SOURCE: Whitenack, Judith A. “‘Bonifacio y Dorotea’ and the Merchandising of Love.” Hispanic Review 58, no. 1 (winter 1990): 57-71.

[In the following essay, Whitenack examines the tale Bonifacio y Dorotea in Guzmán de Alfarache, concluding that mercantile interests are of far greater importance to themes in the narration than Guzmán's sexual deviancy.]

It is no news for readers of Guzmán de Alfarache that Guzmán's wife, mother and grandmother were all prostitutes. We also know that Guzmán, following the pattern set by the man who was probably his father, lived for a time on his wife Gracia's earnings and even acted as her alcahuete. Indeed, Guzmán's unsavory relationships with women from early childhood on have given rise to various psychoanalytical analyses of his warped sexuality and his possible homosexual inclinations (Brancaforte; Cros; Johnson). I do not disagree entirely with these interpretations, but I consider Guzmán's mercantile obsessions to be the ultimate controlling factor in his behavior, even with women. In this context I am proposing a new reading of the interpolated tale “Bonifacio y Dorotea,” both for its own sake and for the light it sheds on Alemán's complicated protagonist.

Before the recent proliferation of new interpretations of the Guzmán, the standard approach was to treat the four main interpolated tales as unrelated digressions and to concentrate on establishing plausible classical or Italian sources for them. However, critical studies of the past two decades have nearly all worked from the assumption that these tales play a significant role in the novel as a whole.¹ I think that most would agree, for example, that two principal ideas link “Bonifacio” with the main narration: that money has the power to erase social distinctions and that reputation is a matter of appearance rather than substance—both commonplaces in the literature of the period. However, the tale's echoes and reinforcements of the concerns of the Guzmán itself are much more intricate than these initial observations might suggest.

Before beginning our analysis, it is important to point out one very simple technique used repeatedly in both “Bonifacio” and the main narration, whereby the narrator effectively condemns his characters without ever having accused them openly. He accomplishes this by first hinting at some damning possibility and then never contradicting it, but rather piling up so much supporting evidence that the reader must be convinced that the character is guilty. Having established this, let us first consider “Bonifacio.” As we will recall, Dorotea is the illegitimate, convent-bred daughter of Mícer Jacobo, a converso merchant. At the beginning of the tale, her two brothers, also merchants, perish on their way home from the Indies in a shipwreck from which nothing is salvaged, “mercadería ni persona.” When Mícer Jacobo's “pérdida tan grande” precipitates his death, we are left to speculate on whether the pérdida refers primarily to his hijos or to his mercadería. Dorotea's feelings about the tragedy are similarly unclear:

… ya perdida la hacienda, los hermanos y padre defuntos, viéndose desamparada y sola, sintió su trabajo como lo pudiera sentir cualquier hombre de mucha prudencia, por haberle faltado tanto en tan breve, que pudo decirse un día, y con ella la esperanza de su remedio, porque deseaba ser monja.

(276; pt. 2, bk. 2, ch. 9)²

She naturally regrets having lost tanto, but this word is as ambiguous as her father's “pérdida tan grande,” and the latter phrase's similarity to “ya perdida la hacienda” heightens our sense that both Dorotea and her father are moved more by practical than personal considerations. Further damning evidence follows. For example, her father's death was in “breves días,” but she has lost tanto in “un día,” i.e., the day of the shipwreck. Furthermore, to equate a supposedly grieving Dorotea with “cualquier hombre de mucha prudencia” is to emphasize that she is mainly worried about the financial implications of the tragedy.

The precedence given to the mercenary rather than the emotional is thus established early in the tale, and it continues with the appearance of Bonifacio, the young merchant who seeks to marry Dorotea. He is quick to calculate that despite his humble origins, she will eventually put aside “pundonores vanos” in the interests of escaping from poverty. And indeed, once he has successfully bribed one of her companions, a lay sister also noted for her prudencia, Dorotea, “convencida de razón,” agrees to marry him. Earlier we were told that, significantly for a merchant, Bonifacio is so taken with acquiring his “premio” that “lo menos que le diera fuera todo su caudal” (277). That he also regards Dorotea as “tan grande riqueza,” “tanto bien,” and “aquella joya” seems to explain his eagerness to “solicitar la cobranza.” Needless to say, this choice of words conjures up the shrewd evaluation of a merchant more than the enthusiasm of a lover. This impression is enhanced when we hear that Bonifacio regards the marriage as a “buen puerto de sus castos deseos,” which inevitably reminds us of Lázaro de Tormes' “buen puerto,” i.e., his economic security. Subsequent references to Bonifacio's “casto amor” and “castos deseos” only reinforce our suspicion that his interest in Dorotea is more mercenary than sexual, while simultaneously raising the possibility that he is sexually impotent or not attracted to women. It therefore seems more than coincidental when this “casto y verdadero amor” produces no children.

Once they are married, Bonifacio feels “el más dichoso, afortunado y rico de los hombres,” although Dorotea clearly does not: “mayor el [gusto] de Bonifacio” (ii: 280). When shortly after their marriage Dorotea finds herself courted assiduously by numerous galanes, we must suspect that these suitors sense her unhappiness, if not her sexual frustration. And once again, the narrator does nothing to counteract the suspicion he has raised. Note the peculiar, even farcical, imagery used to describe Dorotea's supposed attempts to remain faithful: “como la grulla, la piedra del amor de Dios levantada del suelo, y el pie fijo en el de su marido” (281). Since all of these suitors are “mozos y señores de los más principales de la ciudad” and “mancebos galanes, discretos, olorosos y pulidos,” it seems highly unlikely that Bonifacio is unaware of their presence. Nonetheless we are told that he is not in the least jealous: “sin temor de celoso pensamiento ni de alguna otra cosa que le pudiera causar desasosiego” (280).

When Claudio, Dorotea's most persistent suitor, sends his morisca slave Sabina to visit the young couple frequently under the pretext of buying their merchandise for the “abadesa,” there is no indication that Bonifacio is at all uneasy. One would think that this ambitious young merchant would recognize a servant from the household of one of the “más principales de la ciudad.” It also seems strange that he would not recognize Sabina herself, a Celestinesque figure who must have been notorious in Seville: “tan diestra en un embeleco, tan maestra en juntar voluntades, tan curiosa en visitar cementerios y caritativa en acompañar ahorcados, que hiciera nacer berros encima de la cama” (282). And as a matter of fact, while claiming to work for the “abadesa,” Sabina is always open about her skill in “juntar voluntades,” as in her opening gambit, which is to offer to act as a go-between for Bonifacio and “una lega … hermosa y rica.” Shortly afterward, when speaking of her supposed mistress, she calls herself an “alcahuete destos amores” and exclaims over how much the “abadesa” will envy her for having seen Dorotea at close range: “¡Ay, Jesús, cuando yo le cuente a mi señora lo que he visto, cuánta invidia me tendrá! Cuánto deseo le crecerá de gozar un venturoso día de tal cara” (284).

It never seems to strike Bonifacio as strange that an abbess, through the offices of a morisca slave, should court a young merchant's wife so persistently over a period of weeks, all to the apparent end of inviting her to “holgar al monasterio un día,” i.e., to take part in a pilgrimage to the abbey during the feast of St. John. Nevertheless, Bonifacio cheerfully consents to Dorotea's taking part in the supposed pilgrimage, and all that we ever hear about his attitude toward Sabina's visits is that he is delighted with the “buena ocasión de la ganancia” (ii: 283). The connection between Dorotea and ganancia seems clear enough, especially when we keep in mind Bonifacio's initial eagerness to “solicitar la cobranza,” as well as the fact that once he has married her, they begin to enjoy financial success: “Crecíales la ganancia” (280).

Dorotea herself behaves suspiciously throughout the entire Claudio episode, beginning with Sabina's visit and ending with her return home from the “pilgrimage.” First, she shows nothing but happiness at the long-distance attentions of the abbess, and then, when Sabina praises her beauty in extravagant terms, Dorotea's response is strangely coquettish for the circumstances: “‘¡Ay! Callá, Sabina—dijo Dorotea—. No hagáis burla de mí, que ya soy vieja’” (ii: 285). However, the key to understanding Dorotea's motivations and appetites is her behavior with Claudio once Sabina and the “pilgrims” have induced her to enter his luxurious house, the main question being whether she is victim or willing participant in her seduction:

Finalmente, después que ya no pudo resistirle, viendo perdido el juego y empeñada la prenda en lo que Claudio había podido poco a poco ir granjeando de su persona, rindióse y no pudo menos. Ellos estaban solos a puerta cerrada, el término era largo de dos días, la fuerza de Claudio mucha, ella era sola, mujer y flaca: no le fue más posible.

(288)

Phrases like “perdido el juego” and “empeñada la prenda” do not suggest undue force on Claudio's part, and saying that she is “mujer y flaca” implies a lack of both moral and physical strength. Furthermore, the description of their subsequent activities indicates that Dorotea simply yields—probably to her own desires: “Comieron y cenaron en muchas libertades y fuéronse a dormir a la cama; empero breve fue su sosiego y sobresaltado su reposo” (289). Her deep sleep, from which neither a major fire nor the shouts of the neighbors awaken her, does not seem the most likely response of a woman who has been taken against her will. The narrator further destroys any possible sympathy for Dorotea by saying that their initial struggle would have been only a “pendencia de por San Juan,” that is, a momentary disagreement, “si no se les anublara el cielo” (ii: 289). In other words, only the fire in Claudio's house interrupts what was a mutually enjoyable interlude. It therefore seems clear that Dorotea's behavior hardly qualifies her as a victim of rape, despite the statements of some critics.³ The most that we can say is that she was seduced, and even that is open to question.

Further evidence within the narration of this episode serves to cast doubt on Dorotea's innocence. For example, the narrator discourses at length on the way that the devil tempts people to commit sins of the flesh. Like the merchant, he first sets up an attractive “tienda o pabellón,” promises absolute secrecy, and then exposes the sinning couple to public ridicule while they are enjoying “el mayor descuido y mal pensada seguridad” (284). Of course this is exactly what happens to Claudio and Dorotea. The devil's reassurances of secrecy also correspond specifically to Dorotea, since she is the one who will suffer from any publicity. Moreover, among those perishing in the fire are Claudio's sister, “una su hermana honesta,” and the despensero sharing her bed, not to mention Claudio's servants, who have been getting drunk on their master's liquor. In other words, all of these people have been attracted by the devil's “tienda o pabellón” and then caught unawares by the fire: “Los unos cansados, los otros bien borrachos y otros abrasados, ninguno respondía” (290). It is also significant that when the jealous young “teniente,” one of Dorotea's unsuccessful suitors, arrives to find the naked “amantes” fumbling for their clothes, he cannot believe that Bonifacio has not arranged the entire affair:

buscando rastros para tener ocasión con que prender también a su marido, pareciéndole no haber sido posible no ser sabidor y consentidor del caso, dando a su mujer licencia que fuese a dormir con aquel mancebo, por interese grande que por ello le habría dado.

(291)

Moreover, the narrator says nothing to contradict the teniente's suspicions, but in his usual fashion adds more damning evidence against first Dorotea and then Bonifacio. Once freed from jail through Sabina's tricks, for instance, Dorotea spends the entire night with Claudio before returning to her husband, even though there is no good reason—beyond personal desire—for her to do so. It is also interesting to note the remarkably indiscriminate use of similar words to describe supposedly disparate characters, thereby blurring any moral distinctions among them. For example, the narrator employs honesta and honestidad when speaking of his wayward sister, Dorotea, and Bonifacio, respectively: “una su hermana honesta,” “su honestidad y vergüenza,” “su honesto deseo de servirla,” etc. We also hear honrado, honroso and honor used to refer to Dorotea's “rico y honrado” merchant father, the “honrada escuadra de mujeres” who are to accompany Dorotea to the convent, and Bonifacio—“seguro y honrado” before Dorotea's adventure and “con todo su honor” afterward. Even the time of year suggests both fertility and passion; spring, with its burgeoning flowers and “frutas tempranas” with which the “abadesa” regales Dorotea, and the imminent revels of the feast of San Juan.

Several linguistic and circumstantial connections between the tale and the main narration further suggest that not only is Dorotea willing, but that Bonifacio actually may have acted as his wife's alcahuete. For example, the “abbess” wants Dorotea to come and “holgar al monasterio un día.” Beyond the suggestive possibilities of holgar, note the similarity to Guzmán's description of his mother's extramarital adventure in the country: “concertó mi madre … venirse a holgar un día” (126; pt. 1, bk. 1, ch. 2). In this context, Bonifacio's parting words to Dorotea as she leaves for the “abbey” are heavy with irony: “Idos a holgar esos dos días, que yo sé cuán de gusto serán para vos, y no menos para mí porque lo recibáis” (286). That is, her gusto gives him gusto, or could it be ganancia? Additionally, the mercantile imagery of Bonifacio's initial bursts of enthusiasm about Dorotea find an echo in Guzmán's words about Gracia: “‘Comigo llevo pieza de rey, fruta nueva, fresca y no sobajada; pondréle precio como quisiere’” (399; pt. 2, bk. 3, ch. 3). Let us also remember that the galanes are courting Dorotea during Mass, which is the scene both of Guzmán's parents' first meeting and many of his own attempted liaisons. As for pilgrimages, observe the irony of Guzmán-narrator's remarks about them: “Romerías hay a veces que valiera mucho más tener quebrada una pierna en casa” (380; pt. 2, bk. 3, ch. 4).

The repetition of curioso and curiosidad in the tale—fully 11 times in 18 pages—also seems more than coincidental. The connotations of curioso are of course multiple: “careful,” “clean,” “intricate,” “inquisitive,” or “scholarly,” as in the curioso who wrote Part I of the Quijote (pt. 2, ch. 3).⁴ Dorotea's skill in “curiosa labor,” we will recall, causes her name to be known throughout Seville: “por toda la ciudad corría su nombre” (277). As we have noted, Sabina is also curiosa in her work: “tan maestra en juntar voluntades, tan curiosa en acompañar ahorcados” (282). We further learn that the basket of flowers and her other gifts to Dorotea were made with curiosidad: “una imagen pequeña de alcorza y un rosario de la misma pasta, con tanta curiosidad obrado, que bien era dino de mucha estima” (283). Note that the results of all this curiosidad are remarkably similar. Dorotea's curiosa labor not only makes her famous but also provides first Bonifacio and then Sabina with an excuse to continue seeing her, while Sabina's curiosidad enables her to acquire the necessary ingredients for her magic spells, as well as to help Claudio to win over Dorotea.

We might also keep in mind that the narrator of the tale is a “curioso forzado,” i.e., a galeote like Guzmán-narrator. Taking curioso⁵ here as “scholarly” reminds us of Guzmán's claim to be a scholar and therefore provide an even clearer connection between him and the curioso forzado. And, incidentally, Guzmán tells us that when he was the servant of the captain's pariente he made “palillos para sobremesa de grandísima curiosidad” (467; pt. 2, bk. 3, ch. 9). Guzmán's curiosidad, then, like Dorotea's, serves a practical end: attracting the attention of someone with the power to help him. The possibility that Dorotea's curiosidad also carries undertones of inquisitiveness or sexual curiosity is enhanced by the initial remarks about her convent upbringing: “y ella en cosas de labor, con exceso de curiosidad, por haberse criado en un monasterio de monjas desde su pequeña edad” (ii: 276).

From the evidence within the tale as well as its resemblance to certain crucial aspects of the main narration, then, I would propose the following reading of “Bonifacio”: a merchant dies from the shock of losing all of his merchandise plus his two sons, and his practical daughter sheds few tears for the loss of her family but rather is quick to agree, through the offices of a well-paid go-between, to an economically advantageous marriage. Her future husband, an aspiring young merchant, is attracted by her possibilities as a future source of income, and he correctly assesses her as someone who would not worry about “pundonores vanos” if she can be assured of financial security. Having perhaps no sexual interest in her and similarly unconcerned with “pundonores vanos” he encourages her to provide them with ganancia by finding rich lovers. She in turn, inspired by the opportunity of combining ganancia with sexual satisfaction, participates willingly. After a fire destroys her lover's property and kills all the witnesses to her trompiezo, her lover retires to a monastery, leaving the young couple “con todo su honor,” and of course, all of their ganancia.

Once we have arrived at this reading of the tale, we still need to decide on the purpose, beyond its entertainment value as a digression, of including it within the Guzmán. I would suggest that the answer to this question may be found in an analysis of the male-female relationships in the two narratives. Guzmán learns early that women can be a lucrative source of income, in his observation first of his prostitute mother and grandmother and then his putative father, who in short order married, robbed, and abandoned a wealthy Moslem girl before beginning to live on his wife's ill-gotten gains.⁶ An indication that Guzmán as mature narrator still holds this mercenary view of women is his famous lament that he did not have a sister who could have been prostituted to support the family: “si como nací solo, naciera una hermana, arrimo de mi madre, báculo de su vejez, columna de nuestras miserias, puerto de nuestros naufragios, diéramos dos higas a la fortuna” (141; pt. 1, bk. 1, ch. 2). The image here of the “puerto de nuestros naufragios” and the connection between this hypothetical sister and their economic security, is of course most interesting. And Seville, the setting of both “Bonifacio” and a significant part of the Guzmán, seems to have been an ideal place to market one's wife or anything else: “Sevilla era bien acomodada para cualquier granjería y tanto se lleve a vender como se compra, porque hay merchantes para todo” (141; pt. 1, bk. 1, ch. 2).

It is important to recall that despite having absorbed early the lesson that merchandising women is an easy way to make a living, the adolescent Guzmán yields first to his sexual, rather than mercenary, impulses. He therefore lets himself be deceived by a whole series of attractive con artists before finally deciding to cast his lot with a long line of masters, in the hope of thereby gaining some financial security. His one liaison with a woman during these years, with the servant girl Nicoleta, is in my view part of his pursuit of money, since his sole motivation is the reward he expects if his master is successful with her mistress. That Guzmán for most of his career continues to oscillate between the attractions of money and sex may be observed by his behavior when he is much older and still allows himself to be swindled once again by a beautiful and wily female: “Pagué lo que no pequé, troqué lo que no comí” (328; pt. 2, bk. 3, ch. 2). Some might say that at this point he gives up on sex, since he seems to care only about marrying a wealthy woman and concentrates on increasing his caudal in order to do so. Clearly his future father-in-law's mercenary approach, in which he uses his daughter as bait, is no surprise to Guzmán: “no faltó un loco que me codició para yerno” (330), and both he and the father think that they are getting a good deal: “Estaba rico. Era moza de muy buena gracia. Prometióme con ella tres mil ducados. Dije que sí” (330). The emphasis on the mercantile in all three citations is undeniable: “pagué,” “codició,” “tres mil ducados,” etc., but it is also clear that in evaluating this girl as an advantageous match he does not forget to mention her physical appeal.

As mature narrator Guzmán still reveals enormous hostility toward this woman, whose free-spending ways make her a bad investment that lasts six years. He says openly that getting rid of “la malograda,” as he calls her, was worth even his state of bankruptcy at her death: “no me puedo desto quejar, pues en haberme faltado, la desdicha me hizo dichoso” (359; pt. 2, bk. 3, ch. 3). Even more telling is the way he fondly recounts the anecdote about the traveler who, when ordered to discard his heaviest baggage during a dangerous storm at sea, tosses his wife overboard, saying that among all his mercadería, there was nothing “que tanto pesase” (359). The connection with Guzmán's remark about his marriage, “que no hay carga que tanto pese,” is unmistakable. Also important is the way women are once again identified with mercadería. Indeed, this anecdote is the third in a row in which human beings lose out in favor of merchandise. Just before the curioso forzado begins the tale of Bonifacio y Dorotea, Sayavedra has just drowned himself during a storm at sea, and Guzmán has pretended to feel great grief at his death, when actually, as he tells us, only losing his baúles would cause him to mourn (275; pt. 2, bk. 2, ch. 9). Of course “Bonifacio” also begins with a storm at sea and the priority that both Dorotea and her father seem to give to the loss of their mercadería over the death of their relatives.

Most critics have virtually ignored Guzmán's first marriage, but I would maintain that it is important as a logical development from the Nicoleta affair. With the servant girl, “una prenda mía,” as he calls her, his main interest seems to be financial, whereas with his first wife, “de muy buena gracia,” his remarks indicate that he is attempting to realize what I think is his ultimate fantasy: to combine sexual gratification with financial security. Let us consider briefly his later decision to throw away his seven years at Alcalá and the certain income of the priesthood for the beautiful and seductive Gracia. His actions would seem to represent a clear victory for sex over money, and indeed, that is the most common interpretation of his initial response to her. We should not forget, however, that along with his undeniable lust for Gracia, Guzmán is also attracted by what seems to be a comfortable economic situation: “La madre me ofreció su casa y su hacienda. Era mujer acreditada en el trato, tenía mucho y buen despacho, ganaba bien de comer” (386; pt. 2, bk. 3, ch. 4). Guzmán has by this time ample experience with mesoneras and therefore has every reason to expect that entering such a family would represent a good investment for him. And at first his future in-laws do treat him with excessive generosity: “Nunca creí que aquello pudiera faltar” (386). Guzmán in retrospect is quite aware that the mesonera was cynically using her daughters' beauty as bait to attract rich husbands: “Era taimada la madre, buscaba yernos y las hijas maridos” (384). He also realizes that long before the marriage, Gracia already had a questionable reputation: “Quise quitarme de malas lenguas, que ya me levantaban lo que, si fuera verdad, quizá no me perdiera” (386). Of course the “malas lenguas” were telling the truth, as so often is the case in this novel. Certainly Gracia does not appear to hesitate at supporting them through prostitution. And given the narrator's awareness, we must therefore suspect that none of this was lost on the young Guzmán—the likelihood that Gracia shared her mother's mercantile impulses and her less than sterling character—and that, remembering the moral lessons of his childhood, he almost certainly saw from the beginning Gracia's potential as the family breadwinner.

Returning to Bonifacio, let us observe that with his “alegre semblante” he seems willing, like Guzmán, to overlook anything, or indeed, to encourage anything, for the sake of ganancia. A telling point is that on the day he consents to Dorotea's pilgrimage to the abbey, Sabina has once again purchased a substantial amount of their merchandise. Certainly Bonifacio's hope of further profits is the most logical explanation for his blithe acceptance of what most husbands would view as highly suspicious circumstances. One might conclude that he is a hopeless fool, were it not for the astuteness he demonstrated previously in his courtship of Dorotea, as well as his absolute determination to get ahead: “que para más acreditarse procuraba que su obra hiciera ventajas conocidas a la de su vecino” (277). It seems impossible, furthermore, to ignore the connection between Bonifacio's “alegre semblante” when he first hears of the “buena ocasión de la ganancia” and the suggestive etymological possibilities of the name Bonifacio, which is indeed appropriate for a “marido consentido.” Let us also remember Guzmán's rationalizations about Gracia's male visitors:

Galana cosa es que uno poderoso regale a mi mujer y que no haya yo de conocer el fin que lleva. Si me holgaba dello y consentía que mi mujer lo recibiera, si la dejé salir fuera y gusté que, cuando volviese, viniese cargada de la joya, del vestido nuevo, de las colaciones, y mi desvergüenza era tanta, que las comía y con todo lo más disimulaba: lo mismo hacen ellos.

(405; pt. 2, bk. 3, ch. 5)

Not only does he claim that “todos hacen lo mismo,” but he makes it clear just why he permits it: like Bonifacio—for the sake of ganancia.

Throughout the novel, Guzmán-narrator emphasizes over and over that a woman is useless without the means to attract wealthy admirers. For example, in the episode of his return to Seville with Gracia, he says that his mother, the elderly prostitute, can no longer “valerse de sus prendas” and must rely upon an “hermosa moza” to support her in her old age. With his mother as the example, it is clear that he is quite conscious of the limited time during which Gracia's beauty will allow her to continue being a worthwhile investment: “Lo mismo será désta dentro de breves días” (417; pt. 2, bk. 3, ch. 6). He also paints a depressing picture of the inevitable fate of women who are forced into less and less lucrative liaisons as their beauty fades: “Mas, en pasando déstos, anda ladrada de perros, no hay zapatero de viejo que no les acometa ni queda cedacero que no las haga bailar al son de la sonaja” (402; pt. 2, bk. 3, ch. 5). That is, Gracia and all beautiful women have to cash in on their beauty now, while they can still command a favorable price—a picaresque carpe diem.

We can likewise see that all of Guzmán's relationships with women are inextricably intertwined with money and profit. As a youth he is the victim of mesoneras and busconas, and later in his life he attempts to move from victim to profiteer, but without much success. He gains nothing but a humiliating ride on a pig from his involvement with Nicoleta, and he is almost irrationally angry when his first wife turns out to be a spendthrift instead of a source of income. The only profit he derives from women exacts a high price—the loss of his manhood and any remaining honor, as he allows himself first to live on Gracia and her earnings and then finally on the “esclava blanca, herrada,” who keeps him in spending money when he is working for the viuda and then totally supports him while he is in jail. Even Guzmán's probably homosexual relationship with the cómitre has at its base his desire to escape the galleys.

From beginning to end of the novel and in “Bonifacio y Dorotea” as well, we see the merchant's obsession with profit (ganancia) clearly established, particularly in male-female relationships. No matter what the subject—love, friendship, the sacraments, or even eternal salvation—everything is reduced to the terms of a business deal. Where there is business, there must be merchandise, and in the business of love, the merchandise is sexual attractiveness. Guzmán marries one woman for her money and the other for her beauty, although it is important to remember that both motives are present on both occasions. In this mercantile vision the narrator does not discount lustful impulses. As a matter of fact, the sexual appeal of a woman is the gancho, or lure, with which the merchant attracts his customers. Or, to use the mixture of religious and mercantile metaphors found in “Bonifacio y Dorotea,” the devil sets up his “tienda o pabellón” to attract the lustful, just as the merchant husband displays his merchandise—his beautiful wife—to attract rich admirers.

Despite the fertile possibilities for Freudian interpretations provided by Guzmán's deranging childhood experiences with women, then, I find that his merchant's obsessions are ultimately more significant in interpreting his behavior. I also think that “Bonifacio y Dorotea” is a story of success in the very terms of what Guzmán has tried to do throughout his life: to use women for profit. Bonifacio, the marido consentido, is successful, while Guzmán ultimately fails in all of his endeavors. Perhaps he fails because he does not limit himself to the merchant's shrewdness, like Bonifacio and his “castos deseos,” but rather responds on the sexual level as well.⁷ This weakness leads him to make some dubious investments, and even Gracia, his greatest success, turns into failure when she opts to leave him for a galley-captain.

Bonifacio, on the other hand, concerns himself with the mercantile side, so that only Dorotea manages to combine successfully both mercantile and sexual impulses. Moreover, everyone who could have revealed the details of her supposed afrenta dies mysteriously, which the narrator attributes to God's desire to avenge the “inocentes”: “Porque Sabina y las más que supieron su afrenta, dentro de muy pocos días murieron. Que así sabe Dios castigar y vengar los agravios cometidos contra inocentes y justos” (ii: 293). In view of what we have shown about Dorotea's questionable innocence, this statement must be viewed as ironic. All indications are that this lady, who is granted “divine intervention” to protect her honor, will continue to prosper along with her Bonifacio of the “alegre semblante,” enjoying “paz y amistad, cual siempre habían tenido” (293). And this is the fantasy in which Guzmán, the merchant-narrator, indulges and which only Dorotea is able to fulfill: great profits as well as sexual gratification, along with “todo su honor.”

Notes

1. See, for example, Brancaforte, ch. 2-4; Cavillac; Lauerhauss; Morell; and Whitenack, Impenitent and “Alma.”

2. “Bonifacio y Dorotea” is found in pt. 2, bk. 2, ch. 9, 275-293. Hereafter all citations to the tale will contain only the page number of the Brancaforte edition. Also note that Brancaforte was the first to make several of the points I mention here: the probable converso lineage of the two protagonists of the tale, Guzmán-narrator's cynicism about rape, the ambiguity of Dorotea's “exceso de curiosidad,” her lack of effective resistance to Claudio, and her return to Claudio's house after she has been in jail. (Conversión, 189-92).

3. Ricapito is the most recent of several critics who have viewed Dorotea as the innocent victim of rape (“Love” and “Cervantes”). Skepticism toward women who claimed rape was of course the norm in the era, as we can see by the attitude underlying the false rape case that Sancho deals with in Barataria (DQ 2, ch. 45). And indeed, some 40 pages after “Bonifacio” we find Guzmán-narrator's expression of skepticism: “No hay fuerza de hombre que valga, contra la que no quiere” (327: pt. 2, bk. 3, ch. 2).

4. It is instructive to recall that in modern Asturian curioso also means hábil (Hernández, 252). For further discussion on cura and curioso, see Weiger.

5. Of course curioso, even in its most positive sense, often carries undertones of excessiveness or even frivolity. Note the preference that P. Bartolomé Alcázar gives to prudencia over curiosidad: “Intente, pues, imitar, no al curioso Jardinero sino al prudente Hortelano” (Chronohistoria de la Compañía de Jesús en la Provincia de Toledo, qtd. in Diccionario de Autoridades, “Curioso”).

6. Brancaforte, Johnson, Lauerhauss and Ricapito (“Love”) have all commented extensively on Guzmán's repetition of his family's behavior.

7. For further analysis of Guzmán's failure syndrome, see Whitenack, “Patterns.”

Works Cited

Alemán, Mateo. Guzmán de Alfarache. Ed. Benito Brancaforte. 2 vols. Madrid: Cátedra, 1979.

Brancaforte, Benito. Guzmán de Alfarache: ¿conversión o proceso de degradación? Madison: Hispanic Seminary, 1980.

Cavillac, Michel. Gueux et marchands et mentalité bourgeoise dans l'Espagne du Siècle d'Or. Bordeaux: U de Bordeaux, 1983.

Cros, Edmund. Protée et le gueux: recherches sur les origines et la nature du récit picaresque dans ‘Guzmán de Alfarache.’ Paris: Didier, 1967.

“Curioso.” Diccionario de Autoridades. 1984 ed.

Hernández, José Luis. Léxico del marginalismo del Siglo de Oro. Salamanca: U de Salamanca, 1977.

Johnson, Carroll. Inside Guzmán de Alfarache. Berkeley: U of CA P, 1978.

Lauerhauss, Frances. “Toda cosa engaña y todos engañamos: Mateo Alemán's World View through Picaresque Fiction.” Diss. UCLA, 1972.

Morell, Hortensia. “La deformación picaresca del mundo ideal en ‘Ozmín y Daraja.’” Torre 89-90 (1975): 101-25.

Ricapito, Joseph. Bibliografía razonada y anotada de las obras maestras de la picaresca española. Madrid: Castalia, 1980.

———. “Cervantes y Mateo Alemán de nuevo.” MMLA Convention. Bloomington, IN, Nov., 1984.

———. “Love and Marriage in the Guzmán: an Essay on Literary and Artistic Unity.” KRQ 15 (1968): 124-38.

Weiger, John. “Cervantes' Curious Curate.” KRQ 30 (1983): 87-106.

Whitenack, Judith A. The Impenitent Confession of Guzmán de Alfarache. Madison: Hispanic Seminary, 1985.

———. “The alma diferente of Mateo Alemán's ‘Ozmín y Daraja.’” To appear in RQ 81 (1991).

———. “Patterns of Rejection in Guzmán de Alfarache.” RQ 34 (1987): 63-76. In press.