have solaced human ears by their instruments and songs; both theoretical and applied mathematics have made great progress; astronomy has been most ingenious in tracing the movements, and in distinguishing the magnitudes, of the stars. In general, the completeness of scientific knowledge is beyond all words and becomes all the more astonishing when one pursues any single aspect of this immense corpus of information. Last, but not least, is the brilliance of talent displayed by both pagan philosophers and Christian heretics in the defense of error and falsehood. (In saying this, of course, I am thinking only of the nature of the human mind as a glory of this mortal life, not of faith and the way of truth that leads to eternal life.)¹¹

Augustinian conversion, though primarily a confessional conversion, in effect covered all three types of conversion referred to earlier. Other conversions can be simply of one kind or other. In sixteenth-century Spain, however, the second type of conversion, conversion to Christ, was not by itself valid, since only the Catholic Church was deemed to have the authority to interpret Christ's teaching correctly. Indeed the idea of the Illuminists, that direct communion with God through Christ was not just possible but even obligatory for salvation, was specifically condemned. The authority and arbitration of the Catholic Church as the mediating institution could not be circumvented. That was Melchor Cano's stated view as it was the view of the Council of Trent. The Illuminist type of conversion was therefore not considered a true conversion: even though the Illuminists themselves thought that they had the true faith, it was no more than imagination and self-delusion.¹² A religious conversion by itself, outside the institutional boundaries of the Church or without deference to it, rapidly came to be considered heterodox in the sixteenth century. Religious conversion had to be subservient to Catholic dogma, as is clearly demonstrated by the suspicion with which the mystics and Ignatius Loyola were officially regarded. The Protestant Reformation allowed and encouraged Spanish Catholicism to affirm with increasing vigour precisely those aspects that differentiated it from other Christian sects, even if some of these beliefs became contentious issues by their very complexity. Religious conversion of a purely personal kind can be virtually discounted in Guzmán de Alfarache. Edmond Cros speaks of Guzmán's conversion being presented as

una iluminación y por tanto, una perfecta ejemplificación de las teorías agustinianas sobre la gracia. La gracia dispone y ordena la voluntad de Guzmán, el cual a pesar de sus crímenes y ofensas a Dios va súbitamente ‘comenzando a ver la luz de que gozan los que siguen a la virtud’ y en el acto se determina a ‘morir antes que hacer cosa baja ni fea’.

(Mateo Alemán. Introducción a su vida y a su obra, p. 142)

As we saw earlier, ‘suddenness’ is scarcely a component of St Augustine's view of conversion, even if grace is, but more to the point here is Alemán's presentation of the change that comes over Guzmán. The luz that Guzmán begins to perceive can scarcely be made a symbol of illumination by the Holy Spirit, from whom man receives God's grace. On the contrary, it is presented in the language of a business deal, in this case a deal that Guzmán hopes to strike with God. Guzmán tells himself:

Ya ves la solicitud que tienes en servir a tu señor, por temor de los azotes, que dados hoy, no se sienten a dos días. Andas desvelado, ansioso, cuidadoso y solícito en buscar invenciones con que acariciarlo para ganarle la gracia. Que, cuando conseguida la tengas, es de un hombre y cómitre. Pues bien sabes tú, que no lo ignoras, pues tan bien lo estudiaste, cuánto menos te pide Dios y cuánto más tiene que darte y cuánto mejor amigo es. Acaba de recordar de aquese sueño. Vuelve y mira que, aunque sea verdad haberte traído aquí tus culpas, pon esas penas en lugar que te sean de fruto. Buscaste caudal para hacer empleo: búscalo agora y hazlo de manera que puedas comprar la bienaventuranza. Esos trabajos, eso que padeces y cuidado que tomas en servir a ese tu amo, ponlo a cuenta de Dios. Hazle cargo aun de aquello que has de perder y recibirálo por su cuenta, bajándolo de la mala tuya. Con eso puedes comprar la gracia. …

(p. 890)

Although I see no valid reason for accusing Guzmán of insincerity at this point as various critics have done,¹³ neither do I see evidence of Mateo Alemán's wishing to present his character's conversion as the work of God. Guzmán has to buy his way out of his miserable state—release from sin is not for him a gift from God. Moreover, by way of consolation or compensation Guzmán wants to have some indication of whether God is now on his side, that is, whether his offer of a deal has been accepted:

El que quisiere saber cómo le va con Dios, mire cómo lo hace Dios con él y sabrálo fácilmente. ¿Pones tu diligencia, haces lo que tienes obligación a cristiano, son tus obras de algún mérito? Conocerás que recibe Dios tu sacrificio y tiene puestos los ojos en ti. Mira si te trata como se trató a sí. Que señal segura es que tu señor te ama, cuando del pan que come, del vestido que viste, de la mesa y silla en que se sienta, del vino que bebe y de la cama en que se acuesta no hace diferencia de la tuya y todo es una.

(p. 891)

In essence this passage is not all that far in thought from certain Calvinist writings dealing with justification and with how a sinner can reach certainty about his salvation, a doctrine clearly at variance with Catholic teaching, which insisted that the human state was not compatible with total certainty and that complete assurance of salvation was not possible in this life. I have no wish to propose this as further evidence of Alemán's alleged heterodoxy or of Guzmán's hypocrisy (especially since a not dissimilar kind of concern can be found in ‘orthodox’ Spanish works such as Fray Luis de Granada's Guía de pecadores), but would simply suggest that the narrator's conversion is not a religious one according to the definitions given above, that is to say, it does not obey a purely religious motivation or arise from a deep, personal religious experience. It is more a persuasion than a conversion, an attempt to persuade himself (and his readers) that his change of attitude is worthwhile even in this life, if only for the reassurance that he is right and those who condemn him for his past actions wrong. And indeed he later appears to argue that his deal with God has been reciprocated because God so arranges things that the accusation against him over the theft of the trencellín is shown to have been a calumny and he is thus publicly vindicated (pp. 904-905).¹⁴

If Guzmán's conversion is neither a confessional conversion nor a religious conversion, is it then a moral conversion? In this notion of conversion the emphasis falls rather more exclusively on the complete change in the moral outlook and behaviour of the individual: the rapid passage from sin to saintliness. This has been through the ages a favourite topic of religious biographers, and is the kind of conversion that is found in Fray Pedro Malón de Chaide's La conversión de la Magdalena, a work which has occasionally been associated with Alemán's novel and which does indeed show certain affinities or coincidences which space does not permit me to explore in detail.¹⁵ We must discard any idea that La conversión de la Magdalena is primarily about Mary Magdalen; it is first and foremost a preacher's denunciation of the low moral standards which he alleges in contemporary society, and as such it is but one more product of the ascetic movement of the later sixteenth century. Time and time again Fray Pedro fulminates against his fellow Spaniards for their loose morals, and he even calls Spain a new Sodom. Despite his frequent references to the saint after whom his order is named, it is plain that Malón de Chaide has abandoned the measured and rational way of argument used by St Augustine. The Platonic basis of Augustinian thought is no longer there, and indeed Plato is explicitly rejected in favour of Aristotle (Vol II, p. 153). Aristotelian thought, however, is not used to provide consistency of argument: Malón de Chaide is a preacher and his work a homily, not a philosophical treatise. Augustine's brilliant quest for wisdom which emanates from revelation and is sustained by reason is here replaced by a rambling and repetitious exposition of a mediocre and confused thought accompanied by the most pedestrian biblical exegesis.¹⁶ Fray Pedro's message, repeated ad nauseam, is that moral conversion, that is to say, repentance and reform, is exclusively the work of God and that the individual can do nothing. Some sinners are in essence good, some sinners are simply bad. To the question: why should God attract some sinners to Himself and not others?, Fray Pedro has no answer except to say that God gives His grace only to those in whom He foresaw a positive response. The entire opening of Book III is an impassioned assertion of predestination, which Malón de Chaide sees simply as “secretos maravillosos […] de Dios” for which “lo mejor es no buscar razón” (Vol II, p. 7, p. 14). God decides whether we are saved or condemned, but if we are condemned it is our own fault and if we are saved it is God's goodness that saves us, “sin que el hombre pusiese nada de su parte’ (Vol II, p. 40). Fray Pedro's simplistic attitude to the complex problem of predestination and good works completely undermines what appears on the face of it to be the whole point of a treatise on Mary Magdalen: to exhort those who live a life dedicated to sins of the flesh to turn to Christ and abandon their vices, and indeed such exhortations are present in the book. Whatever the influence of Fray Pedro's book on Alemán, the fact is that Guzmán de Alfarache reveals a good deal of circumspection in the general area of theological doctrine. The degree of determinism which can undoubtedly be detected in Alemán's novel is not such as to guarantee salvation or damnation, and it could even be argued—original sin apart—that it is social and psychological rather than theological (parentage, upbringing, company etc.). According to Malón de Chaide saints tell the story of their sins in order to show God's power and greatness in persuading them to abandon their sinful lives and follow Him, and their autobiographies thus redound to the greater glory of God. This is not the reason that either Guzmán or Alemán gives for the autobiography. Guzmán's autobiography merely shows man's corruption in general and Guzmán's in particular, and it is written as a warning of what to avoid and what dire consequences (social, not theological) will otherwise follow. In accordance with the Council of Trent, which had re-emphasized the divine initiative in conversion, Malón de Chaide sees Mary Magdalen's moral conversion as the work of God, who illuminates sinners in order to “criar o reengendrar de pecadores hijos de gracia” (Vol II, p. 69). As we have already seen, it is difficult to regard Guzmán's luz as divine enlightenment, and indeed Guzmán himself refers to it in much less precise terms as “la luz de los que siguen la virtud” (p. 889), and ascribes this new recognition of his sinful state to “las desventuras” (ibid.). In Malón de Chaide, from the moment of enlightenment, the Holy Spirit takes over the reformed sinner's every action; in other words the sinner is now a saint: “ninguna cosa hacía que no fuese instruida y movida por el mismo [Espíritu Santo]” (Vol II, p. 176). What we have in Malón's conception is a total, complete and irreversible conversion: there is no possibility of a relapse. Alemán has not allowed his narrator the benefit of such definitive divine intervention; his text singles out Guzmán's repentance and simultaneously his frail nature, rather than the miraculous effect of God's grace working throughout the holy Spirit: “Luego traté de confesarme a menudo, reformando mi vida, limpiando mi conciencia, con que corrí algunos días. Mas era de carne. A cada paso trompicaba y muchas veces caía; mas, en cuanto al proceder en mis malas costumbres, mucho quedé renovado de allí adelante” (p. 890). One can speak of Guzmán's repentance, but not of a moral conversion according to the model found in Malón de Chaide. The latter insists repeatedly that the conversion of a sinner is exclusively the work of God; God and only God effects the change: “La conversión de un pecador se llama obra de la derecha mano de Dios” (Vol II, p. 73, p. 126). In Alemán's book such a simple notion is absent. It is true that Guzmán writes “Di gracias al Señor y supliquéle que me tuviese de su mano” (p. 890), but he only says this after he has emphasized his physical sufferings and his decision to become virtuous, following it immediately with the observation that the others did not believe in his reform. The emphasis in Guzmán's narration is rather different. While we can therefore speak of a moral change in the galley-slave Guzmán, or perhaps more accurately of a desire to change, a moral conversion implies much more than this: no less than a demonstration of how God turns sinners into saints. Guzmán the galley-slave, who is also Guzmán the narrator, is not presented as a saint but as a man in turmoil. Whether he is at long last on his way to sainthood is quite simply not germane to a discussion of the novel as it stands.¹⁷

In comparing the conversion in Guzmán de Alfarache with those of St Augustine and Mary Magdalen what I have sought to do is to try and ascertain whether Alemán had a conversion in mind at all, genuine or simulated. Some critics have argued that because the word conversion does not appear Guzmán cannot be truly converted, and he is therefore unreformed. This seems to me a particularly perverse way of arguing. The more likely reason why the word conversion does not appear is that Alemán had no particular use for it. And this is to some extent confirmed by various details of Guzmán's life which show him to be practising his religion at all times, even if this practice can be looked upon as mechanical. He goes to Mass regularly: this is mentioned in passing some half a dozen times at least with a phrase such as “despues de oída misa”. There is also mention of “rezar el rosario” and of prayer, and of “cumplir con la parroquia”. In other words Guzmán is a practising Catholic; unlike his father, not once does he reject this particular system of beliefs. He is happy to receive instruction in the Cardinal's house and happy to devote himself to theological studies. He also writes that he saw the light often enough, long before he ended in the galley, so that there is no question of either a sudden Pauline conversion or an arduous Augustinian search for the truth. Guzmán himself speaks of being “muy reformado”, and of “reformando mi vida”, and there is no mystery as to what brings about this desire for changing his ways: it is his “desventuras”, “la cumbre del monte de la miserias”, “esos trabajos”, “nuevas persecuciones y trabajos”. Guzmán may have learnt his lesson the hard way, but as for a religious conversion sensu stricto I would submit that there is none: he knew all along where the truth lay, both intellectually and morally. As for the phrase “halléme otro”, which occurs at that point where critics have placed the conversion, one has to say that it is not the first time that Guzmán has used the phrase of himself: for example, while at the ambassador's house, having had to suffer the taunts of others, he says: “Quedé tan avergonzado, tan otro yo por entonces, tan diferente de lo que antes era, cual si supiera de casos de honra o si tuviera rastro della” (p. 559). It is his tarnished reputation that prompts the change; there is no question of a conversion.

It is my contention, then, that Guzmán's so-called conversion is totally circumstantial. He has neither established the truth by the power of his intellect as did St Augustine, nor is he answering the direct call of God as did Malón de Chaide's Mary Magdalen. At best, all that can be said is that Guzmán envinces a desire for spiritual regeneration, but not out of a newly-found religious conviction, more as a recognition that this time he has no alternative. The recent critical emphasis on conversion arose in the first place, I believe, because modern critics wanted, understandably, to refute the eighteenth-century dismissal of the religious content of the novel as irrelevant and insincere. A perfect example of this is A. A. Parker, who in order to underline the importance and transcendence of the religious content insisted that the novel “is being narrated by someone who has undergone a religious conversion” and that “the conversion itself is so movingly presented that it is impossible to doubt its sincerity” (Literature and the Delinquent, p. 36, p. 44). The more recent critics on the other hand have done precisely this, resurrecting the earlier doubts and scepticism in a much more systematic way. If Guzmán were truly converted, they argue, the narrator would show forth qualities rather different from those of the protagonist. C.B. Johnson, for example, upholding an idea which he repeats again and again, writes: “There should be a radical difference between the ethical perspective of the narrator and that of the protagonist”, and “the conversion should establish a clear distinction between the sinful protagonist and the reformed narrator …” (Inside ‘Guzmán de Alfarache’, p. 45, p. 227). And Joan Arias in her book makes virtually identical statements. But suppose we deny the relevance of such a conversion: what happens to the case of those critics who posit an unreliable narrator on the grounds that the conversion has not made any difference to Guzmán? Or for that matter what happens to the case of those other critics who argue that because Guzmán is a narrator who has undergone a conversion everything he says must be taken at face value? I would suggest that there is in this novel no specific notion of conversion, whether authentic or faked, that one can ascribe to a conscious plan of the author. It is simply a critical assumption that may have served rather more to introduce a distortion into the story than to help explain it.

But where does this leave us? If the starting point for the pseudo-autobiography is not a religious conversion, then what is it? Why does the narrator narrate? Alemán was not perhaps as concerned about investing his fictional narrator with the motivation or pretext for narrating as was the anonymous author of the Lazarillo de Tormes, who in the prologue to that book gives no fewer than three reasons for Lázaro taking up pen and paper. But the question is not impertinent. The choice of first-person narrative form was evidently a crucial decision of Alemán's, as was the circumstance in which the fictional narrator narrates, as the regular references to the moment and place of narration make clear (e.g. “los trabajos […] que padezco agora en esta galera” (p. 391), from Part I, and “la suma miseria donde mi desconcierto me ha traído” (p. 490), from the beginning of Part II, where he also mentions the cómitre's frequent lashings raining on his back as he pulls on the oars). The circumstances of composition, then, are intimately connected with the narrator's motivation and compulsion to write. However, the straightforward assumption that so many critics have made that Guzmán starts to write his autobiography only after the moment of ‘conversion’ and while awaiting the arrival of the royal pardon that will lead to his final release from the galleys is not really supported by the evidence of the text, although this chronology is indeed suggested by Alemán himself in the prologue to Part II, when he writes that the object of the story is the denunciation of all kinds of vices by a man who has been “castigado de trabajos y miserias, después de haber bajado a las más infima de todas, puesto en galera por curullero della” (p. 467). No doubt written after the completion of the novel, these words are of course directed at Juan Martí, alias Mateo Luján, and are meant to emphasize the serious side of the genuine novel and to contrast it with the flippancy of Luján's version. The implicit chronology contained in Alemán's words is by no means supported by the text itself, and if we judge solely by the latter no such neat and satisfying solution can be arrived at.

From early on in his narration Guzmán has mentioned the hardships and privations he is having to put up with in the galley. At the start of Part II he refers to himself as being “preso y aherrojado”, and he is clearly referring to the present, that is, to the time of writing. Now it is true that his sufferings reach a peak shortly after his so-called conversion. But this is followed some time later by the episode of the conspiracy, as a result of which Guzmán earns the freedom of the galley: “Me mandó desherrar y que como libre anduviese por la galera” (p. 905). The hardships which Guzmán so often claims to be undergoing have ended at this point and he is no longer in chains; it should follow therefore that he has already written his autobiography or a good part of it, since his reference to his present terrible sufferings no longer makes sense. This is confirmed by another statement in Part I. Talking about the dangers that the traveller encounters on the highways, he adds that he himself is unlikely to face those dangers again: “Aunque ya, cuando yo de aquí salga, poco me quedará de andar” (p. 256). Guzmán is expecting to spend his life in the galleys and must therefore have written this before the episode of the mutiny which leads to the king's pardon. It has to be said, however, that the time-scale in the final chapter is quite unclear, and it is not possible to estimate the time-lapse between the ‘conversion’ at the end of the penultimate chapter and the mutiny in the final chapter. All the same, there is no specific evidence to support the view that the entire redaction of the memoirs takes place at this point. The argument, used by some critics, that Guzmán, the chained galley-slave, could not possibly have written anything while in that condition and that consequently the redaction must postdate the ‘conversion’ and the mutiny may look superficially attractive on the grounds of verisimilitude, but it does not accord with the evidence of the text or with Alemán's original “declaration for the understanding of the book” in Part I. In any case, while aboard the galley Guzmán is the cómitre's servant, for which he quite obviously enjoys a certain freedom of movement, and if he can learn how to knit stockings, carve dice, and make silk buttons and coloured toothpicks, as he tells us (p. 886), he can clearly write his memoirs. Conversion is not invoked as a reason for the existence of the autobiography, and would thus appear to be unnecessary or irrelevant to its redaction in the author's original conception of the work. What is not irrelevant is Guzmán's repeated mention of his present suffering, which is implicitly, and on occasion even explicitly, connected with society's rejection of him; his being sentenced to the galleys for life—which he explicitly relates to society's punishment of him—and his suffering there amount to the ultimate rejection of a long list of rejections: by masters, friends, relatives, fellow-travellers, women, officers of the Law, etc. “Dejáronme solo”, he complains, and again: “solo fui, solo entre todos” (p. 872, p. 876). It is during his long imprisonment that Guzmán reviews his past life and rejects his past himself just as he has been rejected by society. His death, (his own word, p. 873), a civil death, that is, gives him the chance to be re-born, that is, to be reconciled to the society that has rejected him. His own rejection of those whom society has cast out—the rebellious galley-slaves plotting treason against their king (and the word rey, supreme symbol of the social order, is used several times at this critical stage)—is but an indication of his wish to become an accepted member of society yet again. What hurts Guzmán above all is that others are reluctant to believe him. But what for Professor Parker was an indication of Guzmán's sorrow for the inhumanity of his torturers, is for me yet one more repetition of a leitmotif running through the work: Guzmán's fear and hatred of rejection by others. His desire for change, indeed his claim to have changed, to be “otro hombre”, is brought about not by a spiritual conversion but by a desire for social reconciliation and acceptance. This, I think, also goes some way towards explaining what so many critics have understandably seen as a moral ambiguity or as a downright contradiction, namely the fact that Guzmán is denouncing his past life yet at the same time is recounting it with obvious relish. Guzmán's criminal activities become a source of vicarious enjoyment, not just to himself but also to the reader. Having become a “ladrón famosísimo”, he now discovers how to exploit his notoriety, in exactly the same way that Ginés de Pasamonte, quite conceivably inspired in Cervantes's imagination by Alemán's picaro, was hoping to make capital out of his. It is not merely that Guzmán the narrator while admitting his immoral behaviour shows a certain pride in his cunning and criminal professionalism; it is that he takes great delight in the actual narration of his exploits: as J. A. Jones has put it, “the experiences of Guzmán's life which should repulse us, are recounted with evident gusto.”¹⁸ Paradoxically, Guzmán's failure as a person leads to his success as a storyteller. Guzmán evinces many qualities; but the one quality which seems to stand out above all, and which no-one seems to have commented on, is his self-consciousness as narrator (although M. J. Woods, in a recent article, has referred to a “confident Guzmán, who enjoys exploiting his superior position as narrator”).¹⁹ Guzmán is a highly self-conscious narrator, referring constantly not just to himself but to himself as narrating agent, conscious, that is, of his function as storyteller and of his obligation to captivate the reader. He opens his autobiography thus: “El deseo que tenía, curioso lector, de contarte mi vida …” (p. 105), and he ends it thus: “La que después gasté todo el restante della [vida] verás en la tercera y última parte …” (p. 905), and in between there are innumerable and constant references to the act of narrating. Comments such as “quiero decirte una curiosidad”, “oye con atención el capítulo siguiente”, “quiero contarte”, proliferate in the narrative.²⁰ Guzmán also peppers his account with anecdotes, many of them of no relevance to any moral point he might be wishing to make. At a very rough count there are some seventy anecdotes. And the telling of the anecdote sometimes predominates over biographical consistency, as for example when he starts to reel off an anecdote by saying: “Yo conocí en Granada …” (p. 613). Guzmán never was in Granada. He even tells anecdotes which he told to another character: we get the telling of the telling. Telling a good story becomes so important for Guzmán that he is prepared to go beyond what a non-omniscient narrator would know and describes in detail scenes which he did not witness. The narrative runs away with the narrator. Even when he admits that he is in no position to relate what happened he still narrates what he imagines must have happened, as is the case in the deception he prepares for his Italian relatives. Guzmán cannot sacrifice such a good story, so he gives us an account in the conditional tense! Guzmán's storytelling habit goes back some time: “Contábamos novelas” (p. 428), he says of his time in the Cardinal's household, and his rôle as raconteur is confirmed when he entertains several of his masters with his stories, the French ambassador, for example, or the cómitre on board the galley, of whom he says “lo entretenía con historias y cuentos de gusto” (p. 884). Guzmán is fully conscious of his function as storyteller, derives satisfaction from it and shows an overriding concern that the reader should do so as well. At the end of Part I, addressing the reader, he says: “[…] si no jugué a los dados, hice otros peores baratos, como verás en la segunda parte de mi vida, para donde, si la primera te dio gusto, te convido” (p. 455), in what is a pretty unambiguous statement of the entertainment purpose of the narrative. And the references to Part III which occur both at the beginning and at the very end of Part II, and which on the face of it look like an anachronism since the narrative brings Guzmán's biography right up to date, may instead be looked upon as a reflection of Guzmán's new-found occupation, an occupation that he sees continuing into the future. He is by now an inveterate raconteur, and his autobiography is an assertion of a kind of victory over his adverse circumstances, just as the Alcalá addendum at the end of the Lazarillo, “De lo que aquí adelante me sucediere avisaré a vuestra merced”, far from being the meaningless irrelevance some critics would have us believe, is the triumphant assertion on the part of Lázaro of his Ciceronian claim to fame through the cultivation of the written word. The “otro hombre” that Guzmán claims to be is the very rôle that he has created for himself in order to give pleasure to his readers. In creating a literary persona for himself Guzmán seeks to achieve the success and popularity that he has always craved. The end of his account coincides, significantly, with the royal pardon and the end of his imprisonment. By this point Guzmán has become the storyteller par excellence, and his prime concern has been to take the reader with him, to entertain him and to shock him, to delight and titillate him with tales of delinquency and immorality one moment and to lecture him with sermons the next. The question arises whether this shows Guzmán's insincerity or his ability as raconteur. If we accept the fiction on which pseudo-autobiography depends for its effect, namely that the account we are reading is the work of the fictional narrator, then the qualities displayed by the narrative belong not only to the real author but also to the narrating personage. To regard those qualities as evidence of his continued malevolence seems unduly perverse. We have to grant the narrator some leeway in his rôle as entertainer, just as we are prepared to grant it to the real author. By choosing a galley-slave as narrator of his life-story and making him repent, Alemán is having it both ways. He can satisfy those who clamour for excitement and those who demand edification. That both kinds of reader praised the novel is testimony to the inspired choice of Alemán, pace Cervantes's sardonic mockery of galley-slaves as storytellers. And on the subject of galley-slaves as storytellers Guzmán offers a fascinating detail in Part II, Book 2, Chapter ix. When he travelled aboard a galley from Genoa to Barcelona, he was entertained by a story which formed part of a manuscript written by one of the conscripts on board, and the end of the story coincided with Guzmán's safe arrival at port after a storm. From the point of view of the author Alemán it would seem to be a case of the micro-universe of the intercalated tale reflecting the macro-universe of the book's narrative framework. From the point of view of the narrator Guzmán, his own composition appears as a case of unconscious patterning suggested by his earlier experience of the galley-slave's tale which entertained him until he reached his port. From being the entertained listener Guzmán goes to being the entertainer of his readers. He unquestionably delights in the telling of the picaresque adventures and anecdotes, in which he avoids the heavy-handedness and sententiousness that sometimes affect the moralizing passages. The conflict of the two ingredients may indeed be explained in terms of the conflict within the narrator, as A. A. Parker argued: Guzmán may genuinely want to reform and denounce sin while still being drawn toward the delinquent life. But the adventures of a criminal afford the sort of copy, then as now, that no storyteller can ignore. The crucial point is that Guzmán's pride is not simply in the doing, it is in the telling too, and indeed it is rather more in the telling than in the doing. If the charge of hypocrisy is to be laid, it can only be laid against an age that insisted on sustaining the pretence that fictitious literature had to have a moral or didactic purpose when both practitioners and consumers were looking to imaginative literature for something entirely different.

Notes

1. Joan Arias, ‘Guzmán de Alfarache’: the Unrepentant Narrator (London, 1977). Carroll B. Johnson, Inside ‘Guzman de Alfarche’ (Los Angeles, 1978). Benito Brancaforte, ‘Guzmán de Alfarache’: ¿Conversión o proceso de degradación? (Madison, 1980).

2. A. A. Parker, Literature and the Delinquent (Edinburgh, 1967). E. Moreno Báez, Lección y sentido del ‘Guzman de Alfarache’ (Madrid, 1948). Donald McGrady, Mateo Alemán (New York, 1968). Francisco Rico, La novela picaresca y el punto de vista (Barcelona, 1970). Edmond Cros, Mateo Alemán: Introducción a su vida y a su obra, (Salamanca, 1971). Maurice Molho, Introducción al pensamiento picaresco (Salamanca, 1972).

3. M. N. Norval, ‘Original sin and the “conversion” in the Guzmán de Alfarache’, Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, Vol LI, No. 4 (1974) pp. 346-364.

4. Guzmán de Alfarache, in La novela picaresca española, edited by Francisco Rico (Barcelona, 1970), p. 546. All subsequent page references, whether to the text or the Introduction, are to this edition.

5. I base my definitions on the New Catholic Encyclopaedia (Washington, 1967), Vol IV, p. 289. In practice there is a good deal of overlap between these three kinds of conversion.

6. Guzmán's father converts from Christianity to Islam and then back to Christianity. The fact that his conversion is motivated by material considerations may say something for his sincerity, or lack of it, but as far as the Church is concerned the conversion to Christianity is valid. Whether Alemán thought any differently one cannot say.

7. See Confessions, translated by Vernon J. Bourke, in The Fathers of the Church, Vol XXI (Washington, 1953), especially Books 5, 6, 7 and 8.

8. Faith and Works, translated by Sister Marie Liguori, in The Fathers of the Church, Vol XXVII (Washington, 1954), pp. 221-282, especially ch. 6.

9. City of God, translated by Gerald G. Walsh and Daniel J. Honan, Book xxii, ch. 24, in The Fathers of the Church, Vol XXIV (Washington, 1954), p. 484.

10. Of True Religion, translated by J. H. S. Burleigh, in Augustine: Earlier Writings, Library of Christian Classics, Vol VI (London, 1953), p. 233.

11. City of God, Book xxii, ch. 24, ed. cit., pp. 484-485. I hesitate to signal my disagreement with as fine and well-informed a scholar as Francisco Rico but feel compelled to do so when he writes: “… la cosmovisión patente en el Guzmán, con su anonadamiento del hombre, sí se le antoja al lector más afín al extremo agustinismo de Báñez que a la confianza de Molina en la actividad humana” (p. cxlv). I agree of course about Alemán's belittling of mankind but disagree about labelling it Augustinian.

12. Dictionnaire de Spiritualité, Vol II (ii) (Paris, 1953), p. 2226.

13. An altogether different matter is to hypothesize that Guzmán has invented the whole thing for the purpose of his autobiography. Such a hypothesis cannot be tested, and to accuse a fictitious personalized narrator of concocting a false account merely leaves the critic in a no man's land where sensible discussion cannot proceed. We have to accept that the facts of the autobiography are as they are; the presentation of them is what we need to argue about.

14. I have to concede, nevertheless, that there remains one problem. In his prologue to the reader in Part II, quoted above, Alemán, complaining of Mateo Luján's misunderstanding of what he (Alemán) was about, refers to Guzmán as “un hombre perfeto” (p. 467). What exactly did he mean? Could he have had in mind a sixteenth-century idea of a second conversion as the achievement of perfection in this life through a total dedication to God's works, not altogether unlike the via iluminativa of the mystics? (This notion is found especially in B. Rossignoli, De Disciplinae Christianae Perfectionis [Ingolstadt, 1600], though in a more general sense the notion is common to sixteenth-century ascetic writing as a whole.) If he did, then the notion could only have taken shape in the promised volume III, which so far as we know was never written. As the book now stands, Guzmán can scarcely be regarded as a perfect man in this particular sense.

15. Among the various parallels that could be drawn, the clearest one is the insistence of both authors on original sin and the consequent corrupt state of mankind. In Malón de Chaide, as in Alemán, there are numerous utterances of the kind: “Mamé mis defectos en la leche; con pecados me concibió mi madre; con ellos me engendró mi padre y en ellos nací yo” (Clásicos Castellanos edition, [Madrid, 1930], Vol I, p. 285).

16. What is the reader to make of this way of arguing: “No quiero yo decir, ni Dios lo manda, que la misericordia suya tiene tasa […]; sus misericordias no tienen fin […]; algunas veces suelen los pecados llegar a un cierto colmo o número, que de allí adelante cierra Dios la puerta al pecador y le endurece el corazón, con lo cual le condena” (Vol I, pp. 246-247)?

17. In his book Autobiography in Seventeenth-Century England (The Hague and Paris, 1971), Dean Ebner studies spiritual autobiographies and their relevance to the nascent genre of the novel. Of Roman Catholic autobiographies he writes: “Accounts of conversion appear in the autobiography of Sir Tobie Matthew and in the Latin life accounts of [Father John] Gerard and Father William Weston, but concentration upon inner turmoil is missing. Conversion is seen largely as a matter of convincing the understanding by discursive argument of the authority of the Church, a process aided by the external means of confession, sacrament, miracle and decorative worship service” (p. 95. My italics). Alemán's fictional autobiography would not appear to fit this pattern particularly closely either, but I have not read the spiritual autobiographies mentioned. Ebner's book is pertinent to the study of the seventeenth-century novel and merits the attention of hispanists. I am grateful to my colleague Dr Ronald Cueto for bringing it to my attention.

18. ‘The Duality and Complexity of Guzmán de Alfarache: Some Thoughts on the Structure and Interpretation of Alemán's Novel’, in Knaves and Swindlers, edited by Christine J. Whitbourn (University of Hull Publications, 1974), p. 43.

19. ‘The Teasing Opening of Guzmán de Alfarache’, Bulletin of Hispanic Studies, Vol LVII, No. 3 (1980), p. 217.

20. The present essay is an expanded version of a paper read at the annual conference of the Association of Hispanists of Great Britain and Ireland on 24 March 1983. Since then two new books on the picaresque novel have studied the narrator-reader relationship in Guzmán de Alfarche. See Helen H. Reed, The Reader in the Picaresque Novel (London, 1984), and B. W. lfe, Reading and Fiction in Golden-Age Spain (Cambridge, 1985).