SOURCE: Lowe, Jennifer. “The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Letter-Writer: Reflections On and In Unamuno's La Novela de Don Sandalio, Jugador de Ajedrez.” Forum for Modern Language Studies 29, no. 1 (January 1993): 62-74.

[In the following essay, Lowe explores how Unamuno uses the epistolary form as a narrative method in La novela de Don Sandalio.]

“Fue por fin mi amigo al campo a curarse de sus murrias, tal y como le aconsejé, y desde allí me escribe esto: ‘Mi querido Miguel: No puedo más; pasado manaña me vuelvo a la ciudad.’”¹ The “friend” allegedly writing to Unamuno from the countryside to announce his imminent return is a certain Rogelio and a lengthy letter attributed to him provides virtually the entire substance of Unamuno's article “Desde la soledad” (1904). There are in the opening lines of the article quoted above various points of contact, though not necessarily total accord, with the form and content of La novela de Don Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez. Far from being the “whimsical eccentricity” described by C. A. Longhurst² this brief but complex novel is an intrinsic part of Unamuno's literary work. Further, numerous other supportive texts can be found which serve to prove how closely integrated this short novel is into the corpus of Unamuno's writing. My intention here is to supplement the work of those critics who have already commented upon Unamuno's actual and potential source material in this novel, as well as to suggest additional lines of approach and interpretation.³

Unamuno employs the letter form, used as the method of narration in La novela de Don Sandalio, in a variety of ways and expresses wide-ranging opinions on this form of communication. He stresses the value to him of letter-writing since “[…] muchas de las ideas que se me hayan ocurrido, se las debo a ellas, a las cartas. Más de una vez he interrumpido alguna para escribir algún articulito, o fragmentos de algún trabajo de más extensión y aliento, aprovechando párrafos de la carta” (XI, 937). Naturally, we do not have access to these personal letters which were the stimulus for items for publication but we can see the same process in operation in another context in that certain ideas, images or descriptions, initially presented in an informal way in essays (whether or not in the letter-format sometimes adopted as an appropriate form for his newspaper articles) are later incorporated, consciously or subconsciously, into La novela de Don Sandalio. The reverse process is also found since some topics in the novel appear later in essays.

For Unamuno, letters relate to man's basic need to communicate with another; the exchange of letters is equivalent to “la comunión de los solitarios” (XI, 942) in that “todos los que viven cierta vida interior, espiritual, se entienden entre sí, sin verse, ni oírse, ni conocerse” (XI, 942). He receives many personal letters from “desconocidos” for whom the letter is “una especie de confesión íntima” for which no reply is requested or expected. But, as he indicates elsewhere, “sólo en la soledad nos encontramos, y al encontrarnos, encontramos en nosotros a todos nuestros hermanos en soledad. Créeme que la soledad nos une tanto cuanto la sociedad nos separa” (III, 882). Additional aspects of the solitario and soledad will be discussed later. Because of what the letter signifies and the type of people that it links, the actual failure to write is perhaps not of immense importance. Correspondence does not necessarily imply an exchange of letters and can, indeed, exist without it. “Desde el rincón. Una carta” purports to be from a certain Enrique to a friend, Eugenio, to whom he has not written for three years. He confesses that he has little to say and writes infrequently to his friends but implies that there is nonetheless a basic understanding, based on past affinities, between him and his erstwhile correspondent, even though, with the passage of time, their ideas and attitudes have developed and perhaps diverged (XI, 941). So, begs Enrique, “déjame que no te escriba” (XI, 951) since any letter he might write is really redundant.

The type of letter of which Unamuno seems to disapprove is that which is not addressed to a specific recipient. In “Un paraíso terrenal” he claims to have inherited a bundle of letters sent to his friend L by another friend P. The said letters are “de una vaguedad notable, parecen escritos no para que las lea un sujeto determinado, en tal lugar y a tal hora del día, sino para que sean leídas por cualquiera en cualquier lugar a cualquier tiempo” (IX, 664). Replete with philosophical comments, “apenas nos dicen cosa alguna respecto a quien los escribió”. As such, then, they are not really letters and could therefore hardly form the basis for an epistolary novel where the intimate tone of the letters gives the impression that the novel has been written “no más que para cada uno de nosotros los que la leemos” (“Ganas de escribir”, XI, 178). In La novela de Don Sandalio this desirable balance is achieved by the fact that the letters are addressed to a specific, named individual, Felipe, the “sujeto determinado” (IX, 664) and certainly reveal much about “quien las escribió” (IX, 664). As Isabel Criado Miguel points out, these revelations about the author of the letter are not the result of any specific exercise in self-analysis but, rather, emerge from the letter-writing process itself: “faltan los datos, pero está su personalidad.”⁴ According to Ricardo Gullón, the absence of any specific or determining information about Felipe heightens the impression that “el narrador habla para sí”.⁵ Indeed, the overall framework and approach of this epistolary novel and the absence of details about Felipe enable the reader to occupy his privileged position. The same desirable intimacy of the epistolary novel is found in his article of 1920 which begins: “Te escribo, lector, estas líneas desde la cama. ¿Te las escribo a ti? ¿No me las escribo más bien a mí?” (X, 433). The final sentence here reveals how and why such an atmosphere is established.

In “Hojas de trabajo” when Unamuno writes of the beneficial effect of writing, not so much as a therapeutic exercise in itself as because it unites him with the reader-recipient, the emphasis is placed on the reader: “cuando me pongo a escribir estas hojas […] no me miro a mí sino que te miro a ti, lector desconocido, y escapo a la horrible soledad. Al escribirlas […] ya no me siento solo pues que dialogo. Y oigo, lector, tus silenciosos comentarios. Y trato de arrancarte de tu soledad” (X, 798). This is perhaps particularly because Unamuno is writing not just for lectores (despite the reference above) as for hombres, for “el hombre que hay en ti el que ahora lees estas líneas” (III, 871). He might have added a reference to “el hombre que hay en mí”. He refers critically to the use of the “Dear Reader” cliché “porque el lector, ese que llamamos lector, el lector benévolo, el paciente lector, el que no es sino lector, el de las acotaciones, el lector X, es un ente que no debe preocuparnos” (“Ramplonería”, III, 871). And for Unamuno his reader is always much more than the epithet suggests. In “Robinson Crusoe” he underlines the importance of the discovery of Man Friday for the castaway: “¡ya tenía público! ¡Ya podía contar su propia historia! […] ¿Y qué es lo que hacemos todos los que escribimos, todos los que hablamos a otros, y eso aunque parezca que estamos contando otra cosa?” But, in any case “contarte mi propia historia es contarte la tuya, porque tan Robinson eres tú […] como yo y los dos comulgamos en robinsonidad. Y si tu eres mi Viernes yo soy el tuyo” (VIII, 805). The mutuality is evident. Just as author and reader, letter-writer and recipient are both needed, for “el que habla solo y para sí solo, no se oye” (IX, 296). As he indicated elsewhere, he writes because of a need to write, to communicate, rather than make a particular point. And through writing for others ideas are formulated, crystallised (XI, 175).

Letters, in both their content and formal qualities, are closely bound up with the monólogo-diálogo. Unamuno indicates that “el monólogo es anterior al diálogo y que el hombre se pone primero a hablar consigo mismo para ahuyentar la soledad” (V, 1155) just as writing now enables Unamuno to escape from his “horrible soledad” (X, 798). Because there are readers for his articles, his monologues become a kind of “monólogo colectivo” for “nos lo estamos hablando esto en un acto de intimidad y de libertad. Y nos lo estamos diciendo” (V, 1157). As he implies in Cómo se hace una novela it takes two to make a monologue, for: “Esto que ahora lees aquí, lector, te lo estás diciendo tú a ti mismo y es tan tuyo como mío” (X, 907). He is, however, aware that the word “monologue” is often abused and in 1934 forcefully restates his own definition: “¿Quień dice que hay escritores, oradores, publicistas que están en continuo monólogo? El verdadero monólogo es sin oyentes, y éste ni el otro que monologa se oye” (XI, 1016). Unamuno's putative correspondent Rogelio, in “Desde la soledad”, writing to him from the unwelcome solitude of the countryside, comments regretfully: “No soy hombre de monólogos; no sé hablar, y, por lo tanto, no sé pensar” (IX, 671).

Just as a monologue is not necessarily a solitary activity so a dialogue, despite the implications of the word, does not automatically require the presence of another, for “no hay más diálogo verdadero que el diálogo que entablas contigo mismo, y este diálogo sólo puedes entablar estando a solas. En la soledad, y sólo en la soledad, puedes conocerte a ti mismo como prójimo” (III, 883). Dialogue is not equatable with conversation which is an inferior form of communication. Real, lasting dialogues are, in fact, simply “monólogos entreverados” in which “interrumpes de cuando en cuando tu monólogo para que tu interlocutor reanude el suyo; y cuando él, de vez en vez, interrumpe el suyo, reanudas el tuyo” (III, 883). This was the situation revealed anecdotally in “Las tijeras” where two old men converse nightly in “monólogos dialogados” (II, 768). For them there was “un placer solitario y mutuo en las pausas del propio monólogo” (II, 769). The monologue of the other is merely heard “como a eco puro que no se sabe de dónde sube” (II, 769). When they part “continuaba cada uno por su camino el monólogo eterno” (II, 723) and, after the death of Don Pedro, his companion “siguió su monólogo. El eco de su alma se había apagado” (II, 773). These pauses, which permit the other person to make his contribution are, I believe, not unlike those which occur in correspondence between one letter and the next or its reply and between the moves made in chess. In the text of La novela de Don Sandalio these pauses are represented visually by the space between letters, and reinforced by the progressive numbering of the sections and the use of dates. Felipe's letters, his monologue in the overall dialogue, are missing and provided by each new reader. In Niebla, when Augusto Pérez mentions to Unamuno that the mere fact that the latter is engaged in discussion with him lends credence to his existence independent of the novelist, Unamuno retorts: “Yo necesito discutir, sin discusión no vivo y sin contradicción; y cuando no hay fuera de mi quién me discuta y contradiga, invento dentro de mi quién lo haga. Mis monólogos son diálogos” (II, 977).

In the Prólogo which he wrote in 1932 for San Manuel Bueno, mártir y tres historias más, Unamuno defines Don Sandalio as “un personaje visto desde fuera, cuya vida interior se nos escapa, que acaso no la tiene, es un personaje que no monologa” (XVI, 568), and thus very different from many other Unamunian characters. There is, however, a great danger in judging by appearances, as is revealed in “Soledad”, where Unamuno refers to “un pobre hombre a quien se le tenía por medio loco” who once told him that his greatest anxiety was thinking that “‘yo, visto por fuera y a los ojos de los demás soy enteramente distinto de como me creo ser y me conozco'” (III, 894). If he can claim to concerse he hardly deserves to be classified as loco. In this same Prólogo Unamuno refers the reader to Niebla for a definition of monólogo and also amplifies it: “¿Monólogos? Lo que así se llama suelen ser monodiálogos, diálogos que sostiene uno con los otros que son, por dentro, él, con los otros que componen esa sociedad de individuos que es la conciencia de cada individuo” (XVI, 568). Thus, to claim that Don Sandalio is not involved in monólogo or diálogo is tantamount to the preposterous assertion that “no tiene conciencia”. The solution is found through involvement with the chessboard: “¿qué es una partida de ajedrez sino un monodiálogo, un diálogo que el jugador mantiene con su compañero … ? Thus, the problem is resolved and Don Sandalio “tiene vida interior, tiene monodiálogo, tiene conciencia”. He even suggests that maybe the pieces on the chessboard maintain their own private dialogue (XVI, 568).

In his frequently quoted article “Sobre el ajedrez” (1910) Unamuno describes his own close involvement with the game in his youth and, with the help of comments translated from Edgar Allan Poe, underlines the main characteristics of the game.⁶ He presents a situation in which he used to play daily with a partner whose personal circumstances were completely unknown to him: “No sé de dónde, ni cómo era, ni qué ideas tenía, ni nada de su vida pasada” (IV, 905). This is not abnormal, for “se ve que dos hombres pueden reunirse todos los días dos, tres o más horas, en torno a un tablero, […] y desconocerse profundamente el uno al otro, manteniéndose mutuamente extraños” (IV, 905). In “A lo que salga” he outlines a similar situation, although not one which involves chess: “sé de uno que estuvo jugando a diario, durante más de un año al tresillo con otro, e ignoraba si éste otro era soltero o casado, ni de dónde era, ni de qué vivía” (III, 716). This state of ignorance, the same as that of the two interlocutors in “Las tijeras”, is echoed in the letter-writer's ongoing absence of information regarding Don Sandalio and, indeed, the reader's lack of information concerning the letter-writer. Any initial curiosity the letter-writer may experience is soon discarded and never leads to the decision to obtain hard facts about the enigmatic chess-player. In letter XVI, after over seven weeks' acquaintance the answers to the basic questions “¿Es viudo? ¿Es casado?” (XVI, 653) are still unknown. His ignorance is basically willed ignorance. In his essay “Ramplonería” Unamuno indicated that if he actually meets one of his readers he will not subject him to a lengthy interrogation: “¿Eres médico? ¿Eres jurisconsulto? ¿Eres químico? ¿Eres matemático?”, but will, rather, try and find out whether the said reader has any intimate sorrow “para que […] en un pesar común comulguemos los dos. Me interesas tú, tú mismo como persona” (III, 872). Knowledge of the name, status or background of an individual is not essential for the existence of an identity of attitude. On the day on which the letter-writer notices that Don Sandalio is clearly suffering from “alguna preocupación” since “a veces ahoga una queja”, he makes no attempt to discover the reason but records in his letter “casi sufro con él” (XVI, 644). In “Soledad” Unamuno recalls an incident when he was kept awake all night by the muted moans coming from the individual in the hotel room adjacent to his. The sound became completely depersonalised and as if produced by the silence of the night, or even from within Unamuno himself, and “al día siguiente partí de allí sin haber querido averiguar quién era el quejumbroso ni de qué padecía y sospecho que nunca he compadecido tanto a hombre alguno” (III, 882). With or without knowledge, with or without a chessboard there can be communication.

Elsewhere in his essays we find references to chess which also have a marked bearing on La novela de Don Sandalio. The most noteworthy of these is the discourse on the origins of names of chess pieces at the beginning of “Los obispos del ajedrez” of 1922. The passage in the novel, which Turner loosely describes as “a typically Unamunian imaginative speech”,⁷ covers virtually the same ground as the earlier commentary (V, 1092). The former is prefaced by the letter-writer's comment that the bishop is “pieza que manejo mal” (XVI, 646). The essay makes the point that although you hear of “algún jugador que maneja muy bien los peones o las torres” or other pieces, “no hemos oído de nadie que maneje bien los alfiles, o sea los obispos” (V, 1095). The letter-writer is obviously not going to prove the exception to the general situation as observed by Unamuno in 1922. He does not, however, pose the question made earlier by Augusto Pérez: “¿Por qué no hemos de mover estas piezas de otro modo que como las movemos?” (II, 816).

A particular type of player is described in “El ajedrez y el tresillo” (1914). At the start of the game he confidently announces that he will checkmate in 27 moves, on a particular square and with a particular piece, completely disregarding the other player's involvement in the game (IX, 818). This sort of player has allegedly developed his skills through chess problems and is concerned only with the board and pieces, ignoring the other player: “el otro jugador no cuenta y casi no existe. Y los hay que juegan de memoria, sin mirar el tablero” (IX, 818). There are here both similarities with, and differences from, La novela de Don Sandalio. On the day on which Don Sandalio accepts the letter-writer as a new partner he seems, in the opinion of the latter, to treat him “como si no existiese en realidad” (XVI, 640). He directs no glances towards him as “miraba al tablero” (XVI, 640). In both texts all the chess pieces are mentioned but the order is reversed. In the essay we read: “Para él no hay sino el tablero y las piezas: reyes, reinas, torres, caballos, alfiles, peones—blancos y negros” (IX, 818), and in the novel: “Para Don Sandalio, los peones, alfiles, caballos, torres, reinas y reyes del ajedrez tienen más alma que las personas que los manejan” (XVI, 640). Don Sandalio departs from the profile given in the essay in that, on his own admission, he has no interest in chess problems (XVI, 646). Moreover, there is no indication that he ever announces checkmate in advance or forecasts the number of moves that will be required. Significantly, the only word he utters during the course of a game is “jaque” (XVI, 641), although it is recorded that he sometimes even refrained from that utterance if the situation was self-evident (XVI, 658). The Arabic origins of both jaque and mate are discussed in “Los obispos del ajedrez”: “Dar jaque mate es matar al rey. O comerle, que es como en el juego del ajedrez se dice entre nosotros” (V, 1093). In the letter-writer's nightmare Don Sandalio is transformed into the black knight on a chessboard which “se me venía encima a comerme” (XVI, 649). Yet preoccupation with the checkmating of death should not be the sole concern for life involves more than “comer o no comer” (in both senses of the word) and whether we are more than chessplayers (XVI, 665-66).

Although chess is obviously the dominant game in La novela de Don Sandalio, reference is also made to the card games played in the Casino (tresillo, mus, tute). Unamuno includes his frequently made allusion to Schopenhauer, who claimed that playing-cards were invented by “los tontos” to enable them to exchange pieces of cardboard instead of ideas. (see III, 798; II, 1101; IV, 904). In La novela de Don Sandalio (as in III, 798) he challenges Schopenhauer's view as he believes the invention of the cards does at least reveal some intelligent foresight on the part of the so-called “tontos” since it produced a method of social interaction and communication.⁸ In this respect, cards fulfil a similar function to chess which brings together even the most incompatible of people: “mucho de la sociedad civilizada no es más que la sociabilidad que con el juego del ajedrez engendra y desarrolla” (IV, 905).

The chief distinguishing factor between chess and card games is that in the latter the element of chance is all-important and, by creating a greater challenge for the player, as for example in tresillo, “le eleva en dignidad como juego artístico, sobre el ajedrez” (IX, 819). This does not mean that chance is entirely excluded from chess, for although you cannot attribute any failure on your part to the pieces, the element of chance lies in “el poder contar con los descuidos del adversario” (IV, 909). Chance and Fate are considered to be particularly prevalent in the game of Patience, el solitario. Indeed, as Unamuno indicates in Cómo se hace una novela, its most attractive trait is that it provides the opportunity to “aprovechar el azar” and “no es otro el arte de la vida en la historia” (X, 917). One of the skills of a good player of Patience is the ability to deduce or calculate when a certain game is not going to come to a successful conclusion, stop and start again: “El elemento supremo de aprovechar el azar, la superioridad del jugador consiste en resolverse a abandonar a tiempo la partida para poder empezar otra. Y lo mismo en la política y en la vida” (X, 919). It is self-evident that although the solitude and challenge of Patience reflect aspects of life it cannot be considered a paradigm of life for in life, as in chess, you cannot, as Víctor Goti points out to Augusto in Niebla, undo your moves: “no sirve volver atrás la jugada […] ¡Pieza tocada, pieza jugada!” (II, 815). According to the letter-writer, Don Sandalio always played “sin discutir ni volver las jugadas” (XVI, 680). On the occasion cited above, Augusto lost because his mind was not on the game. Although not involved in “tararear como otras veces trozos de ópera” he is continually repeating Eugenia's name (II, 815). He would thus come into the category despised by the letter-writer of players (of chess and cards) “con tarareos y estribillos” (XVI, 659). There may, indeed, be a great variation in the intentions and attention of chess players: “uno juega por jugar, otro por inventar jugadas, otro para ganar, uno se distrae, otro cuenta con las distracciones ajenas, éste charla para confundir a su adversario y engañarle, aquél parece atender a un lado del tablero cuando en realidad se fija en otro” (IV, 908). This range of players is reflected in the Casino in La novela de Don Sandalio, and even extends to the involvement of the bystanders in the game (XVI, 637 and 651). The attitude of Don Sandalio himself is entirely different. Silent, where others are chatty; attentive, where others are careless; free of idle spectators, where others are surrounded by them he comes to the Casino to play chess whereas the others play chess when they are at the Casino. It is simply a question of priorities.

In Cómo se hace una novela Unamuno's initial comments on Patience are intimately linked with references to the sea: “barajar los naipes es algo, en otro plano, como ver romperse las olas de la mar en la arena de la playa. Y ambas cosas nos hablan de la naturaleza en la historia, del azar en la libertad” (X, 918). Just as he does not get impatient if the game takes time to be resolved so, he claims, he is prepared to wait patiently for Spain's problems to reach a successful solution and for his own isolation in exile to come to an end: “Los días vienen y se van, como vienen y se van las olas de la mar, los hombres vienen y se van—a las veces se van y luego vienen—como vienen y se van los naipes, este vaivén es la historia” (X, 918). The repetitive quality of life, of waves, reflected in the style is revealed in La novela de Don Sandalio in sentences such as “De la playa al monte y del monte a la playa, de ver rodar las olas a ver rodar las hojas por el suelo y alguna vez también a ver rodar las hojas a las olas” (XVI, 661-62, and see also XVI, 632).

Not all the leaves mentioned in La novela de Don Sandalio will be swallowed up in the sea. Some, like those on the hollow oak, “verdecen hasta que, amarillas y ahornagadas, se arremolinan en el suelo y podridas […] van a formar el mantillo de abono que alimenta a las nuevas hojas de la venidera primavera” (XVI, 634), just like the leaves in Hendaye described in “Hojas de trabajo” (1925), which “siguen cayendo, amarillas y ahornagadas” (X, 797). The natural process of decay, humus and rebirth is on this occasion transferred to the leaves on which he pens his essays, leading to the hope that “se recojan arremolinadas en montón y con el tiempo, descompuestas, hechas mantillo, sirvan para abrigar y fomentar el renacer de algún brote” (X, 798). In “La chirla” of 1925 he also speaks of a single yellow oak leaf he found on the beach and which he considered taking back into the wood “a que se hiciese al pie de un árbol mantillo o sepultarlo al menos […] para que su podredumbre abonase a un árbol” (X, 805). One of the significant features of the oak tree in La novela de Don Sandalio is that “está en parte muerto. ¡Fíjate bien, muerto en parte!, no muerto del todo” (XVI, 634). Even in the winter it will look alive because of the evergreen ivy which covers it (XVI, 634). In “Hojas de yedra”, written in Hendaye in 1926, Unamuno records: “Aquí abunda la yedra, […] y no es raro encontrarse con un árbol muerto, con el cadáver de un árbol, envuelto en un verde sudario de yedra. El otro día me detuve con una emoción que no supe explicarme ante un ciprés al que empezaba a arroparle la yedra. Y aun no estaba muerto” (X, 780). The type of tree may be different but its state, the presence of the ivy and the emotion of the spectator are identical.⁹ There is here, I am sure, more than just a coincidence. In La novela de Don Sandalio ivy covers not just the dead oak but also a ruined cottage (XVI, 639 and XVI, 653). As Unamuno gazes across the border into Spain he sees the ruins of a castle “envueltas por la yedra” which is again likened to a shroud: “esta yedra, sudario de ruinas del imperio, ahí, en el umbral de mi España, me habla con lengua de siglos” (X, 780). The ivy-covered cottage of the novel, though not specifically linked with a shroud, contains with in it the “cadáver de lo que fue hogar” (XVI, 639).¹⁰

The letter-writer revealed his ability to commune with trees. He also sensed the hand of man behind them, planting, tending and, in particular “me he hecho amigo de un viejo roble” (XVI, 634). One of the reasons for which Unamuno's friend Rogelio decides to leave the countryside is that he can talk only in human company and “no he aprendido a hablar a los árboles, a las rocas, a los arroyos […] y lo que es peor, todas estas cosas no me dicen nada; están para mí mudas” (IX, 671). Hence his feelings of emptiness and isolation are so great that he decides to return to what amounts to the urban jungle: “ya que no puedo hacer de los árboles hombres, haré de los hombres árboles” (IX, 673). For the letter-writer no such conscious effort of will was involved: “mis árboles son árboles humanos” and he readily makes friends with the old oak tree (XVI, 633-34).

The recollection in “A lo que salga” of an experience five or six years previously, one misty morning in Salamanca when “al ver los arbolillos […] sumergidos en la niebla, […] parecióme como si aquellos arbolillos se les hubiesen rezumado o extravasado, y que ellos no eran más que cortezas, continentes de árboles, algo así como hollejos de uva dentro del mosto. Y que las entrañas éstas de los arbolillos […] se habían fundido unos en otros, dejando a sus cuerpos como armaduras de un guerrero que ha muerto y se ha hecho polvo” (III, 797-98) can perhaps be linked with the hollow state of the “heroic” oak tree (XVI, 634).

Although there is no guarantee that isolation in the countryside will provide the necessary solace for the individual oppressed by society it has the potential to provide it and to help reconcile that individual with his fellow men. Solitude does, however, even have the miraculous ability to reconcile sworn enemies for “cuando cada uno de ellos está solo habla acaso en su corazón con el otro […] y le tiene por amigo” (XI, 132). Despite appearances to the contrary the misanthrope will actively “buscar la sociedad y el trato de las gentes; las necesita para nutrir su odio o su desdén hacia ellas. El amor puede vivir de recuerdos y esperanzas; el odio necesita realidades presentes” (III, 881). The letter-writer defines his own state of mind as fear of men rather than hatred of them, making a distinction between his antropofobia and misantropía. However, he does, paradoxically, also indicate that he needs contact with human stupidity “para irritarme por dentro de mí” (XVI, 639). It is the old oak tree which enables him to become reconciled and before long he is able to confront his fellow men in the environment of the Casino. Thus he does not adopt the rigorous adhesion to solitude and isolation advocated in “Soledad”.

Solitude is not just a physical circumstance or condition. “Un solitario, un verdadero solitario, es el que se pone a bailar en medio de la plaza humana y a la vista de sus hermanos todos al son de la música de las esferas celestiales, que él solo, merced a la soledad en que vive, oye. Las gentes se paran, le miran, se encogen de hombros y se van diputándole por loco, o forman corro en derredor de él y se ríen o empiezan a acompañarle en baile con palmadas” (III, 889).¹¹ In many respects this adequately depicts the situation of Don Sandalio in the Casino. He arrives and leaves on his own, “los demás socios le respetan, o acaso le ignoran. Acaso se le tiene por un maniático” (XVI, 637). He, like the solitario depicted above, is “tan aislado en medio de los demás”. In the opinion of the letter-writer he too is in harmony with celestial music and plays chess “como quien crea silenciosa música religiosa […] Su juego es musical. […] ¿Y cuando tañe a la reina? ¡Pura música!” (XVI, 641). The spectators who normally leave Don Sandalio alone gather round the letter-writer when he becomes Don Sandalio's new partner, until they are dismissed. The games between the two of them are between two solitarios, in the midst of society, according to the definitions given above. “El valor de los grandes solitarios es que enseñan a los demás hombres el valor de la soledad, y que se puede muy bien vivir en ella” (III, 897). It is, however, worth noticing that the letter-writer has consciously assumed the state of a solitario: “Aquí me tienes haciendo […] de solitario” (XVI, 632-33). For Don Sandalio, on the other hand, the state appears to be a more natural one.

Writing after the publication of La novela de Don Sandalio in one of a series of “Cartas al amigo” (1934), Unamuno imagines the worst possible torment of soledad “el que se vea uno encerrado en una celda cúbica, entre cuatro paredes que sean cuatro grandes espejos, sin techo, abierta al cielo libre, y por suelo, la santa tierra con yerba” (XI, 1015). Incarcerated therein and attempting to resolve a problem the individual “acabaría […] dándose de cabezadas, suicidándose, contra sus imágenes, contra sí mismo” rather than deciding to lie on the grass, gazing at the sky/heaven (XI, 1015-16). An even worse mirrored environment is visualised in “La ciudad de Espeja”; “—¿No te viste nunca en un cuarto cuyas cuatro paredes y el techo y el suelo fuesen seis espejos? ¡La de gente que te rodearía allí!” (IX, 296).¹² The mirrored café in La novela de Don Sandalio, with its multitude of reflections, has an exit through which others entered and the letter-writer ultimately fled. Neither isolation nor imprisonment were the key issues here.

It was in a café too, this time in Madrid, that the letter-writer recalled seeing a reporter taking down the opinions, already second-hand, of the group of chulos.¹³ His behaviour is similar to that of the cronista mentioned in “La vuelta de la cumbre” (1911), who on arrival in a new town buys a collection of views and with a guide book at his side settles down to write an account of his journey. The difference between authentic, first-hand experience and inauthentic, derived knowledge is all-important.

Inevitably one must ask “¿por qué, o sea para qué, se hace una novela? Para hacerse el novelista ¿Y para qué se hace el novelista? Para hacer al lector, para hacerse uno con el lector. Y sólo haciéndose uno el novelador y el lector de la novela se salvan ambos de su soledad radical” (X, 922). And these questions return us to the issues discussed at the start of this article. Through his involvement with Don Sandalio and his mental development of him, through his letters to Felipe, the anonymous correspondent of La novela de Don Sandalio has developed in his eyes and ours. Felipe the reader and each of us have been the recipient of the letters existing in this role as readers only because of the letter-writer's activities, forced into a communion with him. But there is more, for the reader must be not just reader but also writer, for “cuando se hace lector, hácese por lo mismo autor […] cuando se lee una novela se hace novelista” (X, 907). The letter-writer has been conducting and will continue to conduct a dialogue with Felipe. The written form will soon be replaced by spoken face-to-face discussion. But, additionally, Felipe must develop his own dialogue and write his own novel, thus creating his own readers with whom he can be united, and through whom he can find salvation.¹⁴

In “Soledad” Unamuno posits a situation in which you are aware that your brother, your fellow man, is in prison, trying to get out: “le oyes arañar el muro de su prisión, y empiezas a golpear en él desde fuera, y cuando oye tus golpes, golpea él, y tú arrecias y él arrecia …” And eventually the wall is broken down; you have each been released: “Y así toda redención es mutua” (III, 896). The merging of reader and novelist is equally vital. When Don Sandalio is imprisoned the letter-writer makes no effort to communicate with him, let alone secure his release. Rather he considers that Don Sandalio's current imprisonment is an illustration of the basic plight of solitarios, “y un solitario soy yo. Y todo solitario […] es un preso, es un encarcelado, aunque ande libre” (XVI, 654). The breaking of the walls comes, then, not through any physical act but through outreach and communication, thus ending solitude and isolation. Just as the letter-writer has made Felipe and, through him, us, the readers of the story of himself and Don Sandalio, so the latter appears to have made his son-in-law and other members of his family the recipients of his version of events, thus giving them the status of listeners if not readers (XVI, 656 and 658). Just as Felipe is urged to create his own novel so the son-in-law, frequently maligned by the letter-writer, is surely capable of presenting his version of the Don Sandalio and letter-writer partnership. There is, therefore, the potential for La novela del amigo de Don Sandalio or La novela del amigo de mi suegro and for countless more variations, each personal to the individual who creates it, each a means of escape from isolation. La novela de Don Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez is, to use Unamuno's own terminology, one more echo or reflection of his basic corpus of ideas.

Notes

1. Miguel de Unamuno, Obras completas, 16 vols, ed. Manuel García Blanco (Madrid: Afrodisio Aguado, 1958), IX, p. 671. All quotations are from, and all references to, this edition.

2. Miguel de Unamuno, “San Manuel Bueno, mártir” and “La novela de Don Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez”, ed. C. A. Longhurst (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1984), p. vi. In the pages devoted to the commentary on this novel (pp. xxxv-xlvii) Longhurst does engage in a lengthy and serious discussion of the importance of the work.

3. To date, the most detailed studies on La novela de Don Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez are, in addition to the study by C. A. Longhurst mentioned above: Ricardo Gullón, Autobiografías de Unamuno (Madrid: Gredos, 1964); D. G. Turner, Unamuno's Webs of Fatality (London: Tamesis, 1974); Demetrios Basdekis, Unamuno and the Novel (Madrid: Estudios de Hispanófila, 1974); Frances Wyers, Miguel de Unamuno: The Contrary Self (London: Tamesis, 1976); D. L. Shaw, “Concerning Unamuno's La novela de Don Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez”, BHS LIV (1977), 115-23; Ricardo Gullón, “Relectura de Don Sandalio” in Homenaje a Antonio Sánchez Barbudo, ed. Benito Brancaforte, Edward R. Mulvihill y Roberto G. Sánchez (Madison: University of Wisconsin, 1981), pp. 157-65; Douglass Rogers, “Unamuno's Don Sandalio and Melville's Bartleby: Two Literary Enigmas”, in Homenaje a Antonio Sánchez Barbudo, pp. 187-201; Isabel Criado Miguel, Las novelas de Miguel de Unamuno (Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca, 1986); Robert L. Nicholas, Unamuno, narrador (Madrid: Castalia, 1989). I shall refrain from reiterating and discussing all the points made in these studies.

4. Isabel Criado Miguel, Las novelas de Miguel de Unamuno, p. 163.

5. Ricardo Gullón, “Relectura de Don Sandalio”, p. 159.

6. Ricardo Gullón claims that the incident described in “Sobre el ajedrez” in which one of the two players is absent because of the death of his wife is proof that the character of Don Sandalio is based on a real person, Autobiografías de Unamuno, p. 313. This viewpoint is neither sustainable nor necessary. Additional studies which specifically offer interpretations of the game of chess in Unamuno's novel are those by D. L. Shaw, C. A. Longhurst and Robert L. Nicholas.

7. D. G. Turner, Unamuno's Webs of Fatality, p. 132.

8. Ricardo Gullón, Autobiografías de Unamuno, p. 314, incorrectly suggests that it is only in the novel that there is any criticism of Schopenhauer's theory. It is, as indicated in the text, also found in an essay of 1904.

9. Isabel Criado Miguel, referring to the description of the woodland, comments “sorprende una visión tan detenida de un bosque en Unamuno” (Las novelas de Miguel de Unamuno, p. 151). It is perhaps less surprising in view of the supporting texts which I have adduced.

10. Particular consideration is given to the tree and the cottage by D. L. Shaw, art. cit.

11. Frances Wyers discusses soledad and the solitario in general terms but without creating specific links with La novela de Don Sandalio, in Miguel de Unamuno: the Contrary Self, pp. 19-23.

12. Additional aspects of “La ciudad de Espeja” are examined by Ricardo Gullón in Autobiografías de Unamuno, p. 322.

13. Possible interpretations are offered by D. L. Shaw, art. cit., p. 117.

14. I develop further the role of Felipe in my article “The Three Stages of Felipe: Narrative Technique in Unamuno's La novela de Don Sandalio, jugador de ajedrez”, Hispanófila 104 (1992), 31-35.