SOURCE: Johnson, Carroll. “D. Álvaro de Luna and the Problem of Impotence in Guzmán de Alfarache.” Journal of Hispanic Philology 8, no. 1 (Fall 1983): 33-47.

[In the following essay, Johnson discusses themes of impotence in Guzmán de Alfarache.]

It is customary to consider the interpolated novelettes in Guzmán de Alfarache either as more or less light-hearted entertainment and demonstrations of the author's virtuosity in several narrative conventions, or on the other hand as proof of Alemán's inability to free himself from his pessimistic world view, his preoccupation with frustration and deceit. In the first instance the critic finds himself forced to discover and call attention to a brighter side of Dorido's brutal murder of Oracio (I, iii, 10), and in the second he finds himself insisting that the well-intentioned deceptions of Ozmín and Daraja (I, i, 8) are examples of the rankest perfidy. Rather than attempt to pronounce definitively for one or the other interpretation, I should like to continue a line of investigation initiated by Francisco Rico and consider one such novella in relation to its immediate contexts within the Guzmán, as a reflection of a structure so fundamental that the term obsessive would not be out of place to describe it.¹ I refer to the story of Don Luis de Castro and Don Rodrigo de Montalvo (II, i, 4), which, although not taken up directly by Rico, is in fact closely related to and indeed a further reflection of the structures he studies in the article of reference. My idea of the relation between this text and its contexts is opposed to that of Rico himself, who speaks of “la finalidad meramente placentera de tales intermedios”;² to that of Benito Brancaforte, who concludes à propos of our story that “el propósito del relato parece ser puramente ‘literario’ y conforme al dictum de Giambiattista Marino, è del poeta il fine la meraviglia”;³ and finally to that of Donald McGrady, who affirms that “Alemán's stories are completely detachable from the main narrative.”⁴

The story has been considered as part of Alemán's univers du faux by Edmond Cros, who further notes the double burla, a false one involving D. Rodrigo, D. Luis, and the condesa, and the true one involving only D. Luis and the lady and which converts an accomplice into a dupe.⁵ Most recently the “amours luxurieuses” recounted in our text have been considered by Michel Cavillac as an attack on the decadent nobility narrated by Alemán from his perspective among the reformist mercantile bourgeoisie.⁶ The critics who have studied the Castro/Montalvo story in most detail, especially with reference to its Italian sources, are Joseph V. Ricapito and Donald McGrady.⁷ I shall make special reference to their contributions in the course of my discussion. For the present I should like to turn to the contexts in which the novella is embedded, beginning with the allegory of Jupiter and the ages of man recounted in II, i, 3.

This allegory depicts God in his relations with his creatures. Upon discovering that the dog, the ass, and the monkey all find the thirty-year span assigned to them onerous by reason of its excessive length while man, in contrast, laments the brevity of his life on earth, he decides to make this right. He relieves each of the animals of twenty years of life and assigns the sixty years so obtained to man, thus honoring man's request for greater longevity. But man's life from the thirty-first to the ninetieth year is to be lived qualitatively as an animal, first as an ass, then as a dog, and finally as a monkey, “contrahaciendo los defectos de su naturaleza.”⁸ Rico relates this last remark to the general theme of deceit, and considers it a structurally bound introduction to the story about the two Spaniards and their beards that Guzmán recounts next. For me, what this allegory demonstrates is first the overwhelming contrast between God's power and man's impotence, and secondarily the cruel and vindictive nature of God as imagined by Mateo Alemán. In the beginning man enjoys, or appears to enjoy, considerable power. In fact, the real power is seen to reside exclusively with God. At the end of the story it is apparent that man, reduced finally to the status of the monkey who dresses in silk in order to try to appear to be human, “contrahaciendo los defectos de su naturaleza,” is anything but the poderoso señor he seems to be at the beginning.

Guzmán concludes and leads into the next narrative segment, derived from the lesson of the years-of-man story, as Rico has already observed. “Y así vemos en los que llegan a esta edad que suelen, aunque tan viejos, querer parecer mozos, pulirse, aderezarse, pasear, enamorar y hacer valentías, representando lo que no son, como lo hace la mona, que todo es querer imitar las obras del hombre y nunca lo puede ser. Terrible cosa es y mal se sufre que los hombres quieran … dar a entender a el contrario de la verdad y que con tintas, emplastos y escabeches nos desmientan y hagan trampantojos, desacreditándose a sí mismos. Como si con esto … reformasen sus flaquezas, cobrando calor natural, vivificándose de nuevo la vieja y helada sangre. O como si se sintiesen más poderosos en dar y tener mano” (73-74). The theme developed here, springing naturally from the conclusion of the preceding allegory, is that of the ravages of age, prominent among which is the phenomenon of impotence, both in its sexual sense—querer parecer mozos, pasear, enamorar y hacer valentías … vivificándose de nuevo la vieja y helada sangre—and in the sense of the possession of power in general—sentirse más poderosos en dar y tener mano. This last brings us back to the principal focus of the allegory about man and God and the animals—the awesome (and cruelly exercized) power of God in contrast with the pitiful impotence of man. As Freud pointed out long ago, this variety of impotence is a reflection of that experienced by the little boy vis à vis his apparently all-powerful father, which is of course sexual in origin. Impotence, paradoxically, is a function of both too many years and too few.

These connections having been made, Guzmán-narrator introduces the episode of the two unwelcome guests at the French Ambassador's dinner table: “No sin propósito he traído lo dicho, pues viene a concluirse con dos caballeros confrades desta bobada, por quien he referido lo pasado. … Eran personas principales: uno capitán, el otro letrado” (74). There are several things to take into account here. We are first in the presence of our old friends “arms and letters,” here embodied in the professional soldier and the legally trained professional bureaucrat. In contrast to the normal elaboration of the theme, however, these men are not presented as antagonists, spokesmen for two opposing sides in a traditional but still relevant debate, but as inseparable companions: “dos caballeros cofrades … personas principales … enfadosisimos y cansados ambos … todos los aborrecían” (74). The thrust of Guzmán's burla will be to set them against each other and turn them into antagonists. In addition, these men are both Spaniards and both hypocritical braggarts, thus lending a new dimension to another topos, that of the overbearing but cowardly Spanish soldier in Italy. But the Spanish Ambassador and Guzmán himself are other Spaniards present who do not embody the stereotyped vices associated with their countrymen, and whose presence in fact forces a more “universal” reading of the anecdote. The story is not about the antagonism between Spaniards and Italians any more than it is about the antagonism between arms and letters.

Guzmán's plan is to estrange these two friends from each other and to subject both of them to the ridicule of the assembled company. In this he is acting as the agent of his master, the French Ambassador, who at times seems impossible to distinguish from his Spanish counterpart, also present at the table. Rico observes this coalescence of the two Ambassadors into one in a note to his edition. The lines drawn are thus the figures, or figure, of authority on the one hand as against the two freeloading caballeros on the other.

Guzmán begins to pit the latter against each other by whispering in the captain's ear, trading jokes and appearing to enjoy his confidence. He then invents, for public consumption, an insulting observation made by the captain with respect to his friend's beard, to the effect that he takes special care of it at night to ensure its length and shape. The letrado is both shamed and infuriated, and retaliates with a public inquiry into the absence of gray hairs in the captain's own beard. Both gentlemen have now been shamed in public. Guzmán then summarizes the dispute by observing that “ambos han dicho verdad y ambos mienten por la barba” (78). Rico relates this last sentence to the theme of mendacity, specifically cosmetic measures taken to conceal the ravages of age, insisted upon at the conclusion of the years-of-man story, and derives it from the second part of Pero Mexia's Silva de varia lección (Sevilla, 1540), concretely from an anecdote concerning a man who dyed his beard in order to appear younger than he really was, and “traía la mentira pública en el rostro y en la cabeza.” For Rico, Alemán's polysemic “mienten por la barba” is a further refinement of the same concept.⁹ The two beards in question clearly form part of Alemán's univers du faux. The captain's remits directly to the anecdote in Pero Mexía, and the jurist's suggests the inadequacy of his learning, the absence of the letras it is supposed to represent.¹⁰ Rico further calls attention to the seriousness of beards in general and hence to the magnitude of the slur contained in the accusation of mentir por la barba, as summarized in a Lope play contemporaneous with Alemán's text. “La barba es en el hombre tan honrada / que para hacerle la mayor afrenta / le decimos que miente por la barba.”¹¹ The Cid's beard as emblematic of his honor is probably the best known case in the Spanish tradition of the psycho-social signification of facial hair.

Let us return for a moment to the specific features of the attack on the letrado's beard. “Dice que la trae a modo de barba de pichel de Flandes y que la mete las noches en prensa de dos tabletas, liada como guitarra, para que a la mañana salga con esquinas, como limpiadera, pareja y tableada, los pelos iguales, cortados en cuadro, muy estirada porque alargue, para que con ella y su bonete romano acrediten sus letras pocas y gordas, como de libro de coro. ¡Cual si fuera esto parte para darlas y no se hubiesen visto … muy grandes necios de falda, mayores que la de sus lobas” (76-77).¹² This beard is in general not long enough and not straight enough. The letrado compensates by stretching it porque alargue and by keeping it in a press at night para que a la mañana salga con esquinas … pareja y tableada, los pelos iguales, cortados en cuadro. This beard is in fact rather daringly evoked in its explicitness as an upwardly displaced version of the letrado's phallus, which is, consequently, found wanting. We should note that any beard has the potential meaning of an upwardly displaced version of the phallus. This psychosexual dimension of its meaning is what allows it to assume the psycho-social aspect—a man's honor—we noted in Lope's play and in the case of the Cid. These dimensions underlie the socio-historic meaning of the beard as an emblem of its possessor's learning. Now, the letrado's beard/phallus is inadequate with respect to its length and its stiffness, as the measures noted in the text to compensate for its deficiencies demonstrate. To make matters worse, this deficient member is surrounded by clothing associated with women, not the bonete romano the letrado is actually wearing, but the faldas introduced in the cliché necio de faldas and emphasized by immediate association with the letrado's academic gown, his loba. The letrado's beard is in fact presented as a manifestation of impotence, and the phenomenon of impotence is what is presented in public for the amusement of the ambassadors and the shame of the letrado. Indeed, the fact that it has been made public in the presence of authority constitutes another aspect of the man's impotence. Because he cannot retaliate against authority—any more than man can retaliate against God for saddling him with the travails of dog, ass and monkey—he turns on his friend the captain and calls attention to the color of that gentleman's beard.

This second beard is also a sign of impotence. It is evoked in relation to its owner's age. If the captain was really active in the Tunisian campaign of 1535, how is it that his beard is still so dark, unless, of course, he dyes it? Conversely, if he is in fact as young as the color of his beard makes him appear to be, how is it that he knows so much about events that occurred before he was old enough to participate in them? Either his beard is true and he is lying about his exploits, or the exploits are true and he is lying about his beard. In either case, he is lying about his age. Psychosexually, the letrado's attack on the captain's beard may be referred to the theme of impotence we noted in connection with the years-of-man story and its aftermath. The captain is either “contrahaciendo los defectos de su naturaleza,” an old man desperately masquerading as a young and virile one, or he is still a boy, impotent vis à vis the father, who masquerades as a man and invents experiences he never had.

Guzmán's witty conclusion, that both gentlemen have spoken the truth and have also both lied por la barba, where the ambiguous preposition por creates the polysemia noted by Rico, is not the real end of his episode, nor is the theme of mendacity its true focus. By virtue of its insistence on the psychosexual meaning of their beards, the anecdote of the captain and the letrado continues the exploration of the phenomenon of impotence begun as an allegory in the years-of-man story. Two friends, alike dependent on an authority higher than themselves, are first transformed into antagonists, made to accuse each other of impotence, and finally stripped of their public appearance of self-sufficient virility and exposed as powerless to retaliate against their tormentors. This last is mentioned explicitly in the case of the letrado, whose impotent rage prevents him even from properly pronouncing the insults he heaps on Guzmán: “que partía con los dientes las palabras, no acertando a pronunciarlas de coraje. Quisiera levantarse a darme mil mojicones y cabezadas, empero no lo dejaron. Y faltándole todo género de venganza …” (80).

It is at this point, in this atmosphere of humiliating revealed impotence and frustrated evengeance, that one of the guests tells the story of Don Álvaro de Luna and the love affairs of his two subordinates, Don Luis de Castro and Don Rodrigo de Montalvo. Given the preamble we have just observed, it would be disconcerting to say the least if this new story, too, should not be obsessed with the idea of impotence. It is in fact the continuation of the preoccupation with impotence we have been observing all along.

As I remarked earlier, the Castro/Montalvo story has been studied independently of its context in the Guzmán, but in relation to its Italian sources. It was F. W. Chandler who first called attention to Alemán's debt to Masuccio, Novellino, 41, for the adventures of D. Rodrigo de Montalvo, and in 1933 D. P. Rotunda proposed Boccaccio, Decamerone, V, 9 as the source for D. Luis de Castro's part of the story.¹³ Ricapito, for one, has observed that Boccaccio's story of Federigo and the falcon is “not very convincing” as the source for D. Luis' spending himself into poverty in a vain effort to win a lady's favors.¹⁴ This reticence to take Boccaccio seriously is ascribable probably to the wildly differing thrusts of his and Alemán's stories. Boccaccio's real interest lies in Federigo's O. Henryesque sacrifice of his prize falcon as a meal for the lady he has always loved, who has come to his house to request it—alive, of course—as the only means of restoring her ailing son to health. Federigo's having first spent himself into poverty is the necessary precondition for the real story, because it leaves him with only one possession of any value: his prize falcon.

Boccaccio's story in itself probably had no significant effect on Alemán, but as it happens, during the time Alemán was residing in Sevilla and becoming friendly with Lope, the dramatist wrote a comedia based on Boccaccio's story and entitled El halcón de Federico.¹⁵ It is from this play that Rico extracted the explanation of the insult contained in the phrase mentir por la barba. The presence and prominence of this phrase in both Lope's play and Alemán's anecdote, together with the fact that Alemán's text continues by recounting the events of the first part of Lope's play, derived in turn from Boccaccio's story but developed in much greater detail, suggests that the amorous exploits of D. Luis de Castro, that is, the story of how he spent himself into poverty trying to win the hand of a lady—are based on Lope, and either on his text or on conversations with him, and not directly on Boccaccio. This in turn suggests again the subtextual relation between the Castro/Montalvo story and the captain/letrado anecdote which precedes it.

Let us turn, then, to the novella about Don Álvaro de Luna, who offers a diamond ring to whichever of the two noblemen who serve him recounts the most exciting tale of amorous peril. Donald McGrady refers briefly to Alemán's participation in the “novelistic tradition of a patron who stimulates reciters of tales with a prize.”¹⁶ This tradition is surprisingly difficult to document, and does not appear to be particularly widespread. It is, however, the basis for the organization of at least one important collection, the 1001 Nights, where in fact the ability to please—or placate—an authority figure with a story is quite literally a matter of life and death.¹⁷ Don Álvaro de Luna bears a superficial resemblance to the Caliph in the 1001 Nights, insofar as he is the figure of authority and possessor of power. He has the power to demand gratification from his subordinates and the power to reward them (or not) as he sees fit. We shall consider the actual extent of his power, as well as his use of it, in more detail subsequently. For the present he remains constituted as juez and señoría (81).

The two storytellers are both noblemen subservient to Don Álvaro. They are in addition intimate friends, as Don Luis attests: “Doy por testigo presente a don Rodrigo de Montalvo, como el amigo que sólo se halló presente a todo” (82). Because they are both competing for the ring Don Álvaro has promised as the reward for the best story, however, their friendship is compromised from the beginning. Phrased another way, Don Álvaro has introduced an adversary relationship between them.

Don Luis de Castro narrates the story, from Boccaccio by way of Lope de Vega, of how he spent himself into poverty in a vain effort to win the hand of a lady who finally married into the titled nobility and is henceforth known only as la condesa. In reality, Don Luis narrates very little. His presentation consumes only forty-one lines, twenty-seven of which are devoted to a summary of his relations with the lady, with the remaining fourteen lines given over to such topics as his friendship with Don Rodrigo, the feelings aroused in him by his reduction to poverty and subservience, and a brief reflection on the power of money. Among these the most important is the expression of his emotions and of his relationship to Don Álvaro. “Todo lo consumí, hasta quedar tan pobre, que la merced sola de Vuestra Señoría es la que me sustenta. Y aunque no es aquesto lo que pide mayor sentimiento, verse un caballero como yo … tan arrinconado y pobre, que la necesidad le obligue a servir, habiendo sido servido siempre—que aunque confieso por mucha felicidad el ser criado de Vuestra Señoría, no se duda cuánta sea la buena fortuna de aquellos que pasan su vida con seguridad y descuido” (82). This passage contains more than the germ of a dialectic of poverty and wealth, power and impotence. Don Luis was impotent with the lady. Nothing he did, including the expenditure of all his wealth, produced the desired effect. Instead, she preferred to marry a man higher in the nobility, wealthier and considerably older. “Faltó a su obligación y a su calidad. Pues, despreciada la mía y los bienes naturales, hizo elección de los de fortuna, con marido no igual suyo. Porque se la aventajaba en hacienda y aun en años, que hasta en estas desdichas hace suplir el dinero” (83); “demás de ser el conde viejo …” (85). In effect, D. Luis has lost out to a representation of the father. Further, he has been reduced to economic impotence, signalled by his forced entry into the service of Don Álvaro. He has become dependent on Don Álvaro in much the same way as the son without the means or the strength to support himself is dependent on the father. In fact, D. Luis' narration turns out to be not a record of certain events so much as a statement of his own dependency and impotence.¹⁸

At this point D. Rodrigo commences his part of the story. It is clearly and unambiguously derived from Masuccio, Novellino, 41 and is profitably studied in reference to its source. The most pertinent criticism has been that of McGrady and Ricapito, who call attention, among other things, to the change in narrative point of view and the change in the ending, which informs the tone of the entire story. Masuccio's renaissance, neo-pagan Italian optimism and joie de vivre are contrasted with Alemán's sombre Spanish baroque insistence on desengaño. I want to call attention to the description of the respective protagonists' situations and states of mind, huddled in bed with someone each believes is the husband, while the man's wife makes noisy love to someone else in the next room. Ciarlo's nakedness and fear as the night passes with no relief in sight, when he discovers the door is locked and there is no escape, are admirably developed in Masuccio's third-person narration, more so in fact than in Alemán. Ciarlo's nudity is explicitly mentioned four times, twice in the preliminary discussion of the plan and twice more in the course of its execution. Don Rodrigo refers to himself only twice as desnudo, and further qualifies this on two other occasions when he explains that in fact he was not totally naked. “Púsome la condesa un tocado suyo” (80); “… levantarme como estaba en camisa” (87). Naked though he may be, Masuccio's Ciarlo is in possession of one important item Don Rodrigo lacks at this crucial juncture: his sword. Ciarlo's spata is mentioned once when he is in bed with the “husband” (“e in sé racolto, ammanitase la spata per averla al bisogno”) and again when he gets up and heads for the door (“E saltato del letto, con la spata del fodaro tratta andó verso la porta”).¹⁹ Don Rodrigo reports, “como entré desnudo y sin armas, había de ser a brazos la pendencia” (86). This is an important detail. The sword functions on two levels. Literally, its absence ensures Don Rodrigo's inability to defend himself should the “husband” awaken and discover him. Figuratively, if we keep in mind that the condesa's husband is older and has already been characterized as a representation of the father, the lack of a sword is the lack of a phallus, that masculine attribute possessed by the father but not by the little boy. Finally, the lack of the sword/phallus also symbolizes Don Rodrigo's impotence vis à vis the woman who is in fact in bed next to him. Which of course is how the story ends. When Don Rodrigo discovers at his side “una señora doncella, hermana de la condesa, hermosa como la misma Venus” (i.e., desnuda) he is overcome by shame and seeks refuge in flight. His impotence is further underscored by his inability to speak. “De lo cual y de la burla que creí habérseme hecho, quedé tan atajado y corrido, que no supe hablar ni otra cosa que hacer, más de levantarme como estaba en camisa y salir a buscar mis vestidos, de que después me avergoncé mucho más de lo que temí antes” (87).

Both D. Luis and D. Rodrigo's stories turn out to be confessions of impotence. This fact allows us to appreciate the necessity for and the effect of the change in narrative point of view from third to first person-protagonist without further commentary. A confession is by definition a first-person statement. This in turn brings us to the character of Don Álvaro de Luna, the authority figure to whom the confessions are directed and from whom they are expected to elicit a reward.

Don Álvaro is more than a simple representation of authority. He is presented in a way that suggests a certain ambiguity in his possession of power. He is introduced with a pun on his name, as being “en el tiempo de su mayor creciente,” that is, at the zenith of his political power.²⁰ Alemán continues to exploit the ambiguity inherent in the name Luna, as he describes the Condestable's daily summertime routine. He is out and visible in the early morning, but withdraws indoors “antes que le pudiese ofender el sol.” On this particular day he stays out too long, the sun becomes hot and “temiendo la vuelta,” he takes refuge in a pleasant garden where he determines to stay “hasta la noche.” Don Álvaro's behavior parallels that of the moon, visible in the morning but paling as the sun reaches its zenith, coming forth or becoming visible again at night. In the first image—su mayor creciente—Don Álvaro stands alone in his power. In the rest he appears in relation to another luminary, one greater than himself. It is the presence of the sun that reminds us that although Luna is powerful he is not in fact omnipotent, or phrased another way, that his power extends only to those below him.

Don Álvaro de Luna's power certainly extends to Don Luis and Don Rodrigo, and he wields it with gusto for his own gratification. This has the effect of demonstrating the other men's impotence. His first act, as we have already observed, is to estrange the two friends from each other, transforming them into antagonists as they compete for the ring he has promised. The first victim of this new relationship is D. Luis, who tells a story he knows D. Rodrigo can top merely by continuing it. He apparently believes that his friend, out of friendship, will not obstruct his return to prosperity. He seems also to believe that D. Rodrigo would be unlikely to continue the story because to do so would expose his own private shame. He is wrong on both counts. Don Álvaro has already placed an intolerable strain on the friendship, and D. Rodrigo apparently needs the ring so badly, or wants it so desperately, that he is willing to reveal his ignominious role in the affair.

This making public, for the entertainment of the powerful, facts better kept to oneself, is the second aspect of Don Álvaro's exercize of power. Let us consider for a moment the respective entertainment value of the two stories and Don Álvaro's reaction to them. It is immediately apparent that in comparison to D. Rodrigo's minute-by-minute account of his agony on that night in the condesa's bed, D. Luis' recital of his reduction to poverty and servitude is lackluster in the extreme. Don Rodrigo's story is clearly better by whatever criteria of narratology one cares to invoke, yet Don Álvaro considers the contest a draw, refusing to award the prize to either storyteller. D. Álvaro must therefore consider the two stories of equal entertainment value, and he must be exercising some private standard of evaluation. The entertainment value for him must reside not in the events of the story, and not in the manner of telling, but in the simple fact of the revelation of shame, dependency, in a word impotence. In this, and only in this, are the two stories comparable. But Don Álvaro is not through yet. He awards the ring to the condesa's sister, who shares her bed—to no particular result—with Don Rodrigo and who “padeció el peligro y lo corriera su honra si fuera sentida” (87). Until Don Álvaro heard the story, the lady's honor was not in jeopardy, but now her participation, or at least her willingness to participate in the affair, has become known beyond the four directly involved. Worse yet, by sending her the ring Don Álvaro conveys to her the message that he knows the story, so that she knows that he knows. Now she too can be ashamed, like D. Luis and D. Rodrigo.

The comment on Don Álvaro's judgment, expressed by the French Ambassador and his guests, is positive. “Loáronlo todos de cortesano” (87). The assembled courtiers recognize themselves in the Spanish condestable, suggesting again a relation between the events in the story and those that took place earlier around the dinner table. Such a relation can be worked out with almost mathematical precision. Don Álvaro is to D. Luis and D. Rodrigo as the Ambassadors are to the captain and the letrado. In both cases an authority, a power perceived from below as absolute, drives a wedge between two friends, estranging them and transforming them into enemies who proceed to expose each other's impotence and confess their own. The fact of impotence is further demonstrated by the subordinates' inability to retaliate against the powerful. D. Luis, D. Rodrigo, the captain and the letrado are to D. Álvaro and the Ambassadors as the impotent child is to the father, and as the creatures (man, dog, ass, monkey) are to God in the opening allegory. The theme is always the same: the impotence of the weak revealed for the gratification of the powerful, with one curious detail. In every case the powerful are not in fact omnipotent. The ambassadors are only the representatives of their respective sovereigns. Don Alvaro is the moon to Juan II's sun. Everyone learns sooner or later that his father is not all-powerful, and Alemán's text insists over and over that God Himself does not in fact enjoy the attribute of omnipotence.²¹ They are all perceived, however, as the possessors of the power that is denied to the perceivers. Alemán's text simultaneously subscribes to the common perception and denies it, exposing the father's foibles and at the same time expressing the folly, the futility, of attempting to compete with him.

Notes

1. See Francisco Rico, “Estructuras y reflejos de estructuras en el Guzmán de Alfarache,” MLN, 82 (1967), 171-84.

2. Guzmán de Alfarache, ed. Francisco Rico (Barcelona: Planeta, 1967), introduction, p. cxlix.

3. Guzmán de Alfarache, ed. Benito Brancaforte (Madrid: Cátedra, 1979), II, 87, n. 24.

4. Donald McGrady, Mateo Alemán (New York: Twayne, 1968), p. 145.

5. “Cette intrigue, en fait, dissimule la veritable trompérie qui metamorphose le complice en victime” (Edmond Cros, Protée et le gueux. Recherches sur les origines et la nature du récit picaresque dans Guzmán de Alfarache [Paris: Didier, 1967], pp. 389-90).

6. Michel Cavillac, Gueux et marchands dans le Guzmán de Alfarache (1599-1604). Roman picaresque et mentalité bourgeoise dans l'Espagne du Siècle d'Or (Bordeaux: Institut d'Etudes Ibériques et Ibéro-américaines de l'Université de Bordeaux, 1983), p. 422. This well-documented, provocative new book inaugurates a fruitful new period in the history of Guzmán studies.

7. Ricapito, “From Boccaccio to Mateo Alemán: An Essay on Literary Sources and Adaptations,” RR, 60 (1969), 83-95; McGrady, Mateo Alemán, pp. 160-63.

8. Guzmán de Alfarache, ed. Brancaforte (Madrid: Cátedra, 1979), II, 73. All subsequent references are made to this edition.

9. Rico, “Estructuras,” p. 181.

10. The semiology of “the learned man's beard” is in general well known. “Ya en Grecia y Roma la barba definía a los filósofos o a quienes alardeaban de serlo. La barba era general entre letrados” (Rico, ed. cit., p. 520, n. 37, with references to Vélez de Guevara and Gracián). Quevedo's portrait of the letrado “con más barbas que desvelos,” who “alega la caspa por textos” and “por leyes cita los pelos” (ed. James Crosby [Madrid: Cátedra, 1982], pp. 283-84) is an excellent example. The bearded letrado was frequently in fact as well as in literary tradition considered incompetent to function in the real world. See Richard L. Kagan, Students and Society in Early Modern Spain (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1974); Jean-Marc Pelorson, Les Letrados-juristes castillans sous Philippe III (n.p., 1980); Joseph Pérez, “Les letrados,” BHi, 84 (1982), 442-53.

11. El halcón de Federico, in Obras, ed. Real Academia Española (Madrid: Sucesores de Rivadeneyra, 1913), xiv, 460; cited in Rico, “Estructures,” p. 180, n. 18.

12. With respect to the expression “barba de pichel de Flandes,” which annotators have taken to mean “a beard in the shape of a Flemish pichel,” and then confessed ignorance as to the precise shape of the Flemish pichel, I propose that the phrase de flandes does not modify pichel, but rather barba, “a Flemish-style beard, in the shape of a pichel.”

13. D. P. Rotunda, “The Guzmán de Alfarache and Italian Novellistica,” RR, 24 (1933), 131.

14. Ricapito, “From Boccaccio to Mateo Alemán,” 83.

15. Lope's play is mentioned in one of the few footnotes in my Boccaccio, the Anonima Edizioni Viola, I, 777. Morley and Bruerton date it 1599-1605.

16. Donald McGrady, Mateo Alemán (New York: Twayne, 1968), p. 162.

17. Mia Gerhardt, The Art of Story Telling (Leiden: Brill, 1963), p. 398. Besides its obvious importance in the frame and indeed the very raison d'être of the work, there are eight other instances in the 1001 Nights of stories told to a patron for the purpose of winning a favor. See Nikita Elisséeff, Thèmes et motifs des 1001 nuits. Essai de classification (Beirut: Institut Français de Damas, 1949), pp. 111-12, 136. Such situations are conspicuous by their scarcity in, for example, Stith Thompson, motif-index of Folk Literature (Bloomington: Indiana University, 1966), and Maxime Chevalier, Cuentecillos tradicionales en la España del Siglo de Oro (Madrid: Gredos, 1975). Thompson offers two examples, both of which remit to Gaelic texts, and Chevalier none.

18. Elsewhere in its pages the Guzmán offers some interesting parallels to D. Luis' situation. Ricapito has noted that the condesa's marriage to an older (but noble) man she does not really love parallels Guzmán's mother's involvement with the old caballero and her subsequent acquisition of a lover who is younger and more stimulating than her “husband” (see “From Boccaccio,” p. 89, and “Love and Marriage in Guzmán de Alfarache: An Essay on Literary and Artistic Unity,” KRQ, 15 [1968], 132). Don Luis' poverty and condition of servitude also recall Guzmán's own experiences when, after Toledo, he becomes friendly with the company of soldiers. He has money and dresses well. He is so intent on gaining the good will of the captain and other officers that when he gambles he does not bother to cheat. In this way he is quickly reduced to poverty and forced into a new relationship—one of servitude—with his former friend the captain. See Mauricio Molho, Introducción al pensamiento picaresco (Salamanca: Anaya, 1968), p. 73. Captain Favelo of the galley on which Guzmán escapes from Genoa has been rendered poor and dependent by the perfidy of a woman he loved. Even his name turns out not to be his, but one the lady had given him (II, 244). Finally, Brancaforte calls attention to Guzmán's comments upon his departure from Rome. “Habíame acostumbrado a mandar, ¿cómo queréis que me humille a obedecer?” (ed. cit., II, 82, n. 15). We are in fact in the presence of one of Mateo Alemán's obsessive preoccupations.

19. Masuccio Guardati, Il novellino (Firenze: Sansoni, 1957), p. 371.

20. Brancaforte calls attention to this “juego conceptista” (ed. cit., II, 81, n. 7) but does not develop it further.

21. See my Inside Guzmán de Alfarache (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1978), pp. 121-64.