SOURCE: Norval, M. N. “Original Sin and the ‘Conversion’ in the Guzmán de Alfarache.” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 51, no. 4 (October 1974): 346-64.

[In the following essay, Norval argues against critics such as Alexander Parker and Moreno Báez who claim that Guzmán's final conversion is real, charging instead that Guzmán de Alfarache is a pessimistic story about man's inability to gain salvation without God's grace.]

The Guzmán de Alfarache is a pseudo-autobiography in which a pícaro tells the story of his evil life and his supposed conversion.¹ More critics than not have dismissed the conversion as hypocritical, as Alexander Parker has pointed out,² but the prevailing critical view at present accepts it as genuine.³ This view, expounded primarily by Moreno Báez and Alexander Parker, takes Guzmán's tale at face value, and sees the novel as a working-out of orthodox Catholic doctrines concerning man and his salvation. The novel is linked by Parker to such confessional literature as Augustine's Confessions and Malón de Chaide's La conversión de la Magdalena (32, 35).

There are, however, serious difficulties with this interpretation, one of which is the matter of tone. Not only is the Guzmán marked by a pervasive bitterness which is not the attitude one expects of a converted soul, but there is a frequent shameless cynicism which is a total contrast to the lofty moral tone often adopted by the protagonist. This dichotomy in tone is but one of a series of opposed elements which form a major structural pattern in the work. This dualism can be seen at many levels: in the tone, the action, and the images, as well as in the character of the protagonist himself. Everywhere, the real is opposed to the ideal, and the ‘great gulf fixed’ between the two is emphasized. For the theme of the Guzmán is the contradiction, the dichotomy, which exists in man himself. It is expressed symbolically in the novel in the myth of Sisyphus and theologically in the doctrine of Original Sin.

The importance of Original Sin as a theme in the Guzmán has been underscored by Moreno Báez and by Parker, who, however, see it as counteracted by another element in the story, namely, God's Grace⁴ (38-42). After Parker brilliantly expounds the symbolism of Original Sin in the first chapters of the Guzmán, he says:

In addition to opening into this kind of symbolism, the novel has a clear structural pattern. The story of the delinquent is one of slow decline, but it is punctuated by a regularly recurring feature, taking two forms: first, Guzmán is constantly offered the opportunity of a different kind of livelihood (of which the two crucial instances are service in the Cardinal's house and later his studies at the University); and secondly, he is subject, from time to time, to pangs of conscience. Moreno Báez is clearly right in seeing this structural pattern as denoting, on the doctrinal level, the natural movement towards evil, counteracted by divine grace offering men all the time the means of ultimate salvation.

(42)

Our view of the structure differs in the interpretation we make of the facts here stated. Guzmán is indeed ‘offered the opportunity of a different kind of livelihood’, but he inevitably fails to make good because of his enslavement to his passions, in spite of his ‘pangs of conscience’, and even his heart-felt attempts to change his ways. The structural pattern is certainly ‘the natural movement toward evil’, i.e., Original Sin, but it is difficult to see any ‘divine grace’ when Guzmán finds it impossible to change.

It is true that Guzmán speaks often of all circumstances of life being part of God's Providence and Grace which men can use for their salvation. It is true that he exhorts men to use their free will to that end. But this rhetoric is an ironic contrast to his life.

Let us look, for example, at the second instance of the opportunity for a different life which Parker adduces as evidence of divine grace. It is Guzmán's period of study at the University. Guzmán's decision to study for the priesthood was based on purely economic motives, but he had since been an exemplary student. He throws over his studies, however, to marry a girl, Gracia, with whom he has fallen madly in love. He details the violence of his passion—he cannot eat or sleep. Guzmán describes his ruin, because of his passion for Gracia, in terms of the myth of Sisyphus:

No ha sido mala cuenta la que di de tantos estudios, de tantas letras, de verme ya en términos de ordenarme y graduarme, para poder otro día catedrar, por lo menos, porque pudiera, según la opinión que tuve. Y ya en la cumbre de mis trabajos, cuando había de recebir el premio descansando dellos, volví de nuevo como Sísifo a subir la piedra.⁵

Guzmán next gives us a long account of the psychology of love, which is a theological explanation of his passion, after the myth of Sisyphus has given us a symbolic view of it. His description generally follows Aquinas, but it parts company with Aristotelian-Thomistic tradition by denigrating and nearly denying the power of the intellect and the will to reject evil. The traditional battle between Reason and the passions is, in Guzmán's opinion, almost inevitably lost to the latter because of man's innate corruption, which has ruined even his intellect and his will:

Porque, como después de la caída de nuestros primeros padres, con aquella levadura se acedó toda la masa corrompida de los vicios, vino en tal ruina la fábrica deste reloj humano, que no le quedó rueda con rueda ni muelle fijo que las moviese … De allí le sobrevino ceguera en el entendimiento, en la memoria olvido, en la voluntad culpa, en el apetito desorden, maldad en las obras, engaño en los sentidos, flaqueza en las fuerzas y en los gustos penalidades.

(V, 52, 53)

By giving us two explanations of this passion for Gracia, one the myth of Sisyphus and the other the doctrine of Original Sin, the two are equated. The point of both myth and doctrine is here the same: in his efforts to reach the world of the ideal man is doomed before he starts. Guzmán longs for the world of Reason, Morality, and Religion, but like Sisyphus, he finds himself after much effort and suffering at the bottom of the mountain, in an inevitably circular experience. Guzmán is not conscious of his plight. As we shall see, he convinces himself after each fall that ‘this time’ he is truly a changed man, and that his evil life is behind him.

The doctrine of Grace, which Parker asserts gives man a way out of the dilemma of Original Sin in this novel, is actually travestied by Guzmán's relationship with Gracia. His first meeting with her is symbolically significant. He goes to church (the Church being the mediator of Grace), a church which bears the name of the Blessed Virgin (who is also a mediatrix of Grace). Guzmán, who is always a devout believer, goes with no other intentions than to visit ‘esa casa santa’ (V, 40). But instead of finding divine Grace, he finds Gracia. She becomes his wife and he lives on the money she makes by prostituting herself.

Another travesty of the idea of Grace occurs in an episode (mentioned by Moreno Báez as evidence of the theme of Grace in the novel [72]) in which Guzmán deceives a priest. He brings a stolen purse to the saintly man, telling him that he is destitute, but does not want to take the money he has found. The priest assures him that his good deed in attempting to return the money is due to God's supernatural gift of Grace (V, 103).⁶ Guzmán then feels ashamed of what he is doing, since his bringing the stolen money is part of an elaborate scheme to keep it. He breaks down and weeps. His tears of momentary compunction, however, do not stop him from continuing to use the priest in a shameless fashion.

There is no Grace in Guzmán's life, and therefore no possibility of a different life, although he periodically persuades himself he has attained it. Located in the centre of the novel is a discussion of deception and lying, in which Guzmán says:

Baste para mi entender, y acá, para los de mi tamaño, que todo miente y que todos nos mentimos. Mil veces quisiera decir esto y no tratar de otra cosa, porque solo entender esta verdad es lo que nos importa, que nos prometemos lo que no tenemos ni podemos complir.

(III, 185)

Guzmán says that the only important truth, which he would like to state a thousand times, forgetting about everything else, is that we lie to others and to ourselves. We make good resolutions but we are incapable of keeping them. A careful reading of Guzmán's own story shows that even though he thinks he has been converted, his actions are dictated by his passions, particularly the passion for revenge, and his attitudes remain full of malice. He can explain the Christian virtues of love, forgiveness, pity and mercy as being necessary for salvation; he can even convince himself that he has attained them. But he remains a man who rationalizes his vengeful deeds and denies his evil motives, even while making a general confession of his sins. Guzmán's final ‘conversion’ is but the last in a series of attempts to change his ways, none of which succeed.⁷

Patterns which express the divorce between the world of Christian ideals and the sordid reality of Guzmán's life continue in the final conversion scene and its aftermath, and prove that it is a sham. We shall look at these patterns of dichotomy or contradiction in the tone and logic, in the action, and in certain Biblical images and allusions.

Of particular concern to Moreno Báez and Parker, because they accept the conversion, is the cynicism in the work and the disparity between it and the moral tone Guzmán often adopts. They face this problem honestly. Moreno Báez lists a series of passages which are obviously cynically ironic (79-84). He asserts that these passages become in general fewer as the work progresses. Much of the cynicism, however, does not disappear. Shameless remarks about his mother recur even near the end of the work, as one of Moreno Báez's own examples shows.⁸ M. Báez admits that the cynically ironic treatment of Guzmán's thefts does not disappear but actually increases as the work progresses. He explains that it is not a sin for a convert to glory in his expertise in doing evil deeds as long as it is the artistry and not the deed in itself which is admired. But he is forced to admit also that ‘quizás el cinismo estaba tan en el fondo de su carácter que solo con dificultad lograba dominarlo.’ This statement is a clue to the truth about Guzmán, but it is not a description of a transformed and regenerated soul. It is rather that of a man deeply divided within himself.

Alexander Parker, however, has a theory which is meant to rescue Guzmán from the charge of hypocrisy or self-deception. There are really two Guzmáns, he tells us, ‘two voices, the one belonging to the time of the narrating, the other belonging to the time of the action’ (36). One is Guzmán the convert, who makes the moralizing digressions, and the other is Guzmán the pícaro, who describes his sinful deeds with ‘the thoughts and feelings he experienced at the time of the action.’ Parker further states that ‘it is not really difficult to see when the author [i.e., Guzmán] is speaking in person and when in character’. In point of fact, however, contradictions in tone and logic often occur so close together that it is impossible to explain them as being the result of two separate and distinct narrative voices. A few examples will show this. The first is part of a digression on friendship. Speaking of friends, Guzmán says first:

Nunca otro fue mi deseo, desde que me acuerdo y tuve uso de razón, sino granjearlos, aun a toda costa … El hombre prudente antes debe carecer de todos y cualesquier otros bienes, que de buenos amigos, que son mejores que cercanos deudos ni propios hermanos.

(III, 225)

A few paragraphs later, however, Guzmán says:

Conforme a lo cual, siempre se tuvo por dificultoso hallarse un fiel amigo y verdadero. Son contados, por escrito están y los más en fábulas, los que se dice haberlo sido. Uno solo hallé de nuestra misma naturaleza, el mejor, el más liberal, verdadero y cierto de todos, que nunca falta y permanece siempre, sin cansarse de darnos: y es la tierra … Y todo el bien que tenemos en la tierra, la tierra lo da.

(III, 226, 227)

The first statement contradicts the second in tone and logic, yet they are part of the same digression. What is the sense of Guzmán's saying in a lofty moral tone that he and all prudent men search for friendship, above all other goods, if he is to destroy all hope of finding them a moment later? He says friends are ‘contados, por escrito están, y los más en fabulas, los que se dice haberlo sido.’ The few friends who have existed are in books, and most of them in fiction, those which it is said have existed. The ‘los que se dice haberlo sido’ casts a final damning doubt on the reality of friendship, since all that is really known is that friends have been said to exist.⁹

Another example of contradictions within the same passage is Guzmán's view of marriage, after his ‘conversion’. His master asks him what the married state is like, and Guzmán, who has had two bad experiences in marriage, begins his reply thus:

Señor, el buen matrimonio de paz, donde hay amor igual y conforme condición, es una gloria, es gozar en la tierra del cielo, es un estado para los que lo eligen deseando salvarse con él, de tanta perfección, de tanto gusto y consuelo, que para tratar dél sería necesario referirse de boca de los tales. Mas quien como yo hice del matrimonio granjería, no sabré qué responder tampoco, sino que pago aquel pecado con esta pena.

(V, 162-63)

Guzmán goes on to refer to Job's wife as an example of a bad wife, and then he tells a cynical story about how a man got rid of his bad wife by an ingenious scheme, so that she drowned without his being blamed. The clever fellow gets no word of disapproval from Guzmán, the ‘convert’ who is telling the tale. Guzmán continues with another story on the evils of marriage addressed to ‘los que nunca supieron de matrimonio y lo desean’, ending with a moral which is also the end of his remarks on marriage:

Los que ven los gustos del matrimonio y no pasan de allí a ver que de diez mil no escapan diez, tuvieran por mejor su seguro estado de solos, que los trabajos y calamidades de los mal acompañados.

(V, 165)

The cynicism of the view propounded in the body of this passage, and in its final sentence, is at odds with the first sentence.

A third example of contradictions within the same passage, this time within the same paragraph, is the following in which Guzmán speaks of his enemy, Soto, who has been assigned a bench in the rower's deck near him in the galley:

Dióme pena tenerlo tan cerca de mí, por la enemistad pasada. Que nunca más pudimos digerirnos el uno al otro. El a lo menos, que tenía corazón crudo. Porque yo jamás le negué amistad ni le había de faltar en lo que me hubiera menester.

(V, 139-40)

The second sentence states that neither Guzmán nor Soto could stand each other—ever again. The fourth sentence states that Guzmán never denied Soto his friendship. Both cannot be true.

The contradictions in tone and logic in Guzmán's narration of his life cannot be explained by Parker's idea of two separate and distinct narrative voices, since these contradictions often occur within the same passage and even within the same paragraph.

On the level of the action in the Guzmán we find the same pattern of contradictions as in the tone and logic. Repeatedly Guzmán acts according to his passions, particularly the passion of revenge, and just as frequently, he repents. Beginning with his description of his parents, we shall look at episodes of vengeance and then at ‘conversions’.

In the whole of the first two chapters, Guzmán shows us his parentage and early life in terms which are symbolic, on one level, of all of mankind contaminated by Original Sin, as Parker has pointed out. But we are now concerned with a literal level, and with the manner in which Guzmán chooses to tell us about his parents. He begins by saying that many lies have been told about them. He, however, will relate the truth. The truth, he assures us, is simple, and it is his intention to express ‘el puro y verdadero texto’ without the ‘glosas’ others have made. Only after repeated protestations of the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, does he begin his tale. From this introduction we expect a most straight-forward account. It is therefore something of a shock to see how he proceeds in point of fact.

His father, Guzmán tell us, deals in ‘cambios’ which are permitted, but he is not a ‘logrero’, which is not licit. But it is no marvel if ‘cambios’ are disapproved. However, the worst sort of evil is for a man to be called hypocritical for his religious practices, for praying and going to mass and confession, for example. His father's peculiar habits when praying are, says Guzmán, the reason for the ‘maldicientes’ to accuse him of praying in order not to hear the mass and wearing his hat high on his arms so as not to see. It is left to those readers who are ‘desapasionados’ to judge whether this calumny is not perverse. After we readers have decided on the basis of the facts presented that it is ‘de gente desalmada, sin conciencia’ to have made such a judgement, Guzmán proceeds to amplify considerably the facts of the case. We become aware that our judgement as readers was premature when we discover that his father had converted to Islam, and later abandoned his Moorish wife and become a Christian again, there being economic motives for each of these ‘conversions’. It appears likely, in view of the added facts, that popular opinion, which considered the father's religious practices to be hypocritical, was right after all. Guzmán continues, at great length, alternately to give damning evidence against his father and to ‘defend’ him in highly ironic and finely balanced statements. But these are twice interrupted by outbursts of righteous indignation. In the first of these he pronounces emphatically that his father is wicked. Ah! the truth—it seems. But why, since he has promised to tell the simple truth, has he not told us sooner? And why does he precede the statement with the words, ‘Por no ser contra mi padre, quisiera callar lo que siento?’ What he feels is enmity, hatred. If this is so, his sweeping and emphatic statement, ‘Perdone todo viviente que canonizo este caso por muy grande bellaquería, digna de muy grande castigo’ (I, 58) is a perfect revenge on his parent. Guzmán continues by saying that he would not mind seeing his father hanged ‘in the interests of justice’. Later, in his second outburst of emotion, he says:

¡Oh fealdad sobre toda fealdad, afrenta de todas las afrentas! No me podrás decir que amor paterno me ciega, ni el natural de mi patria me cohecha, ni me hallarás fuera de razón y verdad.

(I, 69)

Guzmán has been discussing the ‘possibility’ of his father having used cosmetics, which implies a very great deal about the man's sexual aberrations. But the word ‘afrenta’ is unusual here. It would seem to indicate an offence to the son himself. Guzmán goes on to bring up the problem of his motives, and, although he mentions the possibility of being blinded by filial love he does not say anything about the possibility, which is the crucial one here, of his telling all this out of hate for his father and as a revenge for the ‘afrenta’ which the father's baseness is to the son.

Guzmán's treatment of his mother is much the same as that meted out to his father. Under the guise of ‘the simple truth’ he gives us a cynically ironic account of her lust and covetousness, which lead to his conception. This is his revenge for his dishonour, and for her leaving him later in his life. When she is all he has left, and he needs her to help him sew the clothing that he steals, she goes back to her old profession.

Moreno Báez, however, sees Guzmán as a loving son, because he looks up his mother when he returns to Seville and insists that she live with him (111). A close reading of that passage (V, 92, 93) is enough to disprove this proposition. In these ironic pages Guzmán indirectly tells us that his mother acts as an alcahueta, who by her advice and experience helps Gracia earn a living for them all. In spite of all the sorts of men she warns his wife Gracia against, the two women often come home with ‘amadicitos’, an equivocal term which can refer to lapdogs or to dandies. Gili y Gaya correctly notes that the latter meaning is here intended.

After Guzmán's revenge on his parents by his accounts of his origin, he relates his first picaresque adventure. It, too, is symbolic of Original Sin. But it is on a literal level the story of frustrated vengeance on Guzmán's part contrasted with the forgiveness he later feels would have been the right reaction. He is given rotten eggs to eat by a female innkeeper, which he vomits upon realizing what they are. Then he meets a muleteer who tells him that two later visitors to the inn have avenged him on the old woman. Guzmán immediately thinks of appropriate revenge as being death by fire, or at the very least a severe beating from which she should be left for dead. The old woman's actual punishment, which is to have the rotten eggs rubbed into her eyes, leaves Guzmán crying with disappointment.

Guzmán is later taken into the house of a cardinal, but in spite of the love shown to him by the priest, he becomes deeply involved in gambling. Finally he is temporarily dismissed in an attempt to bring him to his senses. Guzmán considers this action on the part of the cardinal as an affront on which he gets ‘venganza’ by refusing to return in spite of protestations, pleadings, and explanations. Guzmán's enslavement to the passions of gambling and revenge ruin his opportunity for a different life.

Guzmán's most famous revenge is his theft of his relatives' goods. He describes the relative who had tricked him thus:

Luego lo reconocí, aunque lo hallé algo decrépito por la mucha edad. Holguéme de verle y pesábame ya hallarlo tan viejo; quisiéralo más mozo, para que le durara más tiempo el dolor de los azotes. Yo hallo por disparate cuando para vengarse uno de otro le quita la vida, pues acabando con él, acaba el sentimiento.

(IV, 98)

With the third sentence Guzmán slips into present time, indicating that his vengeful nature has not changed at all, although he has supposedly been converted. The old man tells Guzmán the story of his trick played on the boy who dared to claim him as his relative some years ago. Guzmán is of course that boy. He is outraged at the old man, saying: ‘que tengo a mayor delito, y sin duda lo es, preciarse del mal, que haberlo hecho’ (IV, 100). This is a case of Guzmán damning himself with his own mouth, for this whole episode is that of a supposed ‘convert’ telling us of his revenge with the greatest satisfaction.

In the middle of this long episode of revenge on his relatives, Guzmán gives us several sermons on the importance of disciplining the passions, and on the ugliness of revenge, which is, he says, cowardly and womanly. This is how he projects onto others his own feelings and how he avenges himself on the women in his life. To illustrate the terrible vengefulness of women, he tells a tale of a woman who avenges herself by beheading a man. This story is juxtaposed to one on Christian love and forgiveness, after which he warns us of false or only apparent forgiveness: and adds this comment on his own behaviour:

Por mí lo conozco, que tanto fue lo que siempre me aguijoneaba la venganza, que como con espuelas parecía picarme los ijares como a bestia. ¡Bien bestia! que no lo es menos el que conoce aqueste disparate.

(IV, 115)

Guzmán's comparing himself to a horse spurred on by the lust for vengeance is a striking way of underlining this primary motivation of his life.

The most important example of Guzmán's vengefulness before the ‘conversion’ is the scene of Sayavedra's death. Sayavedra is part of a gang of thieves who cleverly steal all of Guzmán's possessions after he leaves the employ of the French ambassador. Later they meet again and Guzmán takes him on as a servant. This action is seen by Moreno Báez (110) as evidence of Guzmán's spirit of love and forgiveness. It is true that Guzmán says ‘no pude resistirme sin hablarle con amor’ (III, 231), but he follows this with a long paragraph explaining his utilitarian motives for keeping Sayavedra with him. He ends with the following sentence:

Parecióme que, si de alguno quisiera servirme habiendo pocos mozos buenos, que aqueste sería menos malo, supuesto que por sus mañas me había de hacer como si fuera lacedemonio—traer la barba sobre el hombro, y era de menor inconveniente servirme dél que de otro no conocido, pues dél sabía ya ser necesario guardarme y con otro, pareciéndome fiel, me pudiera descuidar y dejarme a la luna.

(III, 232-33)

The lack of confidence expressed in the last sentence makes the idea of Christian forgiveness dubious, to say the very least.

Later on in the story, Sayavedra dies in a storm at sea. Everyone feels sorry for Guzmán's loss of a trusted servant and friend. Guzmán describes smugly how they all pity him but avers that he only pretends to feel sad. Had Sayavedra taken the trunks full of booty with him to his watery grave, it would have been a different matter, according to Guzmán (IV, 142). It is obvious that he has never really forgiven Sayavedra for his treachery, else this lack of natural feeling at his death would be inexplicable on the literal level of the story.

These recurrent episodes of revenge are opposed in the action to recurrent ‘conversions’. When Guzmán is left crying with disappointment because the old woman who tricked him was not killed, the clergymen who hear him are horrified and they proceed to preach him a seven-page sermon on the absolute necessity for forgiveness and love for the Christian. Guzmán reacts with repentant enthusiasm and continues with an emotional sermon of his own on the same subject. This repentance lasts until the very next innkeeper also tricks him. Whereupon Guzmán reacts with vengefulness again.

After Guzmán's refusal, as a matter of revenge, to return to the cardinal, he runs out of money. He is then driven, by sheer economic necessity, to return. He puts his change of mind, however, in religious terms. He is like an ‘hijo pródigo’, he says, humble enough now to be a servant. He emphasizes the strength and purity of his intentions: ‘Ya yo estaba rendido y me quería subjetar con muy determinada voluntad en la enmienda.’ Unfortunately, the cardinal has died, so Guzmán becomes instead the ‘gracioso’ and pimp of the French ambassador. The first part of the novel ends without Guzmán admitting that his good resolutions have dissolved, although in the Second Part he says openly that he is a pimp. But this can be deduced by the end of the first Part by the fact that Guzmán mentions that he carries messages to ladies from the ambassador.

Our protagonist next comes to grief in the employ of the ambassador, and, as usual when his fortunes are at a low ebb, he repents. He feels an emotional revulsion (which, Parker has asserted, comes only at the final ‘conversion’ [43]) for his evil life: ‘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’ (III, 191). Guzmán's usefulness to the ambassador being impaired by the fact that the whole town is talking of his misadventures, he decides to leave, ‘llevando propuesto de allí adelante hacer libro nuevo, lavando con virtudes las manchas que me causó el vicio’ (III, 195). When he says goodbye to the ambassador, the latter's exhortation to ‘virtud’ brings tears to Guzmán's eyes. But this reaction to the discourse of a rake on the subject of virtue makes Guzmán's emotion seem shallow indeed.

Another of Guzmán's short-lived changes of heart has been misinterpreted by Moreno Báez. Guzmán meets an adventuress who steals his money. Moreno Báez quotes Guzmán to show his Christian forgiveness (110). Readers and critics, however, should always take Sempronio's advice to Calixto, ‘Lee más adelante, buelve la hoja.’ The hidden reason for Guzmán's forbearance is that he is still lusting after her. A very small sample of the reflections which culminate in Guzmán's decision to forgive is the following:

Oh majestad inmensa divina, ¡qué mucho te ofendemos, qué poco se nos hace y cuán fácilmente lo perdonas! … Y pues lo mejor de las cosas es el poderse valer dellas a tiempo, y conozco que se debe tener tanta lástima de los que yerran, como embidia de los que perdonan, quiéromela tener a mí. Allá se lo haya: yo se lo perdono.

(IV, 201)

Later the following night, however, Guzmán says:

Veréis cual sea la mala inclinación de los hombres, que con haber hecho aquel discurso en favor de la mujer que me llevó aquella miseria, me picaban tábanos por hallarla y di cien vueltas aquella noche por la propia calle, pareciéndome que pudiera ser volver a verla otra vez en el mismo puesto, sin saber por qué o para qué lo hacía, mas de así a la balda, hasta hacer hora.

(IV, 203)

Guzmán's emotional sermon to himself is now dismissed as ‘aquel discurso’. His words of religious exaltation and Christian forgiveness are contrasted to his deeds of lust. And it is all due, Guzmán says, to ‘la mala inclinación de los hombres’, that is to say, to Original Sin.

Now that we have examined patterns of contrasting elements in the tone and logic and in the action of the novel, a look at a few of the Biblical images and allusions is in order. The same pattern prevails here.

In the episode of the storm at sea, in which Sayavedra loses his life, Guzmán compares himself to Jonah (IV, 141). Allusions to the book of Jonah occur at least four times in the novel (II, 125), (IV, 41), (V, 155). The context of the allusion to Jonah in the storm episode shows Guzmán to be pitiless and merciless not only with regard to Sayavedra, but also to the other passengers and crewmen. The storm was so bad that everyone was afraid, and began to pray to God for mercy. Guzmán's description of the scene illustrates for us his lack of pity. The penitence and fear of others is viewed with cold detachment by our protagonist (IV, 140).

Jonah, too, is vengeful and pitiless. Sent by God to warn the people of Nineveh that their city will be destroyed because of their wickedness, he is enraged by God's forgiveness. Then God tries another method of dealing with Jonah:

And the Lord God appointed a plant, and made it come up over Jonah, that it might be a shade over his head, to save him from his discomfort. So Jonah was exceedingly glad because of the plant. But when dawn came up the next day, God appointed a worm which attacked the plant, so that it withered … When the sun rose, God appointed a sultry east Wind, and the sun beat upon the head of Jonah so that he was faint; and he asked that he might die, and said, ‘It is better for me to die than to live.’ But God said to Jonah, ‘Do you do well to be angry for the plant?’ And he said, ‘I do well to be angry, angry enough to die.’ And the Lord said, ‘You pity the plant, for which you did not labor, nor did you make it grow, which came into being in a night, and perished in a night. And should not I pity Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?’

(Jonah 4:6-11)

The book of Jonah ends here. The fourth allusion to the book of Jonah in the Guzmán is an image taken from this quoted passage. It occurs after the ‘conversion’ when Guzman is speaking of his change of fortune from good to bad, a change which he attributes to God:

Sacóme de aquel regalo, comenzóme a dar toques, y aldabadas, perdiendo aquella pequeña sombra de yedra. Secóseme, nacióle un gusano en la raíz, con que hube de quedar a la fuerza del sol, padeciendo nuevas calamidades y trabajos por donde no pensé, sin culpa ni rastro della.

(V, 155)

The inclusion of this image, taken from that part of the book of Jonah which emphasizes the latter's pitiless and vengeful nature, is a pointed hint at Guzmán's true nature, even after ‘conversion’.

A Biblical image related to that of Jonah is the ‘atalaya’. Guzmán has subtitled the Second Part of his ‘autobiography’, Atalaya de la vida humana. The figure of the atalaya occurs in Ezekiel 33:1-20 (and elsewhere in the Old Testament). In this passage the atalaya is both the watchman and the tower from which he preaches. His function is to warn both the righteous and the wicked that it is their deeds for which they will be judged. It is emphasized in this passage that God does not desire the death of the sinner but rather that the sinner should ‘be converted and live’.

Guzmán sees himself like Jonah as such a messenger from God to give warnings, and in the introduction to the Second Part, Mateo Alemán says that the story of Guzmán's life is meant to ‘descubrir como atalaya toda suerte de vicios y hacer atriaca de venenos varios, un hombre perfecto …’ (III, 52, 53). The evidence of the story itself, however, shows us that Guzmán is an ‘atalaya’ like Jonah, who gives warnings to others, but is vengeful and has no pity save for himself. The only reference to an ‘atalaya’ in the body of the work itself is a negative one. It occurs in a chapter describing how Guzmán wins the confidence and friendship of his fellow servants and his new master, a cook, in order to steal from them. Intercalated in this description is a bit of moralizing on the subject of friendship:

La vida se puede aventurar para conservar un amigo, y la hacienda se ha de dar para no cobrar un enemigo, porque es una atalaya que con cien ojos vela, como el dragón sobre la torre de su malicia, para juzgar desde muy lejos nuestras obras. Mucho importa no tenerlo y quien lo tuviere trátelo de manera, como si en breve hubiese de ser su amigo. ¿Quieres conocer quién es? Mírale el nombre, que es el mismo del demonio, enemigo nuestro, y ambos son una misma cosa.

(II, 68)

This is a total reversal of the Biblical image of the ‘atalaya’. It fits Guzmán as well as it does the devil. He, too, judges the deeds of others from a watchtower of malice. His continual denunciations of ‘la maldad de todos los hombres', in Moreno Báez’ phrase (84), and his vengefulness are part and parcel of this malice. He, too, has a hundred eyes to see evil. In the final chapter of the novel, after the conversion scene, Guzmán is afraid of being betrayed, and he refers to his suspicious surveillance of every circumstance as ‘velando con cien ojos’, which is the same phrase used in this reverse picture of an atalaya.

When Guzmán seems to repent of his vengefulness and to show forgiveness, his motives are disguised in religious phrases and Biblical allusions, such as the one occurring in his description of his reaction to seeing a thief who stole his clothes wearing them:

Cuando se lo conocí, a puñaladas quisiera quitárselo del cuerpo, según sentí en el alma que prendas tan de la mía hubiesen pasado en ajeno poder contra mi voluntad. Vime tentado por llegar a dárselas; empero dije: ¡No, no, Guzmán! ¡eso no! mejor será que tu ladrón se convierta y viva, porque viviendo te podrá pagar …

(III, 258)

We have seen that the phrase ‘se convierta y viva’ is frequently used in the Old Testament to express God's merciful desire for the conversion and the spiritual life of the sinner. Like God, Guzmán says he wants the thief to be converted and live, but he means that he doesn't want to kill him because if he lives he will be able to repay him. His motives make a travesty of the idea of conversion.

Having considered patterns which show a dichotomy between religious ideals and the reality of Guzmán's existence, we can now examine the last two chapters of the novel, which detail Guzmán's ‘conversion’ and his subsequent actions, in the light of these patterns. When Guzmán has reached the nadir of his picaresque career by being sent to the galleys, we have the ‘conversion’ which Moreno Báez, Parker and others consider a genuine transformation of the pícaro. It is told to us by Guzmán:

De donde vine a considerar y díjeme una noche a mí mismo: ¿Ves aquí, Guzmán, la cumbre del monte de las miserias, adónde te ha subido tu torpe sensualidad? … Vuelve y mira que aunque sea verdad haberte traído aquí tus culpas, pon esas penas en lugar que te sean de fruto … Con eso puedes comprar la gracia, que si antes no tenía precio, pues los méritos de los santos todos no acaudalaron con que poderla comprar, hasta juntarlos con los de Cristo, y para ello se hizo hermano nuestro … ¿Cuál hermano desamparó a su buen hermano? Sírvelo con un suspiro, con una lágrima, con un dolor de corazón, pesándote de haberlo ofendido. Que, dándoselo a él, juntará tu caudal, con el suyo, y, haciéndolo de infinito precio, gozarás de vida eterna.

En este discurso y otros que nacieron dél, pasé gran rato de la noche, no con pocas lágrimas, con que me quedé dormido y, cuando recordé, halléme otro, no ya yo ni con aquel corazón viejo de antes.

(V, 152-53)

These spiritual reflections are called a ‘discurso’ which Guzmán makes to himself, a hint of his divided nature. The word ‘discurso’, with its connotations of rhetoric, makes this seem but another example of the endless sermonizing in which Guzmán has indulged himself all along. It is the word with which Guzmán has characterized similar reflections in the episode with the prostitute, which we have discussed, in which his ‘discurso’ made no more than a momentary difference in his actions.

Many other elements in this passage are conditioned for us by their previous contexts. Guzmán's tears are unimpressive, for we have seen him weep before, upon leaving the ambassador's home, in a ‘conversion’ which turned out to be short-lived and shallow. He has also wept in the middle of his artful deception of a priest, as we have noted, but his momentary compunction did not stop him from continuing to use the saintly man in a shameless fashion.

The words ‘cumbre del monte de las miserias’ are seen by Parker as a striking image of spiritual paradox: ‘It is the summit and not the abyss of misery because, all complacency being now impossible and freedom having absolutely nothing to offer, he can accept spiritual regeneration with his will’ (43). But this image has occurred before, in a context which negated the idea of ‘spiritual regeneration’, as we have seen in the first part of this paper. Guzmán has compared his own struggles and failures to those of Sisyphus. When he reaches the ‘cumbre de trabajos’, he says he soon finds himself at the bottom again, having to start over. The fact that this image is repeated here is a hint that this too is a summit from which Guzmán will fall.

Parker asserts that freedom for Guzmán has now ‘absolutely nothing to offer’—he can no longer be complacent because he is down and out. But this is not the case. At this very point in the story, Guzmán tells us of a deal he makes for future profit on the galley, with the connivance of his master. His master, he says, is very happy with him, and allows him to buy a new suit of clothes. Guzmán begins his account of this good fortune with the words ‘Iba creciendo como espuma mi buena fortuna’ (V, 151). In the very next paragraph he tells us that he has decided to repent, and it is in this paragraph that the image of the summit of miseries occurs. It cannot be said that ‘freedom has absolutely nothing to offer’, for Guzmán is cleverly exploiting the limited freedom he still possesses.

Guzmán says: ‘Halléme otro, no ya yo’. This, too, he has said before, at the ambassador's house, again as part of a ‘conversion’. Since Guzmán never tires of reminding us throughout his story that ‘la fe sin obras es muerta’, and that love, mercy, and forgiveness are essential to a Christian, let us see what his actions are after this latest ‘transformation’.

Guzmán is falsely accused of stealing by Soto, a comrade whom he met in jail in Seville. Enmity between the two began when Soto kept for himself money which Guzmán had given him to hide. When Soto refuses to return the money Guzmán tells the guards. Soto is tortured until he confesses. Now Soto has avenged himself by getting Guzmán tortured in the galleys. The latter's self-pity is evident while he is being tortured:

Y el mayor dolor que sentí en aquel desastre, no tanto era eldol or que padecía ni ver el falso testimonio que se me levantaba, sino que juzgasen todos que de aquel castigo era mercedor y no se dolían de mí.

(V, 170)

Parker, however, interprets this passage as evidence that Guzmán feels ‘pity for a humanity that knows no pity’ (44). In order to make this interpretation he changes Mabbe's translation, because it ‘fails to convey the correct nuance’ (156). Mabbe's translation reads in part, ‘as that all of them did verily believe, that I did justly deserve this punishment, and therefore took no pity of me.’ What is in fact at stake here is no mere nuance. It is Parker's whole interpretation. Since he believes that Guzmán has undergone a genuine transformation, he must find some evidence of it in the text. If Guzmán feels ‘pity for a humanity that knows no pity’, then he is indeed a changed character. But this is not the case. To interpret the reaction of the onlookers as being merciless or pitiless is far-fetched, since the text clearly states that the onlookers think he deserves his punishment. It is as a consequence of this fact that they feel no pity. Guzmán's greatest pain is the fact that they do not pity him: it is self-pity, rather than a pity for humanity. He is again like Jonah, who feels pity for the plant that shades him (which God destroys), but not for the people of Nineveh.

In spite of Guzmán's insistence on the fact that he has only love in his heart for Soto, he speaks of him ironically in a passage telling of Soto's heading a proposed rebellion of the galley slaves:

Soto mi camarada no vino a las galeras porque daba limosnas ni porque predicaba la fe de Cristo a los infieles: trujéronlo a ellas sus culpas y haber sido el mayor ladrón que se había hallado en su tiempo en toda Italia ni España.

(V, 173, 174)

Even before the ‘conversion’ his feelings toward Soto have been ambivalent. He has insisted all along that he feels only friendship, but the contradictions in his mind and heart are only too evident, as we have seen in the paragraph quoted on page 352.

Guzmán is invited to join a conspiracy of slaves which cannot succeed without him, because of his strategic position in the rowers' deck. He takes time to think it over, telling the Moor who brings him the message that this is a matter he must consider carefully, since they could all lose their lives over it. Finally he joins them with the intention of betraying the proposed rebellion. Guzmán says that he becomes a conspirator while planning to betray them because he could not advise them to cease their evil schemes (V, 175). This he could not do, he says, for two reasons. Firstly, because they were already firmly resolved on this course of action. Secondly, if he tried to dissuade them, the conspirators might reveal the rebellion to the authorities, and accuse Guzmán of instigating it. This reveals a political reasoning more appropriate to a pícaro than to a transformed soul. Self-preservation is a stated motive. This is scarcely the self-sacrificing love of a genuine convert. The latter would take the risk to himself in order to advise the convicts not to commit this serious sin (since such he says he considers it to be). But it is also a fact that the two reasons Guzmán gives for failing even to attempt to persuade the slaves not to rebel contradict each other. If their ‘resolución’, (i.e., their firm determination) makes it useless to advise them against it, how can he give as his second reason that they will probably panic and reveal the conspiracy themselves because of his words? This contradiction points to the likelihood of the real reason being something else. Besides, we may legitimately question the motives of a man who has hitherto been motivated by his passions. Revenge has been the dominating passion of his life, according to his own account. It cannot therefore be accepted as coincidence that by betraying the conspiracy Guzmán is avenged on Soto.

Guzmán tells us dryly that Soto and other leaders of the rebellion were torn to pieces as a punishment. Lesser offenders were hanged. Guzmán is freed and pardoned. Soto confesses to Guzmán before his death that he had intended to kill him after the uprising. He begs Guzmán for forgiveness. Here we might expect, if he were truly converted, and his protestations of love and friendship to Soto were truthful, that Guzmán would gladly forgive him. Forgiveness, a tearful last embrace, a prayer for Soto's soul—these are the least actions one could expect from a ‘convert’. But there is none of this. Guzmán fails even to say whether he forgives him. This is surely a most curious and telling omission. Guzmán's only expressed emotion at the bloody aftermath of his betrayal is relief that nothing happened to him (V, 176). Again, like Jonah, Guzmán has no pity save for himself. That love and mercy, which Guzmán has repeatedly insisted are essential, are nowhere in evidence. The conclusion to be drawn here is that Guzmán's most spectacular conversion has been followed by his most hideous act of revenge.

The nature of Guzmán's experience, which finds Gracia but no Grace, is underlined in the structural emphasis on Original Sin. Besides the patterns of dichotomy and dualism which we have examined, and the symbolism of the early chapters in which Guzmán represents, on one level, all of mankind condemned by its innate corruption (the Original Sin theme, which Parker has pointed out), we see this emphasis in the parallels between Guzmán's life and his father's. In both cases there are multiple ‘conversions’:¹⁰ in both cases there is a total disbelief on the part of all acquaintances in the ‘conversion’. This scepticism on the part of the onlookers turns out to be well-founded. It is well-founded in the case of Guzmán's father. It is equally well-founded at the end of the First Part of the Guzmán, where the protagonist represents himself as a reformed and innocent ‘gracioso’ to the ambassador. His comrades disbelieve his reformation and consider him an obscene character. He complains about this, but from his remark that he carries messages from the ambassador to ladies, one may deduce what Guzmán later, in the Second Part, admits to be true. The scepticism of others is justified also in this final chapter of the Guzmán when, again like his father, Guzmán is ‘converted’. Guzmán is a man who is self-deceived. His ‘conversions’ are perfectly sincere; his longing for goodness cannot be questioned. But he rationalizes his evil deeds to prove to himself that what never occurs has happened—that he has been converted. Although he eventually becomes aware of each previous fall from his new resolutions, he remains ever convinced that ‘this time’ he has succeeded in attaining a new life. Guzmán, like Sisyphus, struggles eternally to reach what cannot be attained. There is a dichotomy between the ideal and the real, a chasm that cannot be bridged in his world without Grace. Guzmán's fatal flaw therefore leads inevitably to evil.

Because of the opening symbolism of the novel, Guzmán must be seen as representing all mankind. In the world of this novel the only uncorrupted beings are, as Moreno Báez has pointed out, either shadowy figures, or, as in the case of the priests, creatures so idealized that they do not seem human (121-23). In the Guzmán de Alfarache Mateo Alemán has given us, therefore, a pessimistic, even despairing, view of the human condition. Instead of the optimistic, Christian world view which Parker and Moreno Báez claim to find in the work, we have a Weltanschauung closer to that of the Old Testament prophets who are so often alluded to. In essence the human situation portrayed in the Guzmán might be summed up in the anguished cry of the prophet Jeremiah: ‘The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately corrupt; who can understand it?’

Notes

1. This article grew out of a long dialogue on the subject of the Guzmán with Professor Benito Brancaforte, to whom I gratefully acknowledge my indebtedness.

2. Alexander Parker, Literature and the Delinquent (Edinburgh 1967), 44. Page numbers will hereafter appear in the text.

3. Several of the significant recent works dealing with the Guzmán are: Gonzalo Sobejano, ‘De la intención y valor de Guzmán de Alfarache’, in Forma literaria y sensibilidad social (Madrid 1967); F. Rico, La novela picaresca española (Barcelona 1967); E. Cros, Protée et le gueux (Paris 1967); Ángel San Miguel, Sentido y estructura del Guzmán de Alfarache (Madrid 1972); Carlos Blanco Aguinaga, ‘Cervantes y la picaresca. Notas sobre dos tipos de realismo’, NRFH, XI (1957), 313-42. None of these disputes the conversion.

4. Moreno Báez, Lección y sentido del Guzmán de Alfarache (Madrid 1948), 52-58, 70-75. Page numbers will hereafter appear in the text.

5. The edition I cite is Mateo Alemán, Guzmán de Alfarache, atalaya de la vida humana, Clásicos Castellanos (Madrid 1967), V, 49. Page numbers will hereafter appear in the text.

6. The priest does not mention the word ‘grace’. He attributes the deed to Guzmán's ‘entendimiento y sciencia de lo poco que valen las cosas de la tierra.’ Then, ‘esta es obra sobrenatural y divina’. This description, however, means grace, as Moreno Báez has seen.

7. It has been suggested that Guzmán's life follows the usual pattern of a Christian life—i.e., sin followed by repentance followed by sin, etc. Such a view neglects two cardinal teachings of the Church on the subject of the Christian life. However much a Christian may sin, he must show forth good works—and especially love and mercy—or his faith is dead. Guzmán loves to quote ‘la fe sin obras es muerta.’ The necessity for good works and the absolute necessity of love, forgiveness and mercy for the Christian are major themes of Guzmán's sermonizing. Examples of the second theme occur in I, 126-36; II, 203-04, 275; and the first theme occurs in III, 250-53, 266; IV, 215. Yet Guzmán never does a disinterested good deed, nor does he ever show love or mercy to his friends or enemies.

8. ‘Finalmente, al ir de nuevo a Sevilla y lograr su mujer dar con su madre mediante los informes de las otras prostitutas, blasona el protagonista de haberla hallado por el rastro de la sangre.’ (V, 92) Moreno Báez, 80.

9. It has been objected that Guzmán is first describing only the ideal of friendship, and later only the bitter reality. However, in his supposedly ‘ideal’ first comments in this passage, he speaks as if he had experience of real friends: ‘pareciéndome, como real y verdaderamente lo son, tan importantes. …’ This means he is not separating the real and the ideal.

10. The conversions of father and son are notably distinct from one another in that the father's conversions are from one religion to another; Guzmán on the other hand is always Catholic in belief, but not in practice.