Grace E. Coolidge - The Formation of The Child in Early Modern Spain-Routledge (2014)

Downloaded by [University of Florida] at 15:55 14 February 2017
The Formation of the Child

in Early Modern Spain
Drawing on history, literature, and art to explore childhood in early modern Spain,
the contributors to this collection argue that early modern Spaniards conceptualized
childhood as a distinct and discrete stage in life which necessitated special care and
concern. The volume contrasts the didactic use of art and literature with historical
accounts of actual children, and analyzes children in a wide range of contexts
including the royal court, the noble family, and orphanages.
The volume explores several interrelated questions that challenge both scholars
of Spain and scholars specializing in childhood. How did early modern Spaniards
perceive childhood? In what framework (literary, artistic) did they think about
their children, and how did they visualize those children’s roles within the family
and society? How do gender and literary genres intersect with this concept of
childhood? How did ideas about childhood shape parenting, parents, and adult
life in early modern Spain? How did theories about children and childhood
interact with the actual experiences of children and their parents? The group of
international scholars contributing to this book have developed a variety of creative,
interdisciplinary approaches to uncover children’s lives, the role of children within
the larger family, adult perceptions of childhood, images of children and childhood
in art and literature, and the ways in which children and childhood were vulnerable
and in need of protection. Studying children uncovers previously hidden aspects
of Spanish history and allows the contributors to analyze the ideals and goals of
Spanish culture, the inner dynamics of the Habsburg court, and the vulnerabilities
and weaknesses that Spanish society fought to overcome.
New Hispanisms:
Cultural and Literary Studies
Series editor: Anne J. Cruz

“New Hispanisms: Literary and Cultural Studies” presents innovative studies that
seek to understand how the cultural production of the Hispanic world is generated,
disseminated, and consumed. Ranging from the Spanish Middle Ages to modern
Spain and Latin America, this series offers a forum for various critical and
disciplinary approaches to cultural texts, including literature and other artifacts of
Hispanic culture. Queries and proposals for single author volumes and collections
of original essays are welcome.
Masculinity and Queer Desire in Spanish Enlightenment Literature

Mehl Allan Penrose
Argentine Serialised Radio Drama in the Infamous Decade, 1930–1943

Transmitting Nationhood
Lauren Rea
Canines in Cervantes and Velázquez

An Animal Studies Reading of Early Modern Spain
John Beusterien
Reading Inebriation in Early Colonial Peru

Mónica P. Morales
Gendering the Crown in the Spanish Baroque Comedia

María Cristina Quintero
The Formation of the Child
Edited by
Grace E. Coolidge
First published 2014 by Ashgate Publishing
Published 2016 by Routledge

2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017, USA
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
Copyright © 2014 Grace E. Coolidge and contributors

Grace E. Coolidge has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988, to be identified as the editor of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any
form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented,
including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publishers.
Notice:
Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only
for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / edited by Grace E. Coolidge.
pages cm.—(New Hispanisms: Cultural and Literary Studies)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-4724-2880-6 (hardcover: alk. paper)
1. Child development—Spain—History. 2. Spain—Social conditions—To 1800.
I. Coolidge, Grace E., editor of compilation.
HQ792.S7F67 2014
305.2310946—dc23
2013039389
ISBN 9781472428806 (hbk)

ISBN 9781315558042 (ebk)
for Helen Nader

This page has been left blank intentionally

Contents
List of Illustrations ix
Notes on Contributors xi
Acknowledgements xiv
Introduction 1
Grace E. Coolidge
PART 1 Ideals of Childhood
1 Reproductive Genesis: Mothers and Children in Martín Carrillo’s

Elogios de mujeres insignes del viejo testamento 19
Rosilie Hernández
2 Mothers and Daughters in Chivalric Novels 41

Mª Carmen Marín Pina
3 Fathers and Sons in Don Quixote 65

Anne J. Cruz
4 Paintings of the Education of the Virgin Mary and the Lives

of Girls in Early Modern Spain 93
Charlene Villaseñor Black
PART 2 Children at Court
5 Childhood and Royalty at the Court of Philip III 123

Martha K. Hoffman
6 The Education of an Heir to the Throne: Isabel of Borbón

and Her Influence on Prince Baltasar Carlos 143
Alejandra Franganillo
7 “My sister is growing up very healthy and beautiful, she loves

me”: The Childhood of the Infantas María Teresa and Margarita
María at Court 165
Laura Oliván Santaliestra
8 Growing Up Carlos II: Political Childhood in the Court of the

Spanish Habsburgs 189
Silvia Z. Mitchell
viii The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain
PART 3 Suffer the Little Children
9 Good Boys: The Fifth Dialogue in Pedro Luján’s Coloquios

matrimoniales 209
Darcy Donahue
10 Investing in the Lineage: Children in the Early Modern Spanish

Nobility, 1350–1750 223
Grace E. Coolidge
11 The Castigation and Abuse of Children in Early Modern Spain 249

Edward Behrend-Martínez
12 Containing Risk: The Integration and Isolation of Orphanage

Wards within Eighteenth-Century Seville 273
Valentina Tikoff
Index 295
List of Illustrations
3.1 Titian (Tiziano Vecellio) (1487–1557), Philip II, 1527–1598,

King of Spain 1556–98 Offers His Son to Victory or Allegory
of Battle of Lepanto, c. 1571, 325 × 274 cm, oil on canvas, Museo
Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Art Resource, NY. 71
3.2 Héliodore Pisan, The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote of

La Mancha by Spanish Writer Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616).
Scene with Don Quixote. Engraving of drawing by Gustave Doré
(1833–1883). Art Resource, NY. 78
3.3 Gustave Doré, Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes.

The student Don Lorenzo reads the poems at their guests
Don Quixote and Sancho and his family. (DQ, II, 18). Engraving,
nineteenth century. Art Resource, NY. 80
4.1 Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, Presentation in the Temple, 1680,

oil on canvas, 61 1/32 × 81 7/8 in. (155 × 208 cm), Kreuzlingen,
Switzerland, private collection, Album/Art Resource. 95
4.2 Juan de Roelas, St. Anne Teaching the Virgin, c. 1610–1615,

oil on canvas, 90 1/2 × 67 in. (230 × 170 cm), Seville, Museo
Provincial de Bellas Artes © Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte
Hispánico. Archivo Mas. 102
4.3 Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, St. Anne Teaching the Virgin, c. 1655,
oil on canvas, 86 1/4 × 65 in. (219 × 165 cm), Madrid, Museo
del Prado © Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte Hispánico.
Archivo Mas. 104
4.4 Francisco de Zurbarán, The Young Virgin, c. 1640–1650, oil on

canvas, 42 7/8 × 35 3/8 in. (109 × 90 cm), Jérez de la Frontera
(Cádiz), Colegiata/Catedral © Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte
Hispánico. Archivo Mas. 109
4.5 Francisco de Zurbarán, The Young Virgin, 1658–1660, oil on canvas,

29 1/8 × 21 1/4 in. (73 × 53 cm), St. Petersburg, The Hermitage
© Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte Hispánico. Archivo Mas. 114
x The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain
4.6 Francisco de Zurbarán, The Young Virgin, c. 1635–1640, oil

on canvas, 46 × 37 in. (117 × 94 cm), New York, Metropolitan
Museum of Art © Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte Hispánico.
Archivo Mas. 115
11.1 Bartolomeo Manfredi, Italian, 1582–1622, Cupid Chastised, 1613,

oil on canvas, 69 × 51 3/8 in., Charles H. and Mary F.S.
Worcester Collection, 1947.58, The Art Institute of Chicago. 251
Notes on Contributors
Edward Behrend-Martínez is interested in everyday life in early modern Iberia.

He is the author of Unfit for Marriage: Impotent Spouses on Trial in the Basque
Region of Spain 1650–1750 (Reno: University of Nevada Press, 2007) and several
articles on sexuality and gender in early modern Spain. Dr. Behrend-Martínez
is currently researching and writing about domestic violence and the Spanish
household. He is professor of History at Appalachian State University in Boone,

North Carolina.
Grace E. Coolidge is associate professor of History at Grand Valley State

University in Grand Rapids, MI where she teaches in the History Department and
the Honors College. She is the author of multiple articles on women and gender
in early modern Spain, and her book, Guardianship, Gender, and the Nobility
in Early Modern Spain was published by Ashgate in 2011. Her current research
focuses on the mothers of the illegitimate children of the Spanish nobility.
Anne J. Cruz is professor of Spanish and Cooper Fellow at the University of

Miami. Her publications range from studies on Spanish Petrarchism, Cervantes,
and the comedia to women’s writings and the picaresque novel. She has recently
edited and translated The Life and Writings of Luisa de Carvajal y Mendoza (2014),
and edited or co-edited numerous collections, including Early Modern Habsburg
Women: Transnational Contexts, Cultural Conflicts, Dynastic Continuities
(2013); and Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain and the New World (2011),
which won the Society for the Study of Early Modern Women’s collaborative
award. She has also translated the anonymous picaresque novella, The Life
and Times of Mother Andrea (2011). A recipient of several NEH awards and a
Mellon Fellowship, she is the editor of the series New Hispanisms: Cultural and
Literary Studies with Ashgate Publishing, and coeditor of Early Modern Women:
An Interdisciplinary Journal, winner of the 2013 Council of Editors of Learned
Journals Voyager Award.
Darcy Donahue is professor of Spanish and Women’s Studies at Miami University.

Her area of specialization is the literature of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century
Spain with a focus on women writers, biography, and the intersection of religion
and gender. She has translated and edited the writings of Ana de San Bartolomé,
a leading figure in the religious reform led by St. Teresa of Avila in the late
sixteenth century (University of Chicago Press, 2008). In addition to her work
on San Bartolomé, she has published articles on Cervantes, Saint Teresa of Avila,
and Ignatius of Loyola, among others and has received grants in support of her
research from the American Council of Learned Societies, the Renaissance Society
of America, and Spain’s Ministry of Culture.
xii The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain
Alejandra Franganillo is completing her PhD at the Complutense University

in Madrid. Her dissertation, entitled “Power and Influence of Queen Isabel of
Borbón: Economic Networks in the Spanish Elite, 1621–1644,” is funded in part
by a grant from the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation. Her research
focuses on the political, economic, social, and cultural influence of networks of
elite women at the Spanish court during the first part of the reign of Philip IV.
Rosilie Hernández is associate professor of Early Modern Spanish Studies at

the University of Illinois at Chicago. She is the author of Bucolic Metaphors:
History, Subjectivity, and Gender in the Early Modern Spanish Pastoral (Studies
in Romance Languages and Literatures Series, University of North Carolina Press,

2006), as well as numerous articles focusing on Cervantes and women writers in
journals such as Hispanic Review, Romance Quarterly, Cervantes, The Bulletin
of Spanish Studies, and Hispania. She is presently working on a book project that
examines the religious and gender politics surrounding the representation of the
Immaculate Conception in literary texts, religious writings, art treatises, and the
visual arts.
Martha K. Hoffman studied history at Yale and great books at the University of

Chicago. Her book, Raised to Rule: Educating Royalty at the Court of the Spanish
Habsburgs, 1601–1634, was published by Louisiana State University Press. She is
an editor and writer, and runs a small press in Brooklyn, New York.
Mª Carmen Marín Pina is associate professor of Spanish at the University

of Zaragoza, Spain. Her work centers mainly on Spanish chivalric novels and
women’s writings. Together with Daniel Eisenberg, she is the author of Bibliografía
de los libros de caballerías castellanos (2000). Her most recent work is Páginas
de sueños. Estudios sobre los libros de caballerías castellanos (2011). Professor
Marín Pina has studied Spanish women writers Beatriz Bernal, Feliciana Enríquez
de Guzmán, Valentina Pinelo, María Nieto, Eugenia Bueso, and Luisa Manrique
de Lara, Countess of Paredes, among others. She is a member of the database
research team BIESES (Bibliography of Spanish Women Writers: Medieval
through Eighteenth Century).
Silvia Z. Mitchell is assistant professor of European history at Purdue University.

She received her PhD from the University of Miami in 2013, where she was the
recipient of the McKnight Doctoral Fellowship from 2006 to 2011. Her research
focuses on the political history of Spain in the later seventeenth century within
broad European and Atlantic perspectives and, more generally, the role of women
in shaping political and diplomatic outcomes in early modern Europe. Mitchell’s
essay, “Habsburg Motherhood: The Power of Queen Mariana of Austria, Mother
and Regent for Carlos II of Spain,” is in Ashgate’s Early Modern Habsburg
Women: Transnational Contexts, Cultural Conflicts, Dynastic Continuities (2013).
Notes on Contributors xiii
She is currently working on a monograph on Mariana of Austria that advances

a revisionist history of Spain in the later seventeenth century and broadens the
analytic framework to understand women’s rule during royal minorities.
Laura Oliván Santaliestra earned her PhD in Early Modern History from the
Complutense University of Madrid in 2006. Her dissertation is entitled: Mariana
de Austria en la encrucijada política del siglo XVII. Her research focus is on the
role of women in seventeenth-century courts, especially in Spain. Her publications
include several articles on power, images, and the queen’s politics and cultural
activities at Baroque courts. She has also published two books: Mariana de
Austria. Imagen, poder y diplomacia de una reina cortesana (2006) and Rainhas
de Portugal e Espanha. Margarida de Áustria. Isabel de Bourbon (2012), in
collaboration with Pilar Pérez Cantó and Esperanza Mó Romero. She is currently
the Marie Curie Intra-European Fellow at the University of Vienna.
Valentina Tikoff is associate professor of History at DePaul University in

Chicago, where she teaches European and Atlantic world history. Her research on
children and charity in early modern Spain has appeared in Eighteenth-Century
Studies, the Journal of Early Modern History, and other publications.
Charlene Villaseñor Black, whose research and teaching focuses on the art of
the Ibero-American world, is associate professor of Art History at UCLA, with
a joint appointment in the César E. Chávez Department of Chicana/o Studies.
Her widely reviewed 2006 book, Creating the Cult of St. Joseph: Art and Gender
in the Spanish Empire, was awarded the College Art Association Millard Meiss
subvention. Currently, she is finishing Transforming Saints: Women, Art, and
Conversion in Mexico and Spain, 1521–1800. This book considers the translation
and transformation of images of holy women from the Old World to the New,
with a focus on the Madonna, St. Anne, St. Librada, and Mary Magdalene. These
cults all came under Inquisition scrutiny and all were suspected of masking illicit
indigenous practices. She has held grants from the ACLS, Fulbright, Mellon,
and Woodrow Wilson and Getty Foundations and the NEH, and has published
extensively. While much of her research investigates the politics of religious
art and transatlantic exchange, Villaseñor Black is also actively engaged in the
Chicana/o art scene. Her upbringing as a working class, Catholic Chicana/o from
Arizona forged her identity as a border-crossing early modernist and inspirational
teacher.
Acknowledgements
The idea that sparked this book came from Anne J. Cruz, and she has been a
brilliant source of support, information, and inspiration throughout the project.
We are grateful for financial support from the Center of Scholarly and Creative
Excellence at Grand Valley State University and the History Department at
Appalachian State University. We are indebted to Art Resources, the Art Institute
of Chicago, and Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte Hispánico, Archivo Mas for
permission to use their images as illustrations. Elizabeth Lehfeldt provided astute
commentary on the panel “Many Lives, Many Places, Many Stories: Spaces of
Childhood in Early Modern Spain,” at the American Historical Society Annual
Meeting on January 4, 2013 and Edward Behrend-Martínez, Silvia Mitchell, and
Valentina Tikoff graciously shared early versions of their chapters at that panel.
Erika Gaffney, at Ashgate Publishing, has lent us her considerable expertise and
guidance throughout the editorial process. Her unfailing courtesy and patience are
an inspiration. Thank you also to Kirsten Giebutowski and the proofreader from
Ashgate. The anonymous reader’s insightful critique improved the manuscript.
Michelle Duram, Reda DeYoung, Mary Jane, Mark, and Griffin Halloran, David
Stark, Jason Crouthamel, and Max Coolidge Crouthamel provided feedback
and support. As the editor, I would especially like to thank the contributors who
generously shared their expertise, insight, and analysis and displayed a remarkable
willingness to work with each other’s ideas. I am the richer for having worked
with such a wonderful group of international and interdisciplinary scholars.
Introduction
Grace E. Coolidge
Not yet two years old, Prince Philip cried through his bother’s baptism, becoming
so upset that the ceremony was stopped so that his governess could comfort him.
The Virgin Mary learned to read at age three. Five-year-old Princess María Teresa
amused the royal court by imitating how her royal father twirled his mustache.
An adolescent boy counseled a friend to heed his mother’s sage advice. Twelve-
year-old Alonso de Contreras killed a schoolmate with a penknife. At 14, Luisa
de Carvajal beat her own back bloody with a silk whip in an effort to assure her
soul’s salvation. The aging Don Quixote enacted a paternity he never really had
by offering fatherly advice to the young males he encountered. All these vignettes
give us a series of tantalizing and contradictory glimpses into the lives of both
real and fictional children and their parents in early modern Spain. Fragments
of childhood can be found in a wide variety of texts and documents, challenging
scholars of early modern Spain to cooperate across disciplines and develop a
dialogue between these sources that can help uncover the complex realities of this
fragile stage of early modern life.
The contributors to this volume argue that early modern Spaniards
conceptualized childhood as a separate stage in life that could be contrasted with
the traits of adulthood and old age. Adults recognized children as beings with
distinct needs and problems, and were thoughtful and sometimes creative about
how they approached the task of parenting. Art and literature portrayed children
and childhood in ways that were often didactic, but which also recognized children
as distinct from adults and childhood as distinct from adulthood. Parents, and
Spanish society in general, could also recognize when children were being abused,
and their understanding of what constituted child abuse helps clarify their concept
of childhood. Their perspective was, however, inherently practical, and tended
to emphasize children as latent adults who needed to be trained and shaped into
their future roles. The nobility and the royalty saw young children as a means to
project their families into the future, as so many potential monarchs, title holders,
church leaders, brides, and soldiers who between them constituted the destiny of
the Catholic faith. Further down the social scale, Spanish society disciplined and
educated children as the future workers, wives, and mothers who, it was hoped,
would be led by the monarchs, title holders, and church leaders. This vision tended
to overshadow childhood, rendering it a training ground for impending careers
and imposing the distinct gender roles of the adult world on Spanish children.
2 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Coolidge
Portraits of the time often presented elite children dressed in a miniature version
of the elaborate costumes of adults.1
Even this preoccupation with the future, however, did not prevent parents
from recognizing that children needed time, guidance, and education to grow into
maturity, and early modern Spanish society produced numerous texts and images
to guide parents as they provided their children with the support and discipline
they needed to accomplish the tasks that set them on the road to a successful
adulthood. The history of childhood helps reveal a history of parenthood. In early
modern Spain this included a strong role for women as educators and exemplars.
The recognition of childhood and children as valuable elements of society in

turn shaped the lives of adults who worked to rise to the challenges imposed by
parenting, who defined themselves against the concept of childhood and youth
as they grew older, and whose status could be greatly affected by the presence or
absence of children in their lives.
Historiography and Methodology
The history of European childhood must inevitably start with Philippe Ariès who,
in the early 1960s, set out to uncover the notion of childhood and then linked
the changes in that idea to the beginning of modernity. “How did we come from
that ignorance of childhood to the centering of the family around the child in the
nineteenth century?” he asked, arguing that early modern children were dressed as
miniature adults and relegated to the margins of paintings and of life in general.2
Ariès made the lack of adult affection for children a central part of his argument,
stating that in the face of the high infant mortality rates during the early modern
period, parents could not risk developing affection for such ephemeral beings,
much less focus on childhood as a distinct stage of life that needed concern and
attention. He made this argument in the context of a world that he found lacking
in a sense of individualism, privacy, or the concept of the family.3 Lawrence Stone
further developed Ariès’s argument by making social class an integral part of
1
Philippe Ariès argues that portraits were more concerned to represent the child’s
social class than their youth and so clothed royal and noble children in the adult fashions
of the past century. Philippe Ariès, Centuries of Childhood: A Social History of Family
Life, trans. Robert Baldick (New York: Vintage Books, 1962), 57. Laura Oliván’s chapter
in this volume, “‘My sister is growing up very healthy and beautiful, she loves me’: The
Childhood of the Infantas María Teresa and Margarita María at Court,” analyzes the portrait
in which the five-year-old princess María Teresa appeared for the first time in an adult
farthingale.
2
Ariès, Centuries of Childhood, 10.
3
Ariès, Centuries of Childhood, 406.
Introduction 3
the discussion, arguing that only the middle classes developed affection for their
children and that this development came as late as the eighteenth century.4
Historians such as Linda Pollock, Ralph Houlbrooke, Steven Ozment, and Alan
MacFarlane challenged Ariès and Stone, in part by widely expanding the sources
that could be used to uncover childhood and the experiences of children.5 If Ariès
focused heavily on art, later social historians widened their focus to include record
books, diaries, saints’ lives, advice manuals, and even funeral monuments and
birth salvers to examine children, their parents, and the concept of family.6 These
historians countered both pieces of Ariès’ argument, positing parental affection
for children as a historical continuity that began long before the modern period
and thus could not be used as a marker of developing modernity.7 Early modern
scholars have continued to develop their methods and sources in ways that shed a
rich light on families, women, and children.
Work on women’s history often reveals the dynamics of children and
childhood in the process of analyzing patriarchy and how it functioned.8 Since
gendered behavior in a patriarchal society has to be learned, Anthony Fletcher
demonstrates that examining the process of gender formation illuminates the
education of children.9 Allyson Poska uses the attempts of the early modern
Spanish crown to recruit their poorest subjects as active agents of their empires
to uncover the lives of women, and thus children.10 Studying the application of
law in regards to the construction of gender often uncovers the lives of families
and children, while analyzing the legal rights and responsibilities of widows has
enabled scholars to analyze how families made decisions about children’s custody,
4
Lawrence Stone, The Family, Sex, and Marriage in England 1500–1800 (New
York: Harper & Row, 1977).
5
Linda Pollock, Forgotten Children: Parent-Child Relations from 1500 to 1900
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983); Ralph Houlbrooke, The English Family
1450–1700 (London: Longman, 1984); Steven Ozment, When Fathers Ruled: Family
Life in Reformation Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983); Alan
MacFarlane, Marriage and Love in England: Modes of Reproduction, 1300–1840 (New
York: Blackwell, 1985).
6
Naomi J. Miller and Naomi Yavneh (eds), Gender and Early Modern Constructions
of Childhood (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2012), 4.
7
Ondina E. González and Bianca Premo (eds), Raising an Empire: Children in Early
Modern Iberia and Colonial Latin America (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico
Press, 2007), 5.
8
For example, Olwen Hufton, The Prospect Before Her: A History of Women in
Western Europe, 1500–1800 (New York: Harper Collins, 1995).
9
Anthony Fletcher, Gender, Sex, and Subordination in England, 1500–1800 (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 1995).
10
Allyson Poska, “Babies on Board: Women, Children, and Imperial Policy in the
Spanish Empire,” Gender and History 22 (2010): 269–83.
marriage arrangements, and future careers.11 The debate over the extent of early
modern women’s education reveals much about the childhood of girls.12 Analysis
of how gender was represented in early modern art can literally make children and
childhood visible.13
Pursuing the history of the family also sheds light on children as an integral
part of the larger institution that nurtured, provided for, and sometimes abandoned
them.14 Historians and anthropologists collaborated in the 1980s to begin
assembling the larger narrative of the growth and change of families, while
subsequent historians have focused on more specialized aspects of that family
history.15 One of the groundbreaking works in this category is David Herlihy
11
For analysis of how the law and gender interact, see Julie Hardwick, The Practice
of Patriarchy: Gender and the Politics of Household Authority in Early Modern France
(University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1998); Martha C. Howell, The
Marriage Exchange: Property, Social Place, and Gender in Cities of the Low Countries,
1300–1550 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998); and Heath Dillard, Daughters
of the Reconquest: Women in Castilian Town Society, 1100–1300 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1984). For the power and authority of widows, see Barbara Harris,
English Aristocratic Women, 1450–1550: Marriage and Family, Property and Careers
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); Giulia Calvi, “Widows, the State and the
Guardianship of Children in Early Modern Tuscany,” in Sandra Cavallo and Lyndan Warner
(eds), Widowhood in Medieval and Early Modern Europe (New York: Longman, 1999);
Stanley Chojnacki, Women and Men in Renaissance Venice: Twelve Essays on Patrician
Society (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000); Ann Crabb,
The Strozzi of Florence: Widowhood and Family Solidarity in the Renaissance (Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000); David Vassberg, “The Status of Widows in
Sixteenth-Century Rural Castile,” in John Henderson and Richard Wall (eds), Poor Women
and Children in the European Past (London and New York: Routledge, 1994); Grace E.
Coolidge, Guardianship, Gender, and the Nobility in Early Modern Spain (Farnham, UK:
Ashgate, 2011); Stephanie Fink De Backer, Widowhood in Early Modern Spain: Protectors,
Proprietors, and Patrons (Brill, 2010); Laura Van Aert, “The Legal Possibilities of Antwerp
Widows in the Late Sixteenth Century,” The History of the Family 12 (2007): 282–95.
12
Elizabeth Theresa Howe, Education and Women in the Early Modern Hispanic
World (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2008); Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández (eds), Women’s
Literacy in Spain and the New World (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011); Kathryn Burns,
Colonial Habits: Convents and the Spiritual Economy of Cuzco, Peru (Durham, NC: Duke
University Press, 1999); Barbara Whitehead, Women’s Education in Early Modern Europe:
A History, 1500–1800 (London: Routledge, 1999).
13
See, for example, Charlene Villaseñor Black, Creating the Cult of St. Joseph: Art
and Gender in the Spanish Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006).
14
For child abandonment see John Boswell, The Kindness of Strangers: The
Abandonment of Children in Western Europe from Late Antiquity to the Renaissance (New
York: Pantheon Books, 1988).
15
For the larger narrative see for example André Burguiére, Christiane Klapisch-
Zuber, Martin Segalen, and Francoise Zonabend (eds), A History of the Family (2 vols)
(Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1996); Jean-Louis
Flandrin, Families in Former Times: Kinship, Household, and Sexuality (Cambridge:
Introduction 5
and Christiane Klapisch-Zuber’s study of the Florentine Catasto that challenged

existing methodology with its use of computers to process demographic data.
Herlihy and Klapisch-Zuber’s decision to structure the study around the life-cycle
allowed childhood to emerge as a separate and discrete category.16 A focus on the
life-cycle has further uncovered the images and rituals of childbirth as a way to
examine parent-child relationships and the structure of the family.17 Scholars have
scrutinized the abundance of records left by the nobility to discover their family
life and thus illuminate noble childhood, and work on family welfare and kinship
networks often reveals children of lower social status, allowing us to examine
their choices, their contributions, and their fates.18 Explorations of the margins
of the family have also yielded valuable insight into children and childhood with
scholars from different disciplines exploring illegitimacy from colonial Spanish
America to Renaissance Italy.19
Cambridge University Press, 1979); Jack Goody, The Development of the Family and
Marriage in Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983); James Casey, The
History of the Family (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989).
16
David Herlihy and Christiane Klapische-Zuber, Tuscans and Their Families:
A Study of the Florentine Catasto of 1427 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985).
17
See for example David Cressy, Birth, Marriage, and Death: Ritual, Religion, and
the Life-Cycle in Tudor and Stuart England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997);
Jacqueline Mari Musacchio, The Art and Ritual of Childbirth In Renaissance Italy (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 1999); María del Carmen García Herrero, Del nacer y el vivir:
Fragmentos para una historia de la videa en la baja Edad Media (Zaragoza: Institución
“Fernande el Católico,” 2005).
18
For studies of aristocratic families that include noble childhood, see Isabel Beceiro
Pita and Ricardo Córdoba de la Llave, Parentesco, poder y mentalidad: la nobleza
Castellana, siglos XII–XV (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientificas,
1990); Ana Guerrero Mayllo, Familia y vida cotidiana de una elite de poder: Los regidores
madrileños en tiempos de Felipe II (Madrid: Siglo veintiuno editores, SA, 1993); Helen
Nader (ed.), Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the Mendoza
Family, 1450–1650 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2004); Yuen-Gen Liang, Family
and Empire: The Fernández de Córdoba and the Spanish Realm (Philadelphia: University
of Pennsylvania Press, 2011); Matthew P. Romaniello and Charles Lipp (eds), Contested
Spaces of Nobility in Early Modern Europe (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011), examines noble
culture, rather than a particular family, but also deals with children, childbirth, education,
and illegitimacy. For children lower down the social scale, see David R. Green and Alastair
Owens (eds), Family Welfare: Gender, Property, and Inheritance Since the Seventeenth
Century (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2004); David Sabean analyzes kinship networks. David
Warren Sabean, Kinship in Neckarhausen, 1700–1870 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1998).
19
Just a few examples give a sense of the wide variety of this exploration of illegitimacy.
For a world-wide perspective, see Peter Laslett, Karla Oosterveen, and Richard M. Smith
(eds), Bastardy and its Comparative History: Studies in the History of Illegitimacy and
Marital Nonconformism in Britain, France, Germany, Sweden, North America, Jamaica,
and Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980); Ann Twinam, Public
More recently, scholars of Europe and its empires have focused directly
on children themselves.20 These studies embrace a wide range of social class,
geography, methodologies, and sources. The records of early modern institutions
such as orphanages and foundling homes allow scholars to examine children
in the context of the larger social community, its economy, and its inheritance
networks in Spain, Italy, and the Netherlands.21 Martha Hoffman’s recent book
focuses directly on royal children in Spain, making children the center of a study
that adds greatly to our understanding of the Spanish Habsburgs.22 This direct
focus on children and childhood has allowed scholars to begin to analyze how
the early modern world thought about children, how early modern philosophers
conceptualized childhood, and how childhood was represented in early modern
Lives, Private Secrets: Gender, Honor, Sexuality, and Illegitimacy in Colonial Spanish
America (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999) examines illegitimate children in
the context of gender and honor in colonial Latin America. Thomas Kuehn, Illegitimacy
in Renaissance Florence (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2002) looks at the
ambiguous position of illegitimate children in the large lineages of Renaissance Florence.
Lisa Zunshine, Bastards and Foundlings: Illegitimacy in Eighteenth-Century England
(Columbus: The Ohio State University Press, 2005) analyzes representations of illegitimate
children in eighteenth-century English literature. Other studies of the nobility also touch on
illegitimacy, for example Judith J. Hurwich, Noble Strategies: Marriage and Sexuality in
the Zimmern Chronicle (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2006) and Yuen-
Gen Liang, Family and Empire.
20
For the big picture, see Hugh Cunningham, Children and Childhood in Western
Society since 1500 (New York: Longman, 2005); Pierre Riché and Danièle Alexandre-
Bidon, L’enfance au Moyen Age (París, Seuil: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, 1994).
21
Anthony Fletcher and Stephen Hussey (eds), Childhood in Question: Children,
Parents and the State (Manchester, England: Manchester University Press, 1999);
Valentina Tikoff, “Not All The Orphans Really Are: The Diversity of Seville’s Juvenile
Charity Wards during the Long Eighteenth Century,” in González and Premo, Raising an
Empire, 41–74; Joan Sherwood, Poverty in Eighteenth-Century Spain: The Women and
Children of the Inclusa (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1988); Nicholas Terpstra,
Abandoned Children of the Italian Renaissance: Orphan Care in Florence and Bologna
(Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005); Anne E.C. McCants, Civic Charity
in a Golden Age: Orphan Care in Early Modern Amsterdam (Urbana: University of Illinois
Press, 1997). For an excellent edited collection on women and children at the bottom of
the social scale, see John Henderson and Richard Wall (eds), Poor Women and Children of
the European Past (London: Routledge, 1994). For poor children in the larger context of
European empires, see Silvia Arrom, Containing the Poor: The Mexico City Poor House,
1774–1871 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2000).
22
Martha K. Hoffman, Raised to Rule: Educating Royalty at the Court of the Spanish
Habsburgs, 1601–1634 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2011). For
children of the nobility, see Bogna Kot, Child-Rearing and Reform: A Study of the Nobility
in Eighteenth-Century Poland (Westport, CT: Praeger, 1985).
Introduction 7
literature.23 Scholars have moved to uncover children’s culture, studying what they
read, listened to, and were taught by religious authorities, and have analyzed how
they became (or were perceived to be) delinquent.24
This book, The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain, builds on the
growing scholarly focus on children and their culture to explore several interrelated
questions that challenge both scholars of Spain and scholars specializing in
childhood. How did early modern Spaniards perceive childhood? In what
framework (literary, artistic) did they think about their children, and how did they
visualize those children’s roles within the family and society? How does gender
intersect with this concept of childhood? How did ideas about childhood shape
parenting, parents, and adult life in early modern Spain? How did theories about
children and childhood interact with the actual experiences of children and their
parents? Early modern Spain was a powerful European state, the head of a vast
and complex empire with a rich culture of literature, art, and drama. Uncovering
how this rich culture viewed children and childhood gives us insight into their
constructions of family and gender, their understanding of themselves, and how
they viewed the future of their empire.
The chapters in this volume come from different disciplines (history, literature,
and art history) and use a wide variety of methods and sources to focus on the
often elusive history of childhood in early modern Spain. Contributors analyze the
“social logic” of law codes to uncover how early modern Spaniards constructed
the concept of childhood while also identifying potential conflicts or disputes
about the nature of this concept.25 Didactic texts such as conduct and etiquette
books highlight the gendered nature of early modern childhood, emphasizing
it as a training ground for adult gender roles. While childhood is perhaps most
explicitly addressed in the didactic literature of the time, the contributors to this
volume also locate children and their parents in chivalric literature, picaresque
23
Anthony Krupp, Reason’s Children: Childhood in Early Modern Philosophy
(Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 2009); for literary representations of children, see
Kate Chedgzoy, Susanne Greenhalgh, and Robert Shaughnessy (eds), Shakespeare and
Childhood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Caroline Bicks, “Producing
Girls on the English Stage: Performance as Pedagogy in Mary Ward’s Convent Schools” and
Mari Rutkoski, “The Facts of Enfance: Rabelais, Montaigne, Paré, and French Renaissance
Paediatrics,” both in Naomi J. Miller and Naomi Yavneh (eds), Gender and Early Modern
Constructions of Childhood (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2012).
24
Andrea Immel and Michael Witmore’s collection looks at children’s culture in
Britian, Germany, and France during the early modern period. Andrea Immel and Michael
Witmore (eds), Childhood and Children’s Books in Early Modern Europe, 1550–1800
(New York and London: Routledge, 2006). For delinquency, see Pamela Cox and Heather
Shore (eds), Becoming Delinquent: British and European Youth, 1650–1950 (Aldershot,
UK: Ashgate, 2002).
25
Martha Howell proposes law as a “social logic” to which “people often aspire
and which they eventually establish, often after a struggle, through private acts and social
practices.” Howell, The Marriage Exchange, vii.
literature, poetry, drama, sermons, hagiographies, and Counter Reformation art.

They use text and visual images to extrapolate how early modern Spain understood
childhood as a distinct part of life, one that had its own value, merited special
treatment, and posed distinct challenges and dangers. Using a more experiential
approach, several contributors turn to letters, chronicles, court commentators,
state council deliberations on a child king, and records of court ceremonies to
uncover children’s formal and informal actions and the reactions of the adults
around them. Murder trials, court cases about marital conflict, and the records
of Spain’s orphanages reveal childhood as an area perceived to need control and
allow contributors to analyze the role of violence in relation to childhood.

As all these disparate approaches are combined, a dialogue emerges between
the different disciplinary approaches and the wide variety of sources. Letters and
court commentaries provide anecdotes that illuminate the points about obedience
and proper behavior made in didactic literature and sermons. Chivalric romances
uncover some of the emotional complexities of family relationships that are only
hinted at in lawsuits, genealogies, and wills. Counter-Reformation art presents
children dressed and acting differently from adults or even illuminates the
violence society could inflict on them. When these essays are taken as a whole, the
interplay between their interdisciplinary sources and methods reveals the many
ways children and childhood were important to the legal, social, and economic
institutions of early modern Spain while simultaneously uncovering the depth of
emotion that surrounded both children and the daunting task of parenting.
Ideals of Childhood
Moving from ideals of childhood to children to the experiences of children

and parents across the social hierarchy, the essays in this volume are organized
into a wide range of themes and are interconnected at multiple levels. Anne
Cruz’s essay presents childhood identity as well enough established to be
satirized by Cervantes, who refers to Don Quixote’s life as one that reverses
the expected order of the life-cycle. In his readings of the novels of chivalry,
Don Quixote returns to the fictional age and characteristics of youth in his old
age, a delusion that allows him to display both youthful irresponsibility and
a youthful creativity or imagination. Cruz deploys both socio-historical and
metaphorical analyses, drawing on the genealogy of the chivalric novel, as well
as on Roman and Castilian law, art, and the historical context to disclose the
contradictions inherent in the knight’s delusion. Through this unique mix of
sources she contrasts Don Quixote’s failure to procreate or establish a patriarchy
with Cervantes’s success in overturning “chivalric conventions to formulate a
new literary genre generated not by one, but by many literary sources.” Yet, she
points out that Cervantes’s biological metaphors in the novel serve him well in
critiquing the governmental and royal authority as signs of a failed patriarchy in
a time of war and upheaval.
Introduction 9
In addition to a period of imagination or creativity, childhood was perceived

as a time of innocence. This characterization of childhood is reinforced by the
concern expressed in this society over the moral and practical education of children.
Drawing from the Erasmian tradition of didactic texts directed to elite readers,
Darcy Donahue examines humanist Pedro Luján’s Coloquios matrimoniales,
focusing on the fifth dialogue which is “one of the few, if not the only Spanish
dialogue in which children, so often the subject of didactic literature, actually
appear as the interlocutors.” The two boys in this dialogue lay out the boundaries
of behavior for good boys, presenting young children as a blank slate “upon whom
ideas and behaviors are inscribed,” a concept that assigned parents the morally
important task of socializing, educating, and influencing their progeny. Donahue
analyzes the images of masculinity that Luján incorporates into this dialogue,
arguing that the moralist wishes the ideal boy to acquire “Christian beliefs of
non-aggression, tolerance and generosity from their parents and teachers,” which
would benefit society by breaking the cycle of “undisciplined boys becoming
dissolute men.”
Pedro Luján’s emphasis on children as a blank slate highlights the importance
of their education, and the art and literature of this time period echoed this concern
by providing role models, images, and instructional advice designed to shape
children into well-disciplined adults who fulfilled their gender roles. Donahue
argues that Lujan’s text attempted to educate boys to “enact a new form of
masculinity.” By contrast, Charlene Villaseñor Black explores religious images of
femininity available to early modern parents in the paintings of Mary and St. Anne
by Spanish artists Zurbarán, Murillo, Montañés, and Juan de Roelas. Villaseñor
Black looks at this work in the context of northern European art and Francisco
Pacheco’s didactic treatise on the art of painting which discusses the moral (and
inherently gendered) dimensions of adequately representing a religious figure as
important as Mary. She also uses a wide variety of textual sources including the
Golden Legend, Counter Reformation texts about the life of the Virgin, devotional
books, and comportment manuals for women and girls. Villaseñor Black poses
the question of whether the images of these most perfect women were presented
as an unattainable model of mother-daughter interaction that discouraged other
women from pursuing literacy, or whether they presented an accessible model
that might challenge Counter-Reformation doctrine and encourage women to read
and mothers to actively educate their daughters. By complicating these images
and resisting an easy resolution to their ambiguity, her argument suggests an
agency for female viewers (both mothers and daughters) who could bring their
own interpretations to works of art that might differ from or subvert their intended
orthodoxy. This analysis emphasizes the importance of women as exemplars both
religiously and socially.
Taken together, the essays by Villaseñor Black and Donahue explore the
gendered nature of didactic literature that presented idealized gender roles even if
audiences might read or view those ideals in ways not imagined by their authors.
Grace Coolidge uses wills, account books, property inventories, genealogies, and
didactic texts to explore how these gendered ideals played out in the parenting
tactics of the Spanish nobility, who valued their children in part as a means of
extending and preserving their lineage. While noble boys were educated to excel
in horsemanship, hunting, the management of weapons, literacy, and basic social
skills, noble girls were taught to work with wool, cook, and read. In an example
that illuminates differences in social class, Valentina Tikoff explores how ideas
about gender shaped the nature of orphanages and orphan care in eighteenth-
century Seville. Poor girls admitted to these orphanages needed to demonstrate
either legitimacy or nobility in order to bolster the institution’s reputation and
enable it to protect and enclose girls who were perceived to be endangered. By

contrast, the orphanages’ goal for poor boys was to educate them away from crime
and vagrancy in order to protect society.
In spite of its apparent affirmation of traditional gender roles, however, the
education of children through literary and visual texts could also complicate these
roles. Donahue argues that Pedro de Lujan’s new form of masculinity “eschews
previously tolerated excesses or vices,” and the two boys conducting the dialogue
in this work rely on the example of a virtuous mother (a woman) as their primary
instructor and role model. A closer examination of noble and royal children reveals
that the highest levels of Spanish society had a very real value for the education of
women, thus affirming Villaseñor Black’s argument for the agency of her female
viewers. Coolidge argues that noble parents raised both boys and girls with a wide
range of property-management skills, and even female orphans, according to
Tikoff, were not completely isolated from the community they would eventually
join. Developing this theme, Alejandra Franganillo demonstrates that Queen
Isabel of Borbón, Philip IV’s wife, played a fundamental part in the education of
her son, Baltasar Carlos, heir to the Spanish throne. Court commentators and the
account books of the royal household reveal that the queen was politically and
fiscally situated so that she could oversee her son’s education. Drawing on records
of court ceremonies, letters from ambassadors and other courtiers, the paintings
of Velázquez, plays, poetry, and the celebratory commentaries on the event of the
prince’s birth, Franganillo skillfully re-creates the complex ceremonial world of
the Spanish court. She then proves that the queen had the skills necessary to guide
Baltasar Carlos through this complicated landscape, carefully exposing him to the
music and theater that conveyed important political lessons for a future monarch.
While still gendered, fiction also complicates the ideal gender roles presented
by Luján’s dialogues and the images of Mary and St. Anne. Mª Carmen Marín
Pina explores the chivalric novels “cursed by moralists and traditionally forgotten
by criticism,” which were wildly popular in their day. These works present
images of mothers and daughters in private, domestic spaces that are replete with
feminine emotions and sentiments, and contrast the ideals of women’s education
(embroidering, reading, and enclosed chastity) with the more scandalous events in
the lives of the fictional characters. Marín Pina argues that the contrast provides
a rich portrayal of “a constellation of connected women” that explores the depth
and variety of the mother-daughter relationship to bring to light the often hidden
Introduction 11
figure of the mother in these popular tales. Exploring the masculine dynamics of
parent-child relationships, Anne Cruz’s analysis of Don Quixote turns the father-
son relationship on its head, contending that Don Quixote begins the youthful
task of brave and chivalrous deeds when “past his prime and childless” so that
what he engenders in his old age is not children but the creative imagination
of childhood. Cruz argues that this reversal promotes “a historically unstable
patriarchal hegemony, thus undermining his own efforts to liberate those he deems
in need.” In Cruz’s analysis, Don Quixote’s actions question the fundamental role
of fathers and fatherhood in the patriarchal society of early modern Spain, a daring
action that nevertheless has echoes in Donahue’s observation of Lujan’s maternal

role model for adolescent boys, Franganillo’s demonstration of Queen Isabel of
Borbón’s importance in educating the male heir to the throne, and Coolidge’s
claim that the nobility depended in part on well-educated mothers to raise and
protect the next generation.
Children as Potential Adults
While Spaniards recognized childhood as a distinct stage of life, didactic and

literary images that acknowledged this stage also presented childhood as a
training ground for future adulthood. On one hand, the essays presented here
demonstrate that parents and teachers saw the need to help children grow and
gain their educations in small steps. Martha Hoffman gives us the vivid image of
a distressed Prince Philip (the future Philip IV) being comforted by his governess
who had to explain the solemn ceremony that made him the official heir to the
throne so that he would know that he was not going to be bled. Hoffman argues that
court commentators understood children to be children while their writings also
reflected some tension between the occasional embarrassments of childhood and
the dignity of royal status. Diplomatic accounts, the letters of the royal family and
other courtiers, chronicles, and account books also help her analyze the paradox
of how the court was shaped by the presence of children while the royal children
were in turn shaped by and displayed in the activities of the court. Silvia Mitchell
highlights this paradox, arguing that “the practice of kingship was transformed
when a child exercised it.” Household records, private correspondence among
courtiers, and Carlos II’s personal letters identify the milestones the court felt
were necessary for a child king to become full adult. Mitchell offers a vivid
portrayal of Carlos II’s ministers discussing the young king’s maturation “frankly
and extensively” as they evaluated his progress toward adulthood. Their lengthy
deliberations allow her to question the traditional assumption of the king as
physically feeble and mentally stunted.
Society’s acknowledgment that children needed time to mature and adjust
emphasized a need for the assistance of parents and educators, which in turn placed
an important responsibility on the adults who cared for children. Laura Oliván
Santaliestra relates how the adult Philip IV, worried about his younger daughter’s
slowness to read, attempted to motivate the little girl who was eager to hear from
him by telling her governess “she must learn to read, and then I shall write to
her every day.” These essays reveal direct, personal parental involvement in the
education of children, suggesting that adults both valued children’s education
and found specific ways to encourage and nurture children’s learning patterns.
Even children without parents could be the recipients of thoughtful attention to
their development. Valentina Tikoff writes that wards of the Noble Girls School
in Seville were allowed to leave the orphanage for a period of reflection or
contemplation about their future plans before they made the important choice to
enter the convent, as many of them eventually did.

Conversely, parents and adults in early modern Spain saw childhood as a
training ground for adult roles and well-trained children as a means to assure the
future of Spain’s social hierarchy. Grace Coolidge uses family records such as wills,
genealogies, letters, financial records, dowry contracts, and law suits to argue that
the Spanish nobility invested in their children in part because they viewed them as
part of a larger lineage that was vital to the success and survival of family power,
authority, and wealth. Haunted by the frequent deaths of both parents and children
that fractured family unity and disrupted inheritance strategies, the nobility coped
with death and its disruptions by using land ownership, and the careers, alliances,
and lives of their children to project their families into the future. This strategy
protected the wealth and power of the noble class and created a valued role for
noble children, but it also imposed a burden of strict obedience on to cherished
noble children who were steered into careers and marriages at very young ages.
Royal children also lost a part of their childhood to the pressures of their future
adult roles. Martha Hoffman provides extensive evidence of the daily lives of
royal children in the court of Philip IV, arguing that “children’s participation in
public ceremony, and especially in religious ritual …. embodied the future of
the monarchy for the court and, to a lesser extent, the public.” She demonstrates
that observers invested in a secure future for the Spanish monarchy projected this
potential on to the royal children, by crediting the future Philip IV with intelligence
and wit, seeing Ana as a graceful future queen, or constraining the lively Fernando
into the dignified role of a future cardinal. Franganillo argues that while Isabel of
Borbón loved her son Baltasar Carlos for his own gifts, she also benefited from
what he represented as heir to the throne and shaped his education to prepare him
for that demanding future. Laura Oliván Santaliestra’s essay on the Infantas María
Teresa and Margarita María analyzes how the contrast in their future adult roles
affected their childhoods. María Teresa’s role as presumed heir made her childhood
both more public and more somber than her sister’s. In contrast, Margarita María,
born into a revitalized court and never considered as a direct heir, was able to have
a more private childhood that allowed her initially to resist her education, and later
to develop her love and appreciation of painting as a liberal art. Oliván Santaliestra
uses royal correspondence, educational treatises, memorials, plays, and chronicles
to contrast the roles of the two princesses.
Introduction 13
The leaders of Spanish society had a more complicated relationship with

children of lower social status. In a world that was based on a strict social hierarchy,
Valentina Tikoff uses the institutional records of Seville’s orphanages to focus on
older orphans rather than foundlings. She argues that Seville’s orphanages sought
to contain risk for both their wards and the broader communities in which they
were located, a goal that entailed a degree of isolation. In spite of this intent,
however, these institutions were porous, with charity children playing both
symbolic and economic roles in the community of Seville. This idea of poor
children as a contained risk was highly gendered and slightly contradictory. Male
wards were seen as more dangerous, but allowed more access to the community
in efforts to contain that danger by training them in a variety of roles ranging from
artisans to sailors. Female wards were perceived as more endangered, and so had
less access to the community in an effort to protect their reputations. Both female
and male wards, however, played visible symbolic roles as they marched and sang
in city pageants and festivals and were economically active as they transitioned
from the orphanage into their adult roles as workers, nuns, and wives.
Because early modern Spain saw children as a means to secure the future, the
adult world, which Edward Behrend-Martínez describes as “a Baroque culture that
worshiped blood (the blood of Christ), celebrated suffering, and praised justice
meted out through corporal punishment,” inevitably shaped the experience of
childhood. Behrend-Martínez uses art, picaresque literature, didactic texts, and
sermons in conjunction with court records from marital conflicts and murder trials
and the autobiographies written under pressure from the Inquisition to explore
violence, discipline, and the possibility of abuse. Spanish culture expected good
parents to provide discipline in ways that were often both violent and gendered.
Nonetheless, the sense of childhood and/or children as distinct prevails even in
this atmosphere of violence and strict gender expectations, because, as Behrend-
Martínez argues, early modern Spaniards did recognize a point in which violence
had either gone too far or the wrong people were behaving violently toward
children. Teachers, masters, step-parents, neighbors, and caretakers could all
be suspected of child abuse, and even disciplining parents who did not feed or
clothe their children, or who executed violence so extreme that it left permanent
scars, violated cultural limits on the physical castigation of children. In addition to
placing limits on the violence they could inflict on their children, ideas about the
importance of childhood pressured parents to be successful in their childrearing.
Parenting was an integral part of achieving successful adulthood for many early
modern Spaniards.
Parents and Parenting
The presence or absence of children shaped the adults in the society around
them, so that a history of children and childhood is also a history of adults and
parenting. Looking at adults as parents gives us new perspectives on powerful
people and institutions. Martha Hoffman argues that the presence of Philip III’s
children changed the structure and activities of the royal court. Their potential, as
the future of the Spanish dynasty, and their actual physical presence as children
who needed care and attention, revitalized the Spanish court. Spanish monarchs
seem to have been attentive parents. Philip III and Queen Margarita spent time
with their children and did not practice the severe physical discipline that other
European royal children were subjected to, even though they recognized that
undisciplined children were hard to teach. Laura Oliván Santaliestra demonstrates
the same attentiveness in Philip IV, who visited, laughed with, and doted on his
younger daughter.
When children did not represent the future of a royal dynasty, however, they
could challenge Spanish society and its concepts and ideas about parenting. Early
modern Seville viewed orphaned children as a risk that needed to be contained
and restricted their activities accordingly. Even in this case, however, we find
an emphasis on the importance of parenting. Valentina Tikoff argues that the
segregation of orphans was not, in practice, complete, an insight that reveals an
entire urban community assuming something of a parenting role as they tried
to guide these children to an appropriate adulthood that would support, rather
than threaten, their communal well-being. The social and cultural importance
of parenting made Cervantes’s social critique possible and understandable as he
explored how the older generation attempted to impose itself on the younger. Anne
Cruz demonstrates how this critique reveals the tensions between an older, feudal
order in Spain and the new, complex, and rapidly changing early modern world
that Spain’s children represented.
In a strictly gendered society, the way children shaped parents and parenthood
was inevitably gendered also. Studying the Elogios de mujeres insignes del viejo
testamento published in 1627 by Martín Carrillo, Rosilie Hernández argues that
Carrillo’s interpretation of Old Testament women puts bearing children (who
could potentially be the Messiah) at the center of women’s identities. Since
Carrillo’s work was intended to be didactic, it extended successful childbearing or
infertility as a means of shaping a woman’s relationship with her culture from the
Bible to the future generations who read the work. As a result of ideas like this,
the ability to produce and raise children was a crucial piece of being a successful
adult woman throughout the early modern Spanish culture, and in turn could grant
women power and prestige that they might not otherwise attain.
The production of children gave personal and political importance to individual
women. Alejandra Franganillo demonstrates that giving birth to a son and heir to
the Spanish throne strengthened Isabel of Borbón’s position at court, giving her
the power to resist the influence of the Count-Duke of Olivares, the royal favorite.
Women’s roles in relation to their children also extended beyond the empowerment
of individual women to influence the wider culture. While Franganillo illuminates
the political education Queen Isabel was able to give her son, Darcy Donahue
demonstrates that the concept of a mother as educator and preceptor went beyond
the influence of an individual mother or a single queen. Pedro Lujan’s dialogue
Introduction 15
for boys presents “the mother” as an ideal figure to emulate, endowing her with
all the virtues that young boys should aspire to. At the same time, early modern
Spain was ambivalent about mothers and their roles, as if this cultural power
was also a potential threat. Counter-Reformation art suppressed the figure of
St. Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary. Mothers were hidden in chivalric literature,
and Ma Carmen Marín Pina’s efforts to locate them uncovered some cruel
mothers who turn their daughters into tools for vengeance.
Studying children can also highlight the roles expected of men and fathers, a
theme that needs to be further explored in Spanish history. The presence or absence
of children could shape the lives of adult men, as well as adult women, especially
in a society that conveyed property and power through a patriarchal inheritance
system. Silvia Mitchell argues that Carlos II’s lack of children defined his memory,
making his death without heirs the central event of his life. His failure to be a father
precipitated a war that rearranged European power structures. Fathers also had a
direct impact on their children. Laura Oliván Santaliestra explores the importance
of Philip IV in the disparate upbringings of his two daughters. His absence from
court helped push his elder daughter into a more public role of solemnity and
restraint, while his younger daughter benefited from his presence, his laughter, and
his renewed ability to be spontaneous. Spanish society recognized a father’s role
as important and valuable. Edward Behrend-Martínez argues that Spaniards took
material neglect of dependents by fathers as a very serious form of abuse.
Children were a vital part of Spanish society. Even in the midst of a rigid
social hierarchy and a culture shadowed by the presence of violence, children
were visible and valued. The essays in this volume demonstrate the rich legacy
of that responsibility as writers, moralists, artists, educators, parents, kings, and
the clergy all focused on children, their needs and development, and their role
as future adults. While early modern Spain disciplined its children harshly and
imposed adult roles on barely mature adolescents, it also recognized childhood
as a distinct and important stage in life and worked to help children develop their
potential.

PART 1
Ideals of Childhood

Chapter 1
Reproductive Genesis:
Mothers and Children in Martín Carrillo’s
Elogios de mujeres insignes
del viejo testamento
Rosilie Hernández
Women’s Biblical History: Truth as a Matter of Persuasion
Elogios de mujeres insignes del viejo testamento [In Praise of Illustrious Women
of the Old Testament] was published in 1627 by Martín Carrillo whose credentials
as rector of the University of Zaragoza, vicar general of Zaragoza, and abbot of the
monastery of Montearagón well-established his authority as a historian worthy of
the royal household. Dedicated to Margarita de la Cruz, daughter of the Empress
María of Austria, Carrillo’s account of the lives of Old Testament women focuses
on the causes, motives, and effects of female participation in pre-messianic
Biblical history. Throughout the text’s course Carrillo elaborates at length upon the
stories found in the original and the commentary these have elicited, predictably
deploying an instructional rationale throughout.1 As such, the Elogios comfortably
situates itself as a “history” at a time still in early modern Europe when the genre
was not configured as a conduit for facts but rather as a competitor of fiction; more
precisely, as a narrative form that recreates the past, mediates the past, makes the
past intelligible, and as a result offers the reader an enhanced and fictionalized
version of that past meant to persuade the audience of a truthful, if not absolute,
worldview. Referring to this period in the development of history as a genre, Carlo
Ginzburg has argued in his recently translated Threads and Traces that, “[T]ruth
was considered above all a question of persuasion, linked only marginally to an
objective weighing of the facts.”2
1
Historical narratives, chronologies, and genealogies grounded on the Old Testament
were not uncommon in the early modern period, with numerous Spanish examples. The
Biblioteca Nacional, for example, has in its catalog varied works of this type by the
following authors: Juan de Icíar (1555), Gaspar Salcedo de Aguirre (1608), Francisco
Mendoza (1614), Jose Martínez Guindal (1663), and José de Ormaza (1674). Carrillo, in
fact, also publishes an Old Testament chronology (1623); yet, to my knowledge, he is the
only author to focus solely on female characters or exemplars.
2
Carlo Ginzburg, Threads and Traces: True, False, Fictive (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2012), 12.
20 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Hernández
Ginzburg’s thoughts on the category of history during the early modern period
directly speak to a book such as the Elogios, which at a first glance reads as a
narrative exposition of the lives of 54 biblical female exemplars whose deeds
are virtuous or vicious and often waffle between the two extremes. Yet, despite
any reservations one may have regarding the success of its imaginative or
methodological qualities, the narrative impulse of the Elogios consciously and
unconsciously aims to please the reader, closely mapping what Silvio Antoniano in
his Dialogo della Istoria [Dialogue on History] (1596 ed.) postulated as necessary
in the making of a worthy historical account: “for the pleasure of the reader, to
embellish the truth, just as in the construction of palaces the marble is decorated
with carvings and the interiors with paintings; and these two exertions are not
the work of the builder, but of the painter and the sculptor.”3 Granted, the Greek
concept of enargeia, of clarity and vividness in narration, or as Quintilian later
proposed of evidentia in narratione4 is not Carrillo’s forte. To be more specific, we
would be hard-pressed to claim that Carrillo’s talents as a writer fall in line with, to
set the bar rather high, a Homeric standard. Notwithstanding his lack of virtuosity,
Carrillo very much indeed intends to tailor and animate the history of the lives of
Old Testament women for his immediate readers, the nuns at the Monasterio de la
Consolación de Franciscanas Clarisas, known as the Convent of the Descalzas
Reales [Royal Discalced] in Madrid, where the Empress María and Margarita de
la Cruz resided. His treatment of each of the exemplars is couched in the language
of elogios, or praises, and he goes through great pains to enhance what are in most
cases sparse biblical accounts so as to instruct, entertain, as well as evoke the
types of experiences his female, well-versed, and politically connected intended
audience would be familiar with as members of the royal household and the high
nobility: the birthing of heirs, the safeguarding of national interests in an often
menacing international context, and the importance of exemplarity.
For immediate purposes we need only briefly examine the way in which, for
example, Carrillo justifies Yael’s lying when Sisera reaches her tent; she promises
shelter but instead kills him by hammering a stake through his cranium. Carrillo,
eager to portray Yael as a resourceful heroine and savior of the Jewish nation,
offers the following commentary:
Scholastic disputes are not scrutinized in these Elogios, for it is true that lying,
as well as killing, is damaging to our brethren, for both are grave sins prohibited
in the Decalogue: nonetheless, what is not condemned is to dissimulate or hide
the truth in some cases, without it qualifying as a lie, as it is well proven by a
modern Author who reflects upon whether these women sinned by lying: The
Abulense does not excuse them, neither does he condemn them. What we are
certain of is that the Scriptures praise them and consider them admirable and
worthy of being named. […] The reason for this is that God took them as his
instrument and as executors of His Divine Justice against his enemies, whom
Quoted in Ginzburg, Threads and Traces, 18.

3
Ginzburg, Threads and Traces, 9.

4
Reproductive Genesis 21
he had condemned and destined for death: they, moved by divine inspiration,
did what God had predestined: they enforced on their enemies Divine Justice.5
Granted, the royal women that resided at the convent were not called to
physically annihilate any of the Habsburg enemies, real or perceived, military
or political; yet, as Magdalena Sánchez has documented, these women enjoyed
significant influence at the highest levels of the court, which would often require
dissimulation and pretense, qualities that Biblical heroines like Yael were ripe
to demonstrate when treated adequately by a “good” historian: evidentia in
narratione.6
The historian, unlike the fiction writer, is nonetheless supposed to explain not
invent. For this very reason the recovery of the Old Testament past, especially
as it pertains to the women therein mentioned, proves to be a particularly vexed
exercise for Carrillo. Assessing Manuel Chrysolaras’s letter to the Byzantine
Emperor in 1411, Ginzburg remarks upon the already early Renaissance “distrust
in the possibility of being able, with the help of rhetoric, to evoke the past as an
accomplished fact. Its place was taken by an awareness that our understanding of
the past inevitably was uncertain, discontinuous, lacunar, based only on fragments
and ruins.”7 For Carrillo this distrust is ever present and deeply problematic
given the material he has at hand. The source text is the Old Testament or, more
pointedly, the word of God, divine truth. Yet that truth is teasingly incomplete, at
times incongruous, and open to competing interpretations from the Church fathers
and theologians that serve as secondary reference material and authorize Carrillo’s
own historical narration. Even minor characters such as Moses’s sister, Mary,
lend themselves to an evidentiary tension that must be resolved, and that Carrillo
5
“No tratamos en estos Elogios disputas escolásticas, que es cierto, la mentira ser
prejudicial al prójimo, y el matar, pecados gravísimos prohibidos en el Decálogo: pero
tampoco condeno el disimular y encubrir la verdad en algunos casos, sin mentir como
lo prueba con Buenos lugares un Autor moderno, tratando de estas mujeres, si pecaron
mintiendo: no las escusa el Abulense, ni las condena. Lo que sabemos es que la Escriptura
las alaba, y las tiene por mujeres célebres, y dignas de nombre. […] La razón desto es que
las tomó Dios por instrumento y executoras de su Divina Justicia contra sus enemigos, a
quien tenía condenados y entregados a la muerte: las cuales movidas por divino espíritu,
hizieron lo que Dios tenía ordenado: y ejecutaron en sus enemigos la Divina Justicia.” All
translations are my own unless otherwise stated. Martín de Carrillo, Elogios de mujeres
insignes del viejo testamento (Huesca, 1627), 72B.
6
“First, Empress María did not take the vows of a nun, and she left the convent on a
weekly basis to visit the monarchs in the palace […]. Second, monarchs, councilors of the
state, papal nuncios, and foreign ambassadors visited the Descalzas convent and conferred
with Empress María and Margaret of the Cross. Empress María gave daily audiences,
and the king, when in Madrid, visited her at the convent several times a week. […] After
Empress María’s death, Margaret of the Cross took up her mother’s political role […].”
Magdalena Sánchez, The Empress, the Queen, and the Nun: Women and Power at the Court
of Philip III of Spain (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), 145.
7
therefore feels he has to address, in order to move forward the didactic aspirations
of the Elogios. Should Mary’s affinities with Christ’s mother, as in her virginity,
her courage, her mothering of Moses be privileged? Or, are these virtues offset
by her pride when she compares herself to Moses, falsely claiming to have also
spoken to God, and is then chastised with leprosy. And why, if Aaron, her brother,
was guilty of the same pride, did he not suffer a commensurate punishment?
Carrillo irons over the split by way of repetition. He ends the Elogio restating
Mary’s affinities with the Virgin Mary, as well her gift of prophecy and her good
governance of the women of the Jewish nation: “From this Mary (Moses’s sister)
is highly praised as equal to her brothers in her acts of governance; but what most
elevates her stature is how she prefigures the Virgin Mary, not only in name but
also in some of her actions.”8 What is made to matter is what is explained the most
and thus narrativized the most.
There is a positive and a negative aspect to the fractional nature and factional
potentiality of Biblical history, especially as it pertains to women. At one level,
the partial nature of the Old Testament account affords Carrillo the opportunity to
construct anew a satisfying and morally edifying retelling of the Biblical past. On
the other hand, Carrillo’s rewriting of history cannot escape the minefields created
by women exemplars such as Tamar—a prostitute who is also one of Jesus’s direct
ancestors—or even Sarah, whose virtuous nature is jeopardized by her manifest
incredulity in the face of divine intervention when conceiving Isaac. The result,
inescapable and rich with potential, is remarkable interpretative acrobatics that
hope to assuage the anxiety produced by evidentiary contradiction.
Women as Generators
Old Testament history, unlike its New Testament counterpart, is fundamentally

driven by the need to bring forth the Messiah. Women are charged with the
continuation of the ancestral line upon which the Jewish nation is founded or,
alternatively, with whom that same nation will have to contend. Early modern
Spanish society, as we all know, is deeply invested in defining honor and female
virtue through the prism of virginity and chastity. Alternatively, in the context of
Hebrew scripture the worth of women is widely, even if not completely, measured
by their capacity to bear children or better yet the Child, God made flesh for, as
Carrillo would plainly state, “the honor of Hebrew women depended on becoming
the mother of the promised Messiah, and as a result they held as more praiseworthy
and glorious to bear children than to be chaste and continent.”9 Clarissa W. Atkinson
“De aquí resulta muy gran encomio y alabanza a María en igualarla en el gobierno
8
con sus hermanos; pero lo que más la engrandece es en ser figura de María santísima, no
solo en el nombre sino en algunas acciones […].” Carrillo, Elogios, 59 A.
9
“que la gloria de las mujeres Hebreas, era, ser madres del Mesias prometido, y por
esto tenían por más loable y glorioso, el tener hijos, que guardar castidad y continencia.”
Carrillo, Elogios, 41.
has remarked upon the connection between Christianity’s myth of Incarnation and
motherhood and how this link shapes the religious imaginary register:
All religious systems develop norms for behavior and relationships, including
family relationships, with explicit and implicit ideas and prescriptions
concerning sexuality and parenthood, mothers and children. Interactions
between the history of Christianity and the history of motherhood have been
intense and complicated, perhaps in part because Christianity is a religion of
embodiment—of Incarnation—whose god entered history as a human being,
ate and drank with men and women on earth, was born and died like them.
Physicality and embodiment—birth and death—lay at the heart of the faith of

those who accepted the bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ. And physicality
necessarily lies at the heart of constructions of motherhood in any society. Our
wishes, fears, and fantasies about embodiment are inextricably linked to our
experience of mothers and notions of maternity.10
Old Testament history is thus the site where Incarnation exists as desire not yet
actualized, as a divine promise that heartens and hounds the social body, and
where women’s bodies exist in a terrain marked by the injunction of a godly design
whose outcome is continually deferred until its full realization in the immaculate
body of Mary.
There are of course exceptions, most notably Judith, Esther, and Yael whose
maternity is not literal but metaphoric; these are the exemplary women who bring
forth the Jewish nation not as mothers but as warrior heroines. The customary
story, nevertheless, is that of women whose deepest desires and frustrated
disappointments are exclusively motivated by procreation and infertility. The
predicament of bareness is such that, as told many times over in the Old Testament
and retold by Carrillo, women would actively seek female slaves as surrogate
mothers rather than remain biologically childless. Sarah is the most salient
example, “who because she was sterile and without hope of having children, and
eager to bear them through her slave since she herself could not have any, gave
her [Agar] to Abraham to this effect; and in this manner she asked her husband to
comply, displacing her right to birth to a foreign womb.”11
Debates regarding the epistemological shift between woman as procreator and
woman as machine are instructive in this context. Feminist scholarship has often
associated the term reproduction to a late eighteenth-century denaturalization of
the procreative or generative process that denotes the female uterus as machine,
a producer of a much needed labor force.12 Of interest is the way in which the
10
Clarissa W. Atkinson, The Oldest Vocation: Christian Motherhood in the Middle
Ages (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), 5.
11
“por ser esteril y sin esperanza de tener hijos, deseando tenerlos de su esclava, ya
que en sí no los tenía, se la dio por mujer [a Abraham] para este efecto; y desta manera pidió
el debito a su marido, viando de su derecho en el vientre ajeno.” Carrillo, Elogios, 9 A.
12
Carolyn Merchant’s The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology, and the Scientific
Revolution (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1983) was fundamental in establishing this
reading of procreative discourse.
mechanization of the female reproductive system in modernity has also been

connected to the increasing disuse of midwifery and the medicalization, male-
dominated indeed, of the labor process. As argued by Robbie Davis-Floyd,
The demise of the midwife and the rise of the male-attended, mechanically
manipulated birth followed close on the heels of the wide cultural acceptance
of the metaphor of the body-as-machine in the West and the accompanying
acceptance of the metaphor of the female body as a defective machine—a
metaphor that eventually formed the philosophical foundation of modern
obstetrics.13
Still, the alleged radical shift toward the metaphorization of the female body as
machine has been questioned by scholars such as Allison Muri who trace the use
of the words production and reproduction—despite all its apparently modern
mechanistic implications—to an early modern context aligned with procreation or
generation as a “mechanism of nature” that reproduced God’s original creation.14
Generation, Muri notes, “was always the result of a creation which, at some stage
or other, required direct intervention by divine forces.”15
The necessity of procreation or generation is one that Carrillo’s text,
nonetheless, does tend to narrativize through a mechanistic tenor, even if not in
what would be considered a modern post-eighteenth-century sense. The process
is explicitly connected in the author’s and the audience’s imagination to divine
origins and design. Nonetheless, as we read through the Elogios it is hard to
avoid the inevitable impression that the bodies of these women exemplars over
and again are recognized as vessels useful only insofar in that one of them will
eventually generate the perfect product, the Messiah. Sebastián de Covarrubias
does not include in his Tesoro de la lengua castellana [Treasure of the Castillian
Language] the verb to generate or generar and limits the procreative vocabulary,
as far as I could find, to produce or producir (“to engender from oneself something,
like the earth produces its fruits”16), to conceive or concebir (“when a woman
becomes pregnant”17), and pregnant or preñada (“the woman who carries in
her womb a child”18). Carrillo is a bit more expansive in his repertoire with a
notable use of generation as in the “generation of the Virgin” (“generación de la
Virgen”), “generation of our heritage” (“generación de herencia”), “propagation
Robbie Davis-Floyd, “The Technological Model of Birth,” The Journal of American

13
Folklore 100 (1987): 481–2.

14
Allison Muri, “Imagining Reproduction: The Politics of Reproduction, Technology
and the Woman Machine,” Journal of Medical Humanities 31 (2010): 61.
15
Muri, “Imagining Reproduction,” 62.
16
“engendrar de sí alguna cosa, como la tierra que produce los frutos.” Sebastián de
Covarrubias, Tesoro de la Lengua Castellana o Española, edited Manuel Camarero and
Felipe C.R. Maldonado (Madrid: Castalia, 1995), 836.
17
“la mujer es hacerse preñada.” Covarrubias, Tesoro, 341.
18
“la mujer que trae criatura en el vientre.” Covarrubias, Tesoro, 833.
of nature” (“propagación de la naturaleza”), and “propagation of the human race”

(“propagación del género humano”) (Elogio Primero).19 From Eve to the daughters
of Lot to Salomonia, martyr mother of the Maccabees, mothers abound in the
Elogios with 23 receiving individual entries. Conception is framed not just as a
blessing but also as an imperative necessity, and its absence as a radical failure that
has to be corrected. Leah and Rachel are telling examples, sisters, both married to
Jacob, one fecund and one infertile, both charged with generating the blood-line
that would lead to the Messiah, one of them disconsolate in the face of her bareness:
“Rachel, envious of the fecundity of her sister, and begrudging her husband as if he
were guilty on this account, insisted that he give her sons if he wanted her to live.
Her sorrow was so immense that she felt as if her life was being stripped away by
not having what she so deeply desired.”20 Carrillo closely follows the storylines
in the Hebrew account for each of his Elogios. Yet by the same token, because the
Elogios focuses solely on women exemplars, virtuous maternity made possible
only by direct divine intervention asserts itself as a recurrent motif in the overall
narrative. The anxiety of sexual intercourse connected to these examples cannot
be elided. Polygamy is common and the opposition between the need to have
sexual intercourse, procreate, populate the earth, and bring forth the Messiah and
the requirements of purity, chastity, and virtue have to constantly be negotiated.
And it is within the cartography of this anxiety that the most chosen of women are
charted as necessarily virginal and yet simultaneously procreative. Their bodies
allowed only to birth when God blesses them with the seed of fertility and in a
manner unspoken yet carnal become pregnant.
Sarah, mother of Isaac and direct ancestor of Christ, anchors this pattern. In
what is a prefiguration of Christ’s own conception, Sarah becomes pregnant not
because she indeed shares a loving and full relationship with her husband but only
19
The Diccionario de Autoridades (Madrid: Editorial Gredos, 1969), first published
in 1726, and which intends to correct, systematize, and expand upon Covarrubias’s effort,
defines to procreate or procrear as “to engender, multiply some specie, or take care of its
conservation” (“engendrar, multiplicar alguna especie, o cuidar de su conservación” [O–Z
391]), to engender or engendrar as “to procreate a fetus, as a result of the union between a
male and a female” (“procrear el feto, mediante la unión del macho y de la hembra” [D–Ñ
470]), and to conceive or concebir as “the Mother begets the formation of the fetus, by
way of the course of feminine spirits, from which she is able to become pregnant” (“dar
principio la Madre a la formación del feto, mediante el concurso de los espíritus feminales,
de que resulta quedar preñada” [A–C 469]). Interestingly, to conceive is linked to Biblical
history, most specifically to Anne (the Virgin’s mother) with one citation from the Bible
and one from Sor María de Ágreda’s Mystical City of God that reads, “Your Wife Anna
will conceive and birth a daughter, who will be blessed among women” (“Tu Esposa Anna
concebirá y parirá una hija, que sera bendita entre las mujeres” [A–C 469]). The verb to
reproduce or reproducir is not to linked to procreation.
20
“[E]nvidiosa Rachel de la fecundidad de su hermana, y como si tuviera de ella culpa
su marido, le dize, que le dé sus hijos, si quiere que viva. Era tanta su tristeza que le parecía
le había de quitar la vida el no tenerlos.” Carrillo, Elogios, 32 B.
as a result of divine intervention. Despite the commitment that Sarah is said to

have to Abraham, she can only be impregnated and carry out her divine purpose
when through God’s blessing an angel allows, makes viable, her fertility. As in
the Biblical account, Carrillo relates Sarah’s disappointment at her infertility, her
incredulity when told she would bear a child at the age of 90, and her breastfeeding
of the child upon birth. The topic of a late and potentially distasteful pleasure—
the pleasure of sexual contact and the gratification of bearing a child—appears
both in the original and in the Elogios, with Sarah declaring, “Now that I have
aged, and my husband is old, I am being asked to indulge in carnal pleasures?”21
Atkinson speaks to the discomfort felt regarding sex, even within marriage, during
the medieval and early modern period with Mary and Joseph’s sexless union
held as the paradigm for the good marriage: “Positive regard for marriage did
not necessarily imply a new attitude toward sex. Even conjugal passion remained
suspect […]. The relationship of Mary and Joseph, honorably united without
sexual involvement, became a model for the “best” Christian marriage.”22 Carrillo,
however, goes on to justify the auspiciousness of this pleasure by focusing on
Sarah’s anachronistic youth and beauty. Willfully subject to the authority of other
Biblical scholars, Carrillo’s rationale is worth citing:
Relying on the opinion of the Hebrews, Nicolao de Lira asserts that Sarah was
as pure and chaste at twenty as she was at seven, and that she was as beautiful
at age ninety as when she was twenty. A modern Author offers an explanation
as to why Sarah at ninety was so very beautiful, declaring that she was naturally
of good temperament, very proportionate in her parts, cautious in her actions,
and had never been pregnant or nursed; she had not approached her husband,
keeping continence. […] These actions, he proposes, help women conserve their
beauty.23
As here told, her infertility and the resultant refraining from sex from the age
of 21 results in Sarah’s sustained youth and wholesomeness, which not without
irony makes her suitable for sexual contact and childrearing at this late date. Time
is thus reversible, the ravishes of age elided, the body of Sarah narrativized as a
preserved and well-oiled machine, vessel if you will, new and pure despite its
advanced years.
“Agora que me he envejecido, y mi señor es viejo, tengo de tratar de gustos?”

21
Carrillo, Elogios, 9 B.
22
Atkinson, The Oldest Vocation, 153.
23
“Advierte Nicolao de Lira con opinión de los Hebreos, que Sara fue tan limpia
y casta de veinte años, como de siete, y que estaba tan hermosa de edad de noventa años
como cuando tenía veinte. Un Autor moderno trae las razones, por qué Sara siendo de
noventa años era tan hermosa, y dice que era naturalmente de buen temperamento, muy
proporcionada en sus miembros, muy templada en sus acciones, nunca se había hecho
preñada, ni dado leche; y que no había llegado a su marido, guardando continencia. […]
Estas causas, dice, ayuda a la hermosura de una mujer y la conserva en ella.” Carrillo,
Elogios, 10.
Rebecca, Rachel, and Anna—all direct ancestors of Christ—also require some

degree of divine intervention that leads to the end of their infertility. One could
understand what is going on in all these examples as a correction of nature; more
specifically, a representation of barrenness as unnatural and thus as a curse that
separates women from their natural selves and from God’s design and creative
force, and which can only be repaired by God. This would be an obvious reading of
Anna, whose infertility is coupled with years of tears and continuous humiliation
from her husband’s other and prolific wife, and which demand her meekness and
immense patience. Her faith and her prayers lead to the high priest’s eventual
intervention and God’s ultimate mercy, resulting in the birth of Samuel. Rachel
follows the same pattern of shame and prayer, with her bareness and subsequent
divinely-granted fertility described as follows: “she found herself so greatly blessed
that it seemed to her the Lord himself had delivered her honor and removed her
shame, and as such she affirmed it: Abstulit Deus opprobrium meum; that since
her generation eagerly awaited for the arrival of the Messiah, a barren woman was
thought to be ignominious and appalling.”24 Rebecca, as her fellow exemplars, is
able to bring forth Esau and Jacob only after 20 years of prayers and her husband’s,
Isaac, ardent pleas: “they prayed to the Lord for children, and their prayers never
ceased: Isaac’s prayers were heard because they were more constant; San Juan
Crisóstomo assures us that for 20 years Isaac continuously prayed, and God heard
him because he was more perfect, and because the prayers of third parties are
very beneficial.”25 Over and again the aberrancy of infertility is corrected through
prayer and faith, nature set back into its proper divine generative course. Yet,
women’s bodies are concurrently reduced to their procreative function and, in so
far these women’s bodies are meant to bear the Messiah (or his ancestors), they
can only work properly if God himself, the original machinist, repairs the broken
instrument and turns the correct key. In Biblical history, as filtered and focused by
Carrillo, virtuous women exemplars are narrativized to see themselves, to manifest
their own destiny, as the producers of a desired outcome for which they are only
tangentially responsible, which their reproductive organs cannot spontaneously
generate. Male intervention, material but mostly spiritual, is requisite; without
their prayers (husbands and priests), without their sperm (mates), and without
their divine blessing (male angels and God), these women generators simply
are incapable of fulfilling their productive function. We can also perceive the
contradiction and resultant anxiety that structurally these stories incorporate: the
24
“se hallo tan honrada, que le pareció, había el Señor vuelto por su honra, y
quitándole la afrenta, y así lo dixo: Abstulit Deus opprobirium meum; que como de su
generación esperaban al Mesías, se tenía por grande oprobio y afrenta la mujer estéril.”
Carrillo, Elogios, 33 B.
25
“rogaron a Dios por ellos, y continuaron sus oraciones: oídas las de Isaac, porque
fueron más continuas; por veinte años, dice San Juan Crisóstomo, las continuo, oyole Dios
por ser él más perfecto, y porque las oraciones de personas terceras son de gran provecho.”
Carrillo, Elogios, 27 A.
tug between the need for these women to procreate, in plain language to have sex,
yet by the same token to prefigure Mary’s perfect purity, her own virgin conception
of Jesus as well as Anne’s immaculate conception of Mary beforehand. Thus, if
bareness is framed as “ignominious and appalling” it is simultaneously the source
of these women exemplars’ purity, their infertility somehow linked, as explicitly
shown in Sarah’s case, to an exceptional state of grace that will eventually be
altogether fulfilled in the immaculate flesh of the Virgin Mary. The stories of these
virtuous mothers of the Messiah no doubt reflect the Hebrew source. Nevertheless,
as Ginzburg has correctly noted, historical narratives inevitably reflect more about
the historian, his context, and his audience than about the past.26
That the Elogios is written for the nuns at the Descalzas Reales may explain
why women’s generative capacity is so adamantly coupled with virginity and
divine conceptions. Although some women were exceptions, such as the Empress
María who dwelled in the convent but did not profess, its permanent inhabitants
almost exclusively joined the religious community and lived cloistered for the
remainder of their lives. A typical example is that of Ana Dorotea, Marquise of
Austria, illegitimate daughter of Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II, granddaughter
of the Empress, and niece of Margarita de la Cruz, who arrived to the convent at
the age of 12 in 1624, professed at age 16, and never left the grounds until her death
in 1694 at the age of 82. The immediate instructional value for the inhabitants of
the convent, we can assume, is much more centered on the acceptance of divine
design and the perseverance of faith under trying circumstances rather than on
the mechanics of procreation itself. Nonetheless, the function of the female body
as generator would have been very present to the royal nuns whose families were
almost singularly preoccupied with lineage and the bringing forth of a future
monarch and whose religious practice was largely centered around the mystery
of the Immaculate Conception of Mary, a woman born exempt of all sin, tota
pulchra, and inseminated by the divine word—the perfect machine that generates
the perfect child. Consequently, the richest and most elaborate chapel in the
convent was dedicated to the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception and paid for
by Ana Dorotea; and, upon completion, it played an important function in the
religious practice at the cloister.27 Even though she does not receive a separate
elogio—Carrillo insists on limiting his scope to the Old Testament—the Virgin
figures largely throughout. Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Anna’s pregnancies

26
For example, Phillip IV and his wife Mariana of Austria often visited and prayed
27
at the convent’s chapels including, we may assume, the Guadalupe Chapel. For further
discussion on the iconography and political implications of the Guadalupe Chapel see
Harold Wethey and Alice Suderland Wethey, “Herrera Barnuevo and His Chapel in the
Descalzas Reales,” The Art Bulletin 48 (1966): 15–34, and Rosilie Hernández, “The Politics
of Exemplarity: Biblical Women and the Education of the Spanish Lady in Martín Carrillo,
Sebastián de Herrera Barnuevo, and María de Guevara,” in Women’s Literacy in Early
Modern Spain and the New World, ed. Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández (Farnham, UK:
Ashgate, 2011), 225–41.
prefigure the divine conception of the Messiah. Moreover, as Ronda Kasl informs
us, the nuns actively—even if only imaginarily—identified with Mary’s maternal
body as enacted in religious practices that included the material caretaking of the
Christ Child:
The performative aspect of Margarita’s use of images of the Christ Child was
not limited to pious colloquies in the oratory. When she ate in the refectory, she
often hosted one of the Niños at her table, where she fed him, kissed his feet, and
uttered endearments in front of the community. […] [S]he imagined helping to
care for the newborn in the hope that the Virgin would reward her by giving her
the Child to hold.28
Additionally, given the convent’s active participation in the Habsburg’s promotion

of the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, the description of and commentary
around the mechanics of divine intervention, the procreative body, and virtuous
maternity would have been of instructive and of particular interest for its
inhabitants.29
There is a separate and wider audience that we need to consider, and from
which Carrillo also sought approval. The Elogios was printed for wide public
consumption in 1627.30 That the text is dedicated to and is said to have been
requested by Margarita de la Cruz publicly guarantees the legitimacy and
significance of the endeavor for the general reader.31 As further confirmation of
the text’s wide-ranging worth, the censor Baltasar de Cisneros points to the broad
instructional value of the text, which in his mind included both women and men:
“each virtue executed with valor and greatness, to the satisfaction of women and a
28
Ronda Kasl, “Delightful Adornments and Pious Recreation: Living with Images in
the Seventeenth Century,” in Sacred Spain: Art and Belief in the Spanish World, ed. Ronda
Kasl (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 155.
29
Suzanne L. Stratton, The Immaculate Conception in Spanish Art (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994), 75, 80, 82, and 88, documents, for example, the
influence that Margarita de la Cruz exerted, as displayed in her repeated requests to Philip
III to establish a Real Junta that would promote the doctrine to the papacy in Rome, as well
as her directly writing letters to the Pope. This type of pressure from the nuns at the convent
continued in the figure, for example, of Ana Dorotea.
30
Typically printed books saw about 1,000 copies. The Elogios did not see subsequent
editions until 1782 and 1783.
31
Nieves Baranda concludes the following: “[W]omen were not only addresses of
book’s dedications, but due to their privileged position, they could convey the work (and the
ideology conveyed within it) to other readers. To these other readers—men and women—
they play a deliberately exemplary or educational role through which they participate in
the transmission of social values. Another aspect of women’s lives illuminated by book
dedications is that women had their own agenda of cultural or religious values.” Nieves
Baranda, “Women’s Reading Habits: Book Dedications to Female Patrons in Early Modern
Spain,” in Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain and the New World, ed. Anne J. Cruz
and Rosilie Hernández (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011), 35.
source of emulation for the strongest and wisest of men.”32 It is also significant that
Carrillo seeks a letter of praise from Lope de Vega, who this same year entered the
prestigious religious Order of Malta and was one of Spain’s best-known literary
figures. Lope also contributes poems that serve as codas to a number of the Elogios.
But perhaps the most telling document in this regard is Carrillo’s “Warning to the
Reader” (“Advertencia al lector”) where he reveals his authorial anxiety regarding
the inclusion of women exemplars whose acts are reprehensible and where he
directly addresses how a wider audience may benefit from these stories, both those
that illustrate virtue and those that demonstrate vice:
And so as to not interrupt the chronological order, I offered to write separately

a treatise about the women of the Old Testament with the title of Praises and
which refers with some brevity to those singular things in which they employed
themselves and for which they deserve to be called distinguished: and given
that it was inevitable to come across some who were full of vice, cruel, astute,
adulterous, libertine, shrewd, and bewitching, and who the Scriptures condemn
for distinguishing themselves for their deeds and vices their Praises shall also
be written […] Here you will find who to imitate, and examples to follow and
mend your lives.33
For this wider audience a text of this type would have offered a formal entryway
to Old Testament history in the vernacular. Thinking specifically around issues of
procreation, Carrillo’s history would have offered a rather mechanistic account
of virtuous maternity to a female audience composed of future and present wives
and mothers.
And yet, no history is ever exempt of contradiction. Despite the claims I have
made above there are notable exceptions to this pattern, the four female gentile
ancestors that Matthew names in his genealogy and which Carrillo is obligated to
integrate into the larger narrative of divinely engineered maternity and ancestry.
Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba represent an alternative model, women whose
questionable chastity obstructs an unproblematic virtuous female ancestral line
between Eve and Mary. Carrillo, for reasons not unexpected, goes through great
pains to assure his audience of the exemplarity of these marginal women. Tamar, a
Hebrew woman twice widowed and frustrated by not having become pregnant in
either instance, dresses up “as a dishonest and libertine woman”34 and seduces her
32
“ejecutadas todas las virtudes con valentía y grandeza, satisfacción digna de las
mujeres y emulación de los hombres más fuertes y sabios.” Carrillo, Elogios, Censura.
33
“Y por no interrumpir el orden cronológico ofrecí escribir a parte un tratado de ellas,
con título de Elogios que es referir con brevedad las cosas señaladas en mas se emplearon y
merecieron el nombre de insignes: y aunque era forzoso topar con algunas viciosas, crueles,
astutas, adúlteras, libres, desenvueltas, y hechiceras, quien la escritura reprehende por haber
sido así mismo insignes es sus obras y vicios se escribirán sus Elogios. […] Aquí hallará
todas que imitar, y dechados para labrar y componer sus vidas.” Carrillo, Elogios, Carta.
34
“como mujer deshonesta y libre.” Carrillo, Elogios, 41.
father-in-law who pays her with a small goat. Tamar’s seduction, considered the
first official act of prostitution, is morally justified by Carrillo given that she only
wished to get pregnant so as to secure a blood-line for the Messiah (as any good
Hebrew woman would), that she never collected the payment, and that once she
was with child she immediately notified her inseminator. Rahab, a prostitute who
sells her body in order to feed her family but whose courage and prophetic nature
saves Joshua’s soldiers from capture in Jericho, is redeemed by her motivations
and described as “a woman so noble, who would not deem her to be amongst the
most illustrious of the world, that as such I (Carrillo) consider her.”35 Of special
interest for Carrillo is her benevolent use of lies to protect the soldiers, which
affords him the opportunity to reflect upon the moral reprehensibility of deceit,
while at the same time considering Rahab’s motivation to serve “a higher King.”36
Rahab’s actions and character lead Carrillo to declare the following:
Take heed all historians and pay homage to the deeds and words of illustrious
women, that amongst all of them we may see the prudence and discreteness of
our Rahab; the courage with which she responded to the ministers of the king;
the valor with which she defended her guests; the wise advise she gave them;
the enlightened state that led her to know the one true God; believing as she
did […].37
Once more, reprehensible deeds are narratively refashioned by laudable

motivations, and thus the audience is offered a complicated exemplarity that
allows for a weighing of intention vis-à-vis action, within a context of divine
intervention and Messianic prophecy.
Following a similar logic, Ruth is dutifully admired for her loyalty to her
mother-in-law Naomi, her honest conversion to Judaism, and her decision to
marry Boaz in order to fulfill her destiny and bear children. Nonetheless, it cannot
be avoided that Ruth does come in the night to Boaz’s home and solicits his
attention, putting at risk her chastity and reputation. Bathsheba, in turn, is excused
for betraying her husband, with much of the blame of her husband’s demise placed
on David.
These four women’s bodies, experienced and fertile, do not need to be
repaired. They bear children in the prime of their lives and substitute chastity with
valor coupled with a willingness to manipulate their circumstances in order to
gain advantage and achieve their goals. Carrillo himself ponders upon Matthew’s
35
“mujer tan noble, [quien] no juzgará ser digna de entrar en el número de ilustres del
mundo, por tal la tengo […].” Carrillo, Elogios, 65 A–B.
36
“otro mayor Rey.” Carrillo, Elogios, 67.
37
“tomen de aquí motivo los Historiadores profanes, a engrandecer los hechos y
dichos de mujeres insignes, que entre todas puede salir, la prudencia y discreción de nuestra
Rahab, el ánimo con que supo responder a los ministros del Rey; el valor que tuvo para
defender sus huéspedes; los consejos tan acertados que les dio; la luz que del Cielo tuvo,
para conocer el verdadero Dios, creyendo como creyó […].” Carrillo, Elogios, 66.
choice of including these four women in the genealogy of Christ when Luke
completely avoids them. There is no ready made answer and the only way in
which the Biblical scholar and historian can resolve, make sense of, this apparent
incongruity is claim the hidden truth of a mystery, in this following quote, for
example, speaking to Rahab’s sinfulness:
I will only say a few words, that which is of most significance, that from this
woman and her decedents Jesus Christ came to be born, our God, glory of the
Heavens and beauty of the eternal Father; the purity of the Cherubims. These are
secrets hidden in the judgment of God. From this we should surmise that sinners
shall not be judged as an unnecessary surplus in this world, for from their thorns
He knows how to extract the most esteemed and lovely roses […] Matthew only
knew to exalt women sinners and wrongdoers which the Scriptures rebuke, when
he could have employed the examples of Sarah and Rebecca and others like
them: he remembered instead Rahab the prostitute, of whom we here speak.38
When we consider this larger picture, the need for generation is met with women
such as Sara and Rebecca but also with the women of Matthew’s genealogy. The
desired result is achieved, history realized: the Jewish nation is sustained allowing
for the Messiah to be brought forth. In terms of Carrillo’s text, his role as historian
is to make sense of the past from the present, to fabricate a consistent account that
both entertains and educates. Yet, ultimately, the text cannot settle all of history’s
ambiguities and what is reluctantly exposed is that the Messiah is as much a son of
Sarah as he is of Rahab, that vice and virtue cannot always be easily disarticulated,
and that women’s bodies matter in so far they can generate more bodies, whether
literally or metaphorically.
Not Unproblematically toward the Messiah: Male Sons and Their Sins
The Messianic demand results in a narrative of bearing and bringing up sons who
ought, yet often fail, to prefigure Christ’s own trajectory. There are two essential
ways to trace this aspect in the text. On the one hand, we have examples, such
as Jacob’s, where Carrillo focuses the account on the mother’s role in securing
the son’s lineage. In other examples Carrillo portrays instead how the mother’s
moral attributes are passed on to the male offspring. Both types of accounts are
preoccupied with the relativism of virtue and vice, and demonstrate Carrillo’s task
“Poco digo en esto, que lo que más es de ponderar, que de esta mujer que tratamos,
38
y sus descendientes, viniese después a nacer Jesús Cristo nuestro Dios, gloria del Cielo, y
hermosura del eterno Padre; limpieza de los Querubines. Secretos son, que sólo caben en
los juicios de Dios. Lo que podemos nosotros rastrear es que no se ha de juzgar por sobrados
en el mundo los pecadores, pues de las espinas de estos sabe sacar rosas de estimación y
regalo […] ni conoció San Mateo, sino a las pecadoras y erradas a quien en la Escritura
reprehende, pudiendo echar mano de Sara y Rebeca y otras tales: no se acordó sino de
Rahab ramera, de quien hablamos.” Carrillo, Elogios, 63 B–64.
as a historian to describe an ancestral line that leads to the Messiah yet establishes
a dialectical relationship between these oppositional extremes.
Let me come back to the case of Jacob and his mother Rebecca. As in the
Hebrew text, Carrillo reminds his audience of Rebecca’s twin birth, a pregnancy
defined as “so encumbered with the two children so contrary to each other that
they would beat each other and fight in the womb, causing her such great pains
and torment that it pained her to even speak about it.”39 Esau and Jacob grow
only to compete for their parents’ attention, loyalties divided with Esau being his
father’s favorite and Jacob his mother’s. The history of Rebecca’s deception of
Isaac is well known: the blind patriarch is deceived and blesses Jacob, bestowing
upon him his primogeniture instead of on the first-born Esau. The task is then
to appease Esau who “felt so deeply disappointed that Jacob had deceitfully
received their father’s blessing, that he swore to take vengeance for this affront.”40
Esau’s “sentimiento” or disappointment is associated not just with the loss of his
birthright, but just as importantly with what he understood as a betrayal of his
beloved father. Rebecca is, however, praised for her ability to save both her sons
from retaliation and Jacob from harm by sending Esau away to his uncle’s home.
As it quickly becomes evident, the elder son’s feelings, rightfully felt as they may
be, are summarily dismissed under the weight of divine design, suggesting to the
reading public an equal measure of trust. It is conceivable, nonetheless, that Esau’s
anger and frustration when faced with the usurpation of his birthright, as well as
of the justification for the final outcome, could have touched upon the familial
anxiety felt by the royal women that inhabited the convent and for whom the
inheritance of titles was a fundamental concern.
The distress caused by competing sons is established from the beginning of
time as it is clear in the case of Cain and Abel (neither of which is an ancestor
of Christ) and is repeated with varying degrees of trauma in the cases of Isaac
and Ishmael and Joseph and Leah’s sons. In these instances Carrillo focuses, as
he does in Rebecca’s case, on the virtuous (even if manipulative) ability of the
mother to defend the chosen son’s interests. In Isaac’s case Sarah’s nurturing and
breastfeeding carry over to the fierce protection of her son’s patrimony when
she forces Hagar and Ishmael, beloved slave and first son of Abraham, to leave
the home: “No, it cannot be, said Sarah to Abraham, that the son of a slave will
be your heir; make her leave your house with this son; they shall not remain
here. […] Abraham, Patriarch and saint, deeply regretted Sarah’s resolution.”41
39
“tan molesta de dos niños, que tenía en el vientre tan mal avenidos, que allí donde
estaban se acoceaban y reñían, con tan grande dolor de la preñada que ya le pesaba de
citarlo, y verse tan atormentada.” Carrillo, Elogios, 27 B.
40
“tuvo […] tanto sentimiento de que Jacob le hubiese ganado por la mano la
bendición de su padre, tomaría, que venganza desta afrenta.” Carrillo, Elogios, 28 A.
41
“No, no, dice Sara a Abraham, no ha de ser heredero el hijo de la esclava; echadla
de casa con su hijo; no me han de quedar en ella. […] Sintio mucho el santo Patriarca
Abraham la resolución de Sara.” Carrillo, Elogios, 11 A.
Hagar and Ishmael’s story is indeed one marked by the difficult task of
distinguishing virtue from vice, which forces Carrillo to make sense of loathsome
actions and their effects. Why would an angel announce to Hagar the conception
of Ishmael if that child would bring forth the enemies of the Christian nation? How
should the reader judge the cruelty of expatriating Hagar and Ishmael to the desert
where they almost die? How does divine design make sense in the midst of so many
tainted vested interests? The rhetorical strategy taken by Carrillo is predictable
and effective. If Sarah and Isaac are to be exalted, then Hagar and Ishmael’s vice
must be expounded much beyond the original Hebrew account. To this effect, a
number of sources are cited (Nicolao de Lira and Pereiro) certifying that Ishmael’s
mocking of his younger brother was in fact meant as a disdain of God through the
teaching of idolatry: “that the games played by Ishmael were instructing the young
Isaac to be dishonest and idolatrous, […] for he was teaching the boy to make
small idols, and indulge in mischief, jests and laughter.”42 Ishmael’s marriage to
an Egyptian alludes to idolatry and racism, which the original Biblical account
does not mention: “for it is certain that his mother, being Egyptian, would marry
him to a gypsy, one who would share her customs and was idolatrous as she was,
from whom were born great idolaters and dreadful people.”43 The desired reading
of Old Testament history is thus reached; Sarah is confirmed as an exemplar of
virtue, Isaac’s rightful patrimony is ratified, and the cruelty bestowed upon Hagar
and Ishmael is justified.
On the second type of account, there are straightforward cases such as the
daughters of Lot whose well-planned incestuous seduction of their father, even if
contextualized by Carrillo as the act of women who thought themselves responsible
for the maintaining the human race (“they had the obligation of propagating
the human race”44), has the clear and inevitable effect of bringing about “such
despicable children, born from such an illicit and incestuous coupling.”45 Salomon
is also a telling figure in this narrative logic of vice and virtue. As told in the Bible,
Salomon marries an Egyptian and proceeds throughout his life to acquire what
the text declares were 700 wives and 300 concubines. Salomon’s story is told
largely within the Elogio dedicated to the daughter of the Pharaoh, his first wife.
Nonetheless, it should not be missed that what immediately precedes this account
is the exemplum dedicated to Bathsheba, his mother. Bathsheba’s seduction of
42
“que los juegos de Ismael eran deshonestidades que las enseñaba al niño Isaac, o
idolatrías […] que le enseñaba a hacer idolillos o enseñarle a hacer travesuras y engaños,
chocarrerías y risas.” Carrillo, Elogios, 14 A.
43
“que es cierto que su madre siendo Egypcia, le había de casar con Gitana, que
tuviese sus costumbres, y fuese idolatra, como ella, de quien descendieron grandes gentes
idolatras y malos.” Carrillo, Elogios, 14 B.
44
“les quedava obligación de la propagación del género humano.” Carrillo, Elogios,
22 B.
45
“tan infames hijos, nacidos de tan ilícito e incestuoso ajuntameinto.” Carrillo,
Elogios, 23 B.
David and the subsequent murder of her husband, Uriah, become the source of a
lengthy dialog on the virtues of a good wife, the vice of illicit desire, and the debate
over David’s responsibility in the matter. Salomon’s “disorderly lust” is therefore
a heritage bestowed by the unruly desire of his own parents. If we think back to the
idea of women as generators, one could surmise that the condition of the machine
determines the condition of the product, that the mother’s virtue or lack thereof is
inextricably linked to the character of the son, and that therefore the son’s sins can
be implicitly attributed to the mother’s body as a site of reproduction. As I have
remarked, Carrillo’s Old Testament history cannot circumvent the often-sinful
nature of Christ’s ancestry, and the mothers in these examples carry not only male
sons but also the sin that they will inevitably inherit.
Unpredictable Daughters
In the Old Testament sons were sought in the hope of bringing to fruition the
prophecy of salvation. Carrillo, all the same, deliberately features the daughters
amongst the text’s insignes mujeres, with six of the chapters including in their
titles the denominator hija. There is no inconsistency here for it is only through
daughters and their wombs that the Messiah can be generated. Following the
pattern already identified, virtue and vice function as the guiding dialectic through
which these daughters’ place in Jewish history is measured, once more acquiescing
to a broader meaning of insignes or noteworthy.
There are clear examples of virtue, such as the daughter of Jepthe who in return
for her love and loyalty toward her father is forced to willingly accept a sacrificial
death, only asking to first mourn for two months her virginal state:
She chose to cry her Virginity, not because she dreaded the fact that she would
die a Virgin, but because only by bearing children would the Messiah be born,
so that women who were barren were considered wretched and worthless. The
honor and glory of the women of the Old Testament consisted in conceiving and
giving birth. […] They deemed sterility as a horrible curse and fertility as good
fortune and happiness.46
Other female descendant exemplars do not share the same unequivocal moral
footing. I have already spoken briefly about the daughters of Lot whose story is
tainted by vice. Yet it is worth repeating that, despite the apparent monstrosity of the
incestuous act, Carrillo’s reflection over these women’s motivations complicates the
import of the historical account and thus allows for a certain latitude or concession
in the judgment of good versus bad behavior. Additional examples present similar
46
“Quiso llorar su Virginidad, no porque a ella le pesase de morir Virgen, sino porque
esperando había de nacer el Mesías, se tenían por desgraciadas y mal logradas las mujeres
que no habían tenido hijos. Toda la honra y gloria de las mujeres del viejo Testamento
consistía en concebir y parir […] Tenían por gran maldición la esterilidad y por buena
suerte y felicidad la fecundidad.” Carrillo, Elogios, 83 A.
patterns of transgression and rationalization. Dinah, Jacob’s daughter, suffers from

the vice of curiosity and indiscretion, lies to her father and brothers, and goes
alone to the city of Shechem to experience public life, a decision that unavoidably
induces her rape. Despite the rashness of Dinah’s actions, Carrillo insists upon
the girl’s youth (she was only 12 years old), her desperate resistance against
her violator, and her willingness to recuperate her family’s honor by accepting
to marry her rapist, a solution with which, unfortunately, her brothers did not
agree. Michal goes against her father Saul’s wishes and lies in order to protect
her husband David from certain death precisely at her father’s command. She
cannot avoid the impossible choice of either disobeying her father or betraying
her husband, and ultimately cannot rid herself of the stain of insubordination
that Carrillo in turn and inevitably is compelled to defend: “Valorous woman,
worthy of being celebrated for this quality, for she should be esteemed as […]
other valorous women who showed extraordinary love for their husbands and
exhibited great ingenuity in order to protect them from harm.”47 An even more
problematic case is Tamar, David’s daughter, who without any provocation educes
her brother Amnon’s desire and is raped. Carrillo, again in an attempt to offer a
more digestible context for his intended audience, focuses on her gullibility and
resulting misplaced trust in filial integrity. Yet, ultimately, the historian also has to
account for the cost of Tamar’s irreparable even if unprovoked disgrace: “Living
out the rest of her life disconsolately weeping, abhorred by her own, disdained by
all others, and discontented with herself.”48 Likewise, Michal is in time penalized
for her insubordinate character, reflected in her disparagement of David for
celebrating in the streets with commoners his rise to the throne. Her inability to
subdue herself to male dominance is eventually punished with the much-dreaded
barrenness and its accompanying symbolic and social dislocation: “Michal had
five sons, but they were not hers, they were born of her sister Merob.”49
Furthermore, because of their sexual proclivity daughters represent a threat
to family honor, a source of discord, and motivate violence and death. Dinah’s
escapade ends in her brothers killing Shechem’s ruling prince. Tamar’s intolerable
incestuous body drives her other brother Absalom to wait patiently for years until
he can trick and kill Amnon. Michal’s deceit provokes further anger in Saul who
submits David to numerous trials and her to an unwanted marriage with Palti.
Daughters whose bodies ideally serve as vessels for the birth of the Messiah
stubbornly also perform as conduits for anger, vengeance, and grief, the inexorable
currency in which these women’s lives circulate.
“Valerosa mujer, digna de que por este hecho celebremos su memoria, y sea tan
47
estimada como […] otras valerosas mujeres que mostraron extraordinario amor a sus
maridos y raras invenciones para librarles de peligros.” Carrillo, Elogios, 107 A–B.
48
“[V]iviendo toda su vida en triste llanto, aborrecida de los propios, menospreciada
de los ajenos, y descontenta de si misma.” Carrillo, Elogios, 150 A.
49
“Michal tuvo cinco hijos, pero no fueron suyos, sino de su hermana Merob.”
Carrillo, Elogios, 109.
Conclusion
In the Elogios, as I hope to have demonstrated, birthing and maternity are represented
as fundamental to the ways in which feminine worth is defined. A woman who
cannot procreate is a woman burdened with shame and thus socially displaced.
Given the Biblical context of the Incarnation, the Elogios predictably revolve
around issues of conception, whether manifested in the pursuit of impregnation
or the trauma of bareness. Carrillo’s role as a historian is thus equally burdened
with the task of positively framing the lengths Old Testament women exemplars
will go to in order to bear a child. As a result, Carrillo’s narrative is couched in
the discourse of salvation and Messianic designs even when, as in the case of
the daughters of Lot, the motivation and its vice-ridden context are not evidently
conducive to this end. Following this logic, the Elogios put forward the female body
as a vessel, if not fully as a machine, whose utility is to generate the product(s) that
will lead to salvation. On the other hand, and perhaps despite Carrillo’s explicit
objectives, exemplars such as Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba give credence
to the possibility that vice can bear virtue, especially when vice is reconfigured as
secondary to the redemption tendered by a pregnancy that will lead to the Messiah.
The point it seems, although never explicitly recognized in the Elogios, is that this
pattern prefigures the deliverance by Jesus himself of all of wretched humanity.
The lessons taught by Old Testament women exemplars present complications
for the historian whose sources, both primary and secondary, often contradict each
other and exceed the parameters of continence, marital chastity, and decorum
privileged by early modern conduct and didactic literature. Carrillo, both as
a chronicler and as an author deploying an exemplary model, narrativizes the
material at hand intending to reconcile documented Biblical “truths” with an
auspicious clarification of possible legitimate motives, additional potential facts,
and imagined positive outcomes.
Yet, as I have described, there is also the question of the product: sons and
daughters who inherit the legacy of their mothers’ often-questionable virtue or
outright vice. The sons cannot avoid being inserted in the discourse of redemption
that mandates their parents’, but especially their mothers’, unappeasable desire
for procreation. Under these conditions what frequently gets manifested is the
mother’s desire to control absolutely her son’s destiny, a form of social engineering
that typically complicates the ways in which virtue and vice have to be segmented
and rationalized by Carrillo, especially as it regards the upbringing of these chosen
boys and the treatment of other siblings. The daughters, on the other hand and
because of their own potentiality as mothers of the Messiah, have the Virgin as
a post-facto yet an eternally present standard of purity that they often cannot,
whether intentionally or due to circumstances imposed on them, meet.
Ultimately, when we consider the instructional value of Carrillo’s text it is
clear that Old Testament history provides a thorny didactic landscape. Carrillo,
even when reconstructing the story of the most virtuous of women, often has
to justify or narrativize their acts in order to have the Elogios conform to the
standards of decorum that early modern Spanish society insisted upon. Procreation
and the rearing of children are central to a representation of virtuous femininity
yet in this text these have to be constantly reframed so as to privilege the maternal
while eluding the disruptive impact of female sexuality or the rejection of other
legitimate children. For its audience, whether within or outside the walls of the
Descalzas Reales, the representation of maternity and child rearing is one that
prioritizes the act of generation as fundamental to a Catholic Counter-Reformation
identity. In the process, the Elogios struggles to resolve the tensions that the
participation of women in the public and the private spheres elicit even when their
primary function is to bring forth the children of the Hebrew, and by association
the Spanish, nation.
Works Cited
Atkinson, Clarissa W. The Oldest Vocation: Christian Motherhood in the Middle

Ages. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991.
Baranda Leturio, Nieves. “Women’s Reading Habits: Book Dedications to Female
Patrons in Early Modern Spain.” In Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain
and the New World, edited by Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández, 19–39.
Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011.
Carrillo, Martín de. Elogios de mujeres insignes del viejo testamento. Huesca,
1627.
Covarrubias, Sebastián de. Tesoro de la Lengua Castellana o Española. Edited by
Manuel Camarero and Felipe C.R. Maldonado. Madrid: Castalia, 1995.
Davis-Floyd, Robbie. “The Technological Model of Birth.” The Journal of
American Folklore 100 (1987): 479–95.
Diccionario De Autoridades: 1–3. Madrid: Editorial Gredos, 1969.
Ginzburg, Carlo. Threads and Traces: True, False, Fictive. Berkeley: University
of California Press, 2012.
Hernández, Rosilie. “The Politics of Exemplarity: Biblical Women and the
Education of the Spanish Lady in Martín Carrillo, Sebastián de Herrera
Barnuevo, and María de Guevara.” In Women’s Literacy in Early Modern
Spain and the New World, edited by Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández,
225–41. Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011.
Kasl, Ronda. “Delightful Adornments and Pious Recreation: Living with Images
in the Seventeenth Century.” In Sacred Spain: Art and Belief in the Spanish
World, edited by Ronda Kasl, 146–63. Indianapolis Museum of Art. New
Haven: Yale University Press, 2009.
Merchant, Carolyn. The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology, and the Scientific
Revolution. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1983.
Muri, Allison. “Imagining Reproduction: The Politics of Reproduction, Technology
and the Woman Machine.” Journal of Medical Humanities 31 (2010): 53–67.
Sánchez, Magdalena S. The Empress, the Queen, and the Nun: Women and Power
at the Court of Philip III of Spain. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1998.
Stratton, Suzanne L. The Immaculate Conception in Spanish Art. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994.
Wethey, Harold and Alice Suderland Wethey. “Herrera Barnuevo and His Chapel
in the Descalzas Reales.” The Art Bulletin 48 (1966): 15–34.

Chapter 2
Mothers and Daughters in Chivalric Novels
Mª Carmen Marín Pina
It has been observed repeatedly that the relationship between mothers and
daughters, although a universal reality, is a notoriously absent theme in the history
of Spanish literature. It is only in the twentieth century, and particularly as women
writers investigate the affective field of feelings and emotions, that the mother-
daughter pair begins to have a more relevant presence in Spanish literature,
lending itself to such various scenes as are offered in the short story collection
Madres e hijas (1996), written by contemporary female authors and compiled by
Laura Freixas.1 Far from gratuitous, the absence of this relationship in the history
of literature corresponds to a desire to suppress all things feminine, starting with
the mother figure. The suppression of the mother is interpreted as a strategy to
emphasize male primacy by lessening women’s influence and, in the words of
Anne Cruz, “does not reflect a social reality, but functions as a literary convention
by which the author expresses or focuses on a conflicting relationship with the
other.”2 With the aim of reinforcing patriarchal hegemony, there is a tendency
to dislodge or suppress the mother who, even when she was once entrusted with
a key mission in the upbringing of the children and their initiation into culture
and language, is refused this role by the didactic prose of the second half of the
sixteenth century, thus diminishing her presence in the literary representation of
the family, almost to the point of her disappearance.3
1
Madres e hijas, ed. Laura Freixas (Anagrama: Madrid, 1996), with tales, among
other female writers, by Rosa Chacel, Carmen Laforet, Carmen Martín Gaite, Ana María
Matute, Ana María Moix, and Paloma Díaz-Mas.
2
“no corresponde a una realidad social, sino que funciona a manera de una convención
literaria, por medio de la cual el autor expresa o enfoca una relación conflictiva con la
otredad.” Anne J. Cruz,“La búsqueda de la madre: psicoanálisis y feminismo en la literatura
del Siglo de Oro,” in Historia silenciada de la mujer: la mujer española desde la época
medieval hasta la contemporánea, ed. Alain Saint-Saëns (Madrid: Editorial Complutense,
1996), 41. Ruth Anthony El Saffar, Rapture Encaged. The Suppression of the Feminine in
Western Culture (London & New York: Routledge, 1994), 73–9.
3
Emilie L. Bergmann, “La exclusión de lo femenino en el discurso cultural del
humanismo,” in Actas del X Congreso de la Asociación Internacional de Hispanistas
[Barcelona, 21–26 de agosto de 1989], ed. Antonio Vilanova (Barcelona: PPU, 1992),
365–71. Exemplified through comments on Vives’s Institutio Faeminae Christianae [The
Education of a Christian Woman, 1524], whose discourse about women is based on the
silence and absence of women themselves.
42 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Marín Pina
With their mothers expelled, daughters find themselves isolated and exclusively
under masculine rule. The relationship between mothers and daughters is therefore
difficult, when not plain impossible in many cases, as is made evident in several
revealing studies by Ruth El Saffar, Irma Iris Sprangle, Anne J. Cruz, and Patricia
Grieve of medieval and Golden Age literature, especially the genres of sentimental
fiction, the picaresque novel, and the comedia.4 Another genre that requires our
attention is the chivalric novel or novel of chivalry, condemned by moralists and
traditionally forgotten by criticism, but widely read and extremely popular during
the early modern period. In these long narratives, in which genealogy brings about
complex and twisted plots featuring royal and aristocratic characters, the mother
figure is essential but, although a key link in the lineage’s genealogical chain, she
is also quickly pushed to the background. Male ancestry is clearly predominant, so
descendants are almost always identified as sons and daughters of the father, while
the mother is rarely mentioned. Women in the novels do not originate lineages
but procreate for the family line of others, leaving almost no trace of female
genealogy.5 As in courtly literature,6 their image can nonetheless be glimpsed in
4
Ruth El Saffar, Beyond Fiction: The Recovery of the Feminine in the Novels of
Cervantes (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 14; Irma Iris Sprangle, “The
Figure of the Mother in Selected Works of Spanish Literature from Medieval Period to
the Seventeenth Century” (PhD diss., The Catholic University of America, 1984); Patricia
E. Grieve, “Mothers and Daughters in Fifteenth-century Spanish Sentimental Romances:
Implications for Celestina,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies 67 (1990): 345–55. In the Spanish
sentimental romance, the relationship between mothers and daughters is not absent in the
beginning, but tends to be eliminated or diffused, as in the case of La Celestina. On the
figure of Alisa, see María Rosa Lida de Malkiel, La originalidad artística de “La Celestina”
(Buenos Aires: Eudeba, 1962), for whom “the figure of the mother, moving in her trust, pride
and love, owes very little to literary tradition and exerted no influence in later literature”
[“la figura de la madre, conmovedora en su confianza, orgullo y amor, debe muy poco a la
tradición literaria, y no ejerció influjo en la literatura ulterior”], 494.
5
As Victoria Sau explains in Ser mujer: el fin de una imagen tradicional (Barcelona:
Icaria, 1986), the very fact that women typically take the surname of the father demonstrates
the mother’s lack of influence in patriarchal culture. See, among other novels of chivalry, El
segundo libro del muy valiente y esforçado caballero don Clarián de Landanís, hijo del rey
Lantedón de Suecia [Book Two of the Most Courageous and Steadfast Knight Don Clarián of
Landanís, Son of King Lantedón of Sweden]; Corónica de los famosos caballeros Lisuarte
de Grecia y Perión de Gaula, hijos de los valientes y esforçados caballeros Amadís de
Gaula, rey de la Gran Bretaña, y de Esplandián, emperador de Constantinopla [Chronicle
of the Famous Knights Lisuarte of Greece and Perión of Gaul, Sons of the Courageous and
Steadfast Knights Amadís of Gaul, King of Great Britain, and of Esplandián, Emperor of
Constantinople]. However, the mother’s name is mentioned in the title of Los cuatro libros
del muy noble y valeroso caballero Félix Magno, hijo del rey Falangrís de la Gran Bretaña
y de la reina Clarinea [The Four Books of the Most Noble and Valiant Knight Felix the
Great, Son of King Falangris of Great Britain and Queen Clarinea].
6
In courtly society, unlike in official documents, genealogical histories, and epic
poems, there is a desire to substitute the typical appreciation of the mother evident in the
Mothers and Daughters in Chivalric Novels 43
the shadow, and I shall address it in the following pages to reflect on the “symbolic
order of the mother” presented by Luisa Muraro,7 so as to make the relationships
between mothers and daughters in these books visible, and to ascertain whether
their representation is similar to that shown in the above literary genres.
In Twos: Mothers and Daughters Educated for Excellence
In Castilian chivalric romances, the mother is both a relative and a three-

dimensional character, as philosopher Elisabeth Badinter would put it;8 relative
because she is conceived in relation to the father and son/daughter, and three-
dimensional because, in addition to that double relation, she is a woman with her
own personality, expectations, desires, and feelings, all of which timidly surface
in the plots. Women have always been educated to become mothers. Feminist
theory has proved the concept of maternity to be a historical and cultural construct
that is identified with the feminine and a shared ideal for all women.9 Fiction also
contributes to such a construct, thus indoctrinating through entertainment. Florisel
de Niquea IV [Florisel of Niquea] (Salamanca, 1551, second part), the last sequel
to the Amadís cycle, by Feliciano de Silva, comprises a passage that provides a
window through which to theorize the topic, since the author from Ciudad Rodrigo,
like many humanists and moralists of the time, also wished to create exemplary
women in their dual roles of maiden (daughter) and married (wife and mother). In
order to enliven their evenings in a place known as the “enclosures of Sinestasia,”
earlier feudal system, beginning with a rejection of the concept of the mother’s “usefulness”
to the lineage, as José Enrique Ruiz Doménec states in La mujer que mira (Crónicas de
la cultura cortés) (Barcelona: Quaderns Crema, 1986), 193. The mother’s appearance in
medieval romans and lais, works related to chivalric novels, is also studied by Danièle
James-Raoul, “Les discours des mères. Aperçus dans les romans et lais du XIIe et XIIIe
siècles,” in Bien dire et bien aprandre. La mère au Moyen Âge. Actes du Colloque du Centre
d’Études Médiévales et Dialectales de Lille 3, 16 (1998): 145–57.
7
Luisa Muraro, El orden simbólico de la madre (Madrid: Horas y horas, 1994). María
Luzdivina Cuesta has analyzed the relationship between fathers and daughters in different
medieval texts, including Amadís of Gaul. See “Notas sobre las relaciones paternofiliales
en la narrativa castellana medieval,” Scriptura 13 (1997): 193–206.
8
Elisabeth Badinter, ¿Existe el instinto maternal? Historia del amor maternal siglos
XVII al XX (Barcelona: Paidós, 1991). For the epigraph of this section of my chapter, I
borrow the title of the collection De dos en dos: las prácticas de creación y recreación de la
vida y la convivencia humana (Madrid: Horas y horas, 2000). The volume includes essays
by Mª Milagros Rivera Garretas and Monserrat Cabré i Pairet, among other women authors
who approach this dual relationship from different perspectives.
9
On this subject, see Silvia Tubert, Figuras de la madre (Madrid: Cátedra, 1996).
A complete review of the various feminist theories regarding maternity is given by Lorena
Saletti Cuesta, “Propuestas teóricas feministas en relación al concepto de maternidad,”
Clepsydra 7 (2008): 170. The paradigm of the “good mother” is questioned by some
feminist critics.
a group of enchanted princesses converse about the feminine sex, and responding
to a request by Queen Sidonia, they set forth to write a treatise:
Bethinks me, said the Queen, that since all or most of you here shall marry and
give birth to daughters, and since the highest station you may prepare them for
is to become true women, we shall give counsel on how such maidens are to
be brought up. May Queen Lardenia take paper and ink and be our secretary
in the treatise bespoken here, which shall be titled Ornament of Princesses.
Thus shall one of us begin, and each one speak her mind in so far as we may
briefly conclude it, and the Queen may set it down in the best style that she can
manage.10
In their fictional experience as daughters and mothers, Queen Sidonia and

Princess Lucela will compose a document on feminine instruction to educate
their daughters, future mothers, and, more generally, the daughters of royalty and
of illustrious families, in order to train them in their role as women. Therefore,
we start with the typical image of the educating mother, an image promulgated
by the Church through the cult and iconography of Saint Anne and the Virgin
since the fourteenth century,11 and which was fervently accepted and endorsed
10
“Paréceme, dixo la Reina, que pues todas las que aquí estáis o las más avéis de
ser casadas y tener hijas y el mayor estado que les podéis dar es de verdaderas mugeres,
que debemos de tractar de cómo se an de criar las tales donzellas. Y la reina Lardenia
tome papel y tinta y sea nuestro secretario en el tratado de lo que platicaremos y llamarse
á Ornamento de princesas. Y para esto una de nos comience y cada una diga su parecer
hasta tanto que brevemente lo concluyamos y la Reina lo disponga por el mejor estilo que
supiere.” Feliciano de Silva, Florisel of Niquea IV. Second Part, fol. 90 v. José Julio Martín
Romero studies the passage in “El Ornamento de princesas: un diálogo sobre educación
femenina de Feliciano de Silva,” Tirant: Bulletí informatiu i bibliogràfic, 10 (2007), http://
parnaseo.uv.es/Tirant/Butlleti.10/Art.Romero_Feliciano.htm. I quote from the first edition
of Silva’s text, which can be accessed at “Biblioteca digital,” Biblioteca Nacional de España
[National Library, Spain]. For contemporary treatises on women’s education by Juan Luis
Vives, Gaspar Astete and Juan de la Cerda, see Marie-Catherine Barbazza, “L’éducation
féminine en Espagne au XVIème siècle: une analyse de quelques traités moraux,” in École
et église en Espagne et en Amérique latine. Aspects idéologiques et institutionnels. Actes
du colloque de Tours (4–6 décembre 1987) (Tours: Publications de l’ Université de Tours,
1988), 327–48. Isabel Romero Tabares relates these treatises to the female characters in the
novels of chivalry in “Modelos de mujeres en los libros de caballerías hispánicos. El Rosián
de Castilla,” in Fechos antiguos que los cavalleros en armas passaron. Estudios sobre la
ficción caballeresca, ed. Julián Acebrón Ruiz (Lleida: Edicions de la Universitat de Lleida,
2001) 191–215.
11
Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century iconography presents Saint Anne as her
family’s educator in her double role as mother and grandmother. On this subject, see
Estrella Ruiz-Gálvez, “Religion de la Mère, religion des mères. Sainte Anne éducatrice:
les images de la mère selon l’iconographie de sainte Anne. XVe–XVIIe siècle,” in La
religion de ma mère. Le rôle des femmes dans la transmission de la foi, ed. Jean Delumeau
(París: Éditions du Cerf, 1992), 123–55. See also Isabel Beceiro Pita, “Modelos de
by moralists and humanists until well into the sixteenth century. The addressees
of this doctrinal discourse are ultimately the female readers of the Renaissance,
who would be educated in the dominant patriarchal culture through fiction, even
when it often provided them with ambiguous discourses. Contrary to the doctrinal
texts of the period, Silva’s is supposedly written by women, although its proposals
are similar to those found in the manuals by Luis Vives or Antonio de Guevara,
which teach women to become exemplary by paying closer attention to their
family and their social standing (as daughters, wives, and mothers) than to their
personal selves. In keeping with chronological life experiences, the Ornament
of Princesses focuses first on maidens and then on the married state. A number
of issues are dealt with, such as the upbringing of daughters, the importance of
selecting a wet-nurse, education up to age six, training from ages six to 12—the
time when young girls must learn how to read, write, pray and embroider (“for it is
so becoming to such damsels to create distinctive designs with the needle and silks
of lovely colors on fields of light Holland cloth and cambric,”), as well as to dance,
play, and sing.12 All this requires competent female teachers and nurses who will
also be responsible for instructing them in virtue and discretion, guarding against
messages or letters, and procuring and encouraging their restraint.13
Sidonia next addresses the married state, and reviews well-known precepts,
starting with the exaltation of marriage and the wife’s subjection to her husband.
In this regard, she recommends that women not make concessions or give
favors “until the virtue of the sacrament [of holy matrimony] converts delights
and favors into virtue” [“hasta que la virtud del sacramento haga virtuosos los
deleites y favores”] (fol. 85 r), yet she conveniently forgets her own amorous
behavior. If Queen Sidonia, about whom I shall speak more later, had followed all
these precepts, her personal history and her relationship with her daughter Diana
would undoubtedly have been different. As in so many other cases, theory and
practice follow diverging paths, just as reality and the wishes of moralists and of
the Church fortunately often fail to converge. Taking into account the normative
presuppositions of the period, we will now investigate how the relationship
between mothers and daughters in chivalric novels develops.
conducta y programas educativos para la aristocracia femenina (siglos XII–XV),” in De

la Edad Media a la Moderna: mujeres, educación y familia en el ámbito rural y urbano,
coord. Mª Teresa López Beltrán (Málaga: Universidad de Málaga, 1999), 60, and Emilie
L. Bergmann, “Learning at Her Mother’s Knee? Saint Anne, the Virgin Mary, and the
Iconography of Women’s Literacy,” in Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain and the
New World, ed. Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández (Farnham, UK and Burlington, VT:
Ashgate, 2011), 243–62.
12
“porque tan bien parece a las tales donzellas hazer cosas señaladas con el aguja y
sedas de hermosas colores en los campos de las delgadas olandas y cambrayes.” Feliciano
de Silva, Florisel of Niquea IV. Second Part, fol. 93 v.
13
Feliciano de Silva, Florisel of Niquea IV. Second Part, fol. 94 v.
Childhood and Upbringing: Together, Yet Apart
As the Ornament shows, relations between mothers and daughters start at the time
of birth, although they are barely visible until the daughter’s marriage negotiations.
The newly-born daughter is delivered into an exclusively feminine world, a true
gynaeceum in which she is shut away and isolated from the outer world. In the
anonymous manuscript story of the knight Adramón, after six hours of labor the
Queen gives birth in the palace to a baby girl who is first christened with the name
of Tudorina. She is subsequently “provided with a nursemaid, and a fine lady as
governess, and many other duennas and ladies, damsels and dames, as becomes
the daughter of such great lords” [“fue proveyda de ama, y una gran señora por
aya, y otras muchas dueñas y damas, donzellas y mugeres, como a hija de tan altos
señores convenya” (222)]. The moralists advocate this seclusion from the outer
world in order to protect her and to initiate her into the virtues and values required
of an ideal woman. During her childhood, the relationship with her mother is
rarely mentioned, since queens, duchesses, and other noble mothers delegate and
supervise the upbringing of their daughters, but do not take direct charge of it.
Under normal circumstances and according to their status, mothers “have their
daughters raised” in the palace,14 and entrust their breastfeeding to wet-nurses,
as Isabel of Portugal did with her daughter Isabel of Castile, who was nursed by
María López.15 The rearing practices followed in literary fiction correspond to
those of royal and noble women —and these books do not question their adequacy
at any time, in contrast to the treatises of humanists and moralists who seek to
strengthen maternal “instinct” by recommending breastfeeding to mothers.16 In
the novels, the young girls’ education is later entrusted to a nurse or governesses,
14
This is the case of the Empress of Constantinople and Griana in Palmerín de Olivia,
ed. Giuseppe di Stefano (Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2004), 7; and
of Sidonia and Diana in Florisel de Niquea (Tercera Parte), ed. Martín Lalanda (Alcalá de
Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 1999), 10. In Primaleón, ed. Mª Carmen Marín
Pina (Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 1998), 134, it is the grandmother
who, with more integrity than the widowed mother, gives the order that the child Gridonia
be reared.
15
Nicasio Salvador, Isabel la Católica. Educación, mecenazgo y entorno literario
(Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2008), 24. This applies more
specifically to males, however. For the motif of lactation in numerous medieval works,
see Juan Manuel Cacho Blecua, “‘Nunca quiso mamar lech de mugier rafez’. (Notas sobre
la lactancia. Del Libro de Alexandre a don Juan Manuel),” in Actas del I Congreso de la
Asociación Hispánica de Literatura Medieval, Santiago de Compostela, 2 al 6 de diciembre
de 1985, ed. Vicente Beltrán (Barcelona: PPU, 1988), 209–24. See also Antonio de Guevara,
Relox de príncipes (Madrid: ABL Editor, 1994), II, chapter xviii, 506–7.
16
Vives enthusiastically proposes that mothers should breastfeed and take care
of their own children and later demonstrates his opposition to nursemaids. Bergmann,
“La exclusión,” 370, addresses the corresponding passage in the Institutio Faeminae
Christianae. One of the arguments developed by the patriarchal system in order to instill an
“instinctive” attitude in mothers was that of maternal breastfeeding, proclaimed the basic
all trustworthy women who take over the role of the mother, as Fulgencia, the
governess of Dorendaina, admits in Claribalte (1519):
I was brought up since childhood with her majesty the Queen and, when the
princess was born, her majesty commanded me to remain by her daughter, and
in her chamber, and to take charge of her person and service. I serve her as a
chambermaid and I believe that I have her goodwill and love, just as though I
had given birth to her. For she never had a more beloved or loving person. She
takes not one step without me, and no other person but me sleeps in her chamber,
nor does she confide her secrets to anyone but me.17
The chambermaid turns into her chaperone and confidante in love matters,
a role never assumed by the mother. The mother figure is thus initially silenced,
although not altogether absent, since they in fact share the same physical space and
live together in the palace, although in separate quarters. Mothers and daughters
have their own rooms, chambers, parlors, orchards, which in turn give shape to
feminine spaces from which men are in principle banned, even if they occasionally
gain access to them by playing tricks such as that of don Duardos to enter Flérida’s
orchard in Primaleón (1512). When together, mothers and daughters dine, go
to mass, attend tournaments, visit ailing knights, and even travel, as in the case
of the young Amazon Pantasilea who, as she is only 12 years of age, travels in
the company of her mother, the Amazon Calpendra, although her relationship is
barely made explicit (Silves de la Selva [Silves of the Forest], 1546, fol. xlj r).
Their separation may take place before wedlock, as with Oriana in Amadís of Gaul
(1508), who is separated from her mother Brisena in the course of a family trip
when she is 10, continuing her education in the court of the Queen of Scotland,
who promises to guard her as her mother would.18 In Lisuarte of Greece (1514),19
the distancing between the Empress and her daughters Onoloria and Gricileria
takes place slightly later, as the mother grows worried at the daughters’ sadness
element for the child’s proper nutrition and responsible for the indissoluble bond between
mother and child. On the subject, see Saletti Cuesta, “Propuestas teóricas,” 171.
17
“Yo me crié desde niña con la reina mi señora y después que la princesa nació,
su alteza me mandó que estoviesse con su hija y en su cámara y toviesse cargo de su
persona e servicio. Sírvola de camarera y no creo que en su voluntad y amor estoy sino
como si yo la pariera. Porque nunca tuvo persona más querida ni que más la quisiesse.
Ningún passo va sin mí, en su cámara persona ninguna duerme sino yo, ni en su secreto
otra comunicación ay sino la mía.” Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, Claribalte, ed. Alberto
del Río Nogueras (Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2001), 29. Although
the biological mother is substituted by other figures, the relationship with her child does not
lose its fundamental characteristics, since, as Muraro, 54, explains, a woman may become
a mother yet not be one.
18
Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo, Amadís de Gaula, ed. Juan Manuel Cacho Blecua
(Madrid: Cátedra, 1987–1988), 2 vols, 268.
19
Feliciano de Silva, Lisuarte de Grecia, ed. Emilio J. Sales Dasí (Alcalá de Henares:
Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2002), 223.
upon the death of her husband and, on finding them emaciated and sallow, decides
to send them to a convent to rest—a seclusion they are grateful for, since it will
enable them to hide their pregnancy and secretly give birth there.20 The decision
of the Empress is not surprising because convents were multi-purpose institutions
capable of sustaining women’s relations, experiences, learning, memories, and
feminine culture; a retreat for religious as well as for laywomen (mainly widows
and noblewomen ), who took up quarters there.21 It should be noted that many of
the Spanish convents served to safeguard the interests of family and lineage, with
more than just their religious aspects prevailing. After one year, the Empress will
be reunited with her daughters Onoloria and Gricileria in the convent, and they
will live together until news of the Emperor arrives, as is recounted in the sequel,
Amadís de Grecia [Amadís of Greece] (1530).22
Even though the mother figure is relegated to the background, mothers are
held responsible for the daughter’s education and any “anomalous” behavior (for
example, her leaving or fleeing the house without paternal permission) is blamed
on the mother for not having educated or guarded her properly. This happens in the
misogynist chivalric novel, Florindo (1530), where Clarinda is abducted with her
consent, and her father, Count Piramón, goes searching for her, out of filial love
but also at his wife’s request. The steward Ascanio reproaches this attitude and
brings up the issue of mothers’ responsibility in educating their daughters:
Oh, what keen care must mothers take in the management of their daughters,
not to be hurt by them! Is there a mother whose daughter does not give her
worries? Is it not better to scold her than to cry for her, and is it not better to see
her dead than to wish her alive? It is a true thing that when the mother desires
what the daughter desires, the daughter will not desire that which her mother
wants, for the mother wants the good of her daughter and the daughter does
Cristóbal de Castillejo narrates, through his interlocutor, Alethio, what happened to

20
“a lady of great distinction / from a convent” who, with the help of a female friend, secretly
gave birth in the cloister and, placing the child in a small chest, abandoned it by deceptively
giving the chest to a gentleman. Having heard this, Fileno gives no credence to the stories,
saying, “these are fables / like those of Amadís.” See Diálogo de mujeres (Venecia, 1544),
ed. Rogelio Reyes Cano (Madrid: Castalia, 1986), 129. Originally from Ciudad Rodrigo,
Castillejo may have been inspired by the passages cited from Feliciano de Silva, also from
Ciudad Rodrigo, not only by oral tradition, as Reyes Cano suggests. We should remember
that Oriana, in Amadís of Gaul, also founds a convent at the castle of Miraflores, and asks
her father and mother permission to withdraw there for some time when she realizes she is
pregnant (Amadís de Gaula, 753).
21
Ángela Muñoz Fernández. “El monacato como espacio de cultura femenina. A
propósito de la Inmaculada Concepción de María, representación de la sexuación femenina,”
in Pautas históricas de sociabilidad femenina. Rituales y modelos de representación, eds
Mary Nash, Mª José de la Pascua, and Gloria Espigardo (Cádiz: Universidad de Cádiz,
1999), 71–89.
22
Feliciano de Silva, Amadís de Grecia, ed. Ana Carmen Bueno Serrano and Carmen
Laspuertas Sarvisé (Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2004), 50.
not desire that of the mother. Some display their daughters so they may receive
offers of marriage because of their beauty, as I saw my ladyship the Countess do
sometimes. And those who do so are but deluded, for if one looks her over for his
wife, others look her over for a mistress. Had my lady no windows, she would
not be missing her daughter. Does Thy Lordship not know that windows open
doors, however well bolted, which allow the maidens to escape? […] Common
and general rule it was that nuns not have them [windows] so they could not see
with their eyes that which oftentimes deludes the heart.23
Judging by the text, the daughter’s behavior negatively affects the mother’s
reputation, because she is to blame for her daughter’s devious ways. In order
to avoid such an outrage, Ascanio, and the later conduct manuals by the priests
Gaspar Astete and Juan de la Cerda, advise that she keep a firm hand on her, since
it is “better to scold her than to cry for her” [“mejor es reprehendella que lloralla”],
and to cloister her at home, isolating her if possible in a space devoid of windows,
a symbol of freedom.24 The text is introduced as a warning to mothers and to
female readers in general, so that they may keep close guard over their daughters,
a fictional discourse that parallels those of female education manuals.
However, not all mothers behave as Ascanio recommends; some display their
love for their daughters. We occasionally find scenes of intense love between
mothers and young daughters, although seldom represented in literary texts.
This is the case of the aforementioned Queen Sidonia (Florisel of Niquea II and
III, 1532), a single mother who after giving birth to her daughter Diana, shuts
her away from the world and educates her among the maids at her service until
age six. At age eight, she is locked up for her protection in an enchanted tower
where the mother visits her, holds her in her arms, and kisses her. Sidonia cries
for her daughter’s fate for, like a new Ovidian Heroine, she has been abandoned
by Moraizel (pretended name of Florisel of Niquea), and the child reminds her of
23
“¡O cuánto estudio deven de tener las madres de sus hijas en su regimiento por
no se ver lastimadas por ellas! ¿Cuál es la madre que a su hija no le va a la mano? ¿No es
mejor reprehendella que lloralla y no es mejor verla muerta que desearla biva? Cierta cosa
es que la madre que quiere lo que quiere su hija, que la hija no ha de querer lo que quiere
su madre, porque la madre quiere el bien de la hija y la hija no el de la madre. Ay algunas
que ponen en vista a sus hijas porque se las pidan por mugeres por razón de su hermosura,
como lo vi hazer algunas vezes a la condesa mi señora. Y están engañadas las que lo hazen,
porque si uno la mira para tomarla por muger, otros por averla por amiga. Si mi señora no
tuviera ventanas, no le faltara su hija. ¿No sabe Vuestra Señoría que las ventanas abren la
puerta aunque esté muy cerrada, las cuales son destierro de las donzellas? […] Regla fue
común y general que las monjas no las tuviessen [ventanas] porque no viessen con los ojos
lo que muchas vezes engaña el coraçón.” Fernando Basurto, Florindo, ed. Alberto del Río
Nogueras (Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2007), 264.
24
Therefore, the typical courtly trope of the “gazing” woman is elided. As Ruiz
Doménec points out, the woman needs to “show herself” [“ventanearse”] in order to assume
her role and thus “unconceal” what is forbidden. Ruiz Doménec, La mujer que mira, 27.
her father. The princess pities her mother’s lament, and, after a moving exchange,
sings and dances with other girls to console her:
On seeing her mother cry so, the girl pressed her cheeks with her beautiful
hands, and placing her mouth next to hers, said:
- Thy ladyship, does it please thee that I sing so I may amuse thee?
- Oh, my child! –said the Queen, who could not stop herself from smiling at the
child’s speech–. I believe thy song will be to me like that of the swan, which
confirms the joy he receives in ending its life!
- Cry not, thy ladyship–the child said–, unless thou should want me to cry. I will
call for my sisters and we shall sing and dance.25
The mother cries for her daughter’s fate because she sees the father, whom
she at once loves and hates, embodied in the daughter. A similar scene in the
same novel, teeming with affection, takes place between Niquea and her daughter
Fortuna, a 10-year-old girl who along with her mother cannot leave the castle, on
account of a spell. As in the previous case, the daughter resembles her father and
is so recognized by the enchantress Urganda herself, when she sees Niquea by
her young Fortuna: “Thy ladyship, it well seemeth that instead of the body of our
lord the Emperor, which thou canst not bring, thy grace bringeth along his soul.”26
Niquea and Fortuna also share a loving relationship, displayed in a moving caress.
The girl jumps into her mother’s open arms, kissing her and hiding her face in her
bosom.27
Sidonia and Niquea thus depart from the model of the ideal mother proposed
by Vives, who advocates for a mother devoid of any emotional bond to her
offspring. In the judgment of the Valencian humanist, mothers must suppress their
tenderness and dampen their emotions, behaving as Spartan mothers and like his
own mother. According to Bergmann,28 Vives’s personal anecdote contributes to
25
“La niña que assí vía llorar a la madre, tomándola con sus hermosas manos por sus
maxillas, juntando su boca con la suya le dize:- Mi señora, ¿queréis vós que cante yo para
que vós os holguéis con mis cantares?- ¡Ay, mi hija! -dixo la reina, no pudiendo dexar de
sonreírse con lo que la niña dixo-. ¡Cómo creo que tus cantares serán comigo como los del
cisne, que con cantares soleniza el gozo que con acabar la vida rescibe! - No lloréis vós, mi
señora -dixo la niña-, si no queréis que llore yo. Yo llamaré mis hermanas e cantaremos e
bailaremos.” Feliciano de Silva, Florisel de Niquea III, 1535, 37.
26
“Mi señora, bien paresce que en lugar del cuerpo que no podéis traer del señor
emperador trae la vuestra merced consigo al alma.” Feliciano de Silva, Florisel de Niquea
III, 233.
27
Feliciano de Silva, Florisel de Niquea III, 232.
28
Bergmann, “La exclusión,” 369. This idea was repeated years later by Luisa de
Padilla in Nobleza virtuosa, Zaragoza, 1637: “Ecclesiastes counsels that mothers should
not show too much love toward their daughters so they may better conserve their virtue.
the institutional discourse separating mothers from their children. Despite such
grave judgments, men and women of the late fifteenth and early sixteenth century
were not, however, insensitive to the charms of childhood, to the guilelessness
and innocence of this initial stage in life,29 and this seems to have been the attitude
of Feliciano de Silva toward his children, and especially toward his daughters,
as is pointed out by his friend Núñez de Reinoso in his portrayal of Silva as an
affectionate father devoted to his family.30
Will, Obedience, and Marriage

In these texts, mother and daughter come to closer terms on the occasion of
marriage, and it is then when they speak and, through their discourse, gestures
and actions, reveal aspects of themselves. However, this relationship is not only
between the two, as it is totally determined by the masculine presence of husbands
and fathers. Before coming to this moment, mothers have in general been unaware
of their daughters’ love story, because the mother’s role has not allowed them
to bond as women. The concept of maternity as a basic relationship among all
women, as proposed by Luisa Muraro—not because all women are mothers, but
because they have all been daughters—cannot easily be conceived in the kind of
patriarchal society shown in these chivalric novels, fictions in which decorum and
hierarchy of functions predominate. According to María Rosa Lida de Malkiel,31
the emotionally detached mothers are not the confidantes of their daughters;
instead, daughters unveil their worries and passions to their maids. As we have
seen, it is the maids whom they trust when they need to give birth secretly and
dispose of the child to safeguard their honor. This is the case of Leonor in the
anonymous novel, Arderique (1517), who takes her chambermaid Gostança as
a confidante and intimate “secretary,” fearful for her virtue and the honor of her
And Saint Jerome states that they should be brought up rigorously from childhood. You
must behave likewise, as this will be their most important gift from you, with which you
will show your true love as a mother,” 326. [“Consejo es del Eclesiástico que no muestren
las madres mucho amor a las hijas, con que dize se conservan mejor en virtud, y San
Gerónymo, que desde la niñez han de ser criadas con rigor. Assí lo haréis vos, que este será
para ellas el regalo más importante y con que mostraréis mejor amarlas como verdadera
madre”], 326. I thank Nieves Baranda for the reference. Padilla analyzes Guevara, Mexía,
and Luján, among other authors, as Aurora Egido notes in “La Nobleza virtuosa de
la Condesa de Aranda, doña Luisa de Padilla, amiga de Gracián.” Archivo de Filología
Aragonesa 54–5 (1998): 9–41.
29
María del Carmen García Herrero. “Porque no hay ninguno que más quiera al fijo
que el padre y la madre,” in her Del nacer y el vivir. Fragmentos para un historia de la vida
en la baja Edad Media (Zaragoza: Institución “Fernando el Católico,” 2005), 47–60.
30
Sydney P. Cravens, Feliciano de Silva y los antecedentes de la novela pastoril en
sus libros de caballerías (Chapel Hill: Estudios de Hispánofila, 1976). According to Núñez
de Reinoso, Silva demonstrated special tenderness toward his impoverished daughters, 26.
31
Lida de Malkiel, La originalidad artística, 493.
parents; it is also the case of Princess Belisia with Filestra, the maid “who treasures
her secrets” in another anonymous novel, Polindo (1526).32 Not to confide one’s
secrets is a matter of chasteness, as Belianisa explains in Félix Magno [Felix the
Great] (1549), when, in an unusual move, she decides to confess her desire to her
mother:
My lady, even though I don’t find it decent to disclose to Thy Ladyship that
which I so desire, I have thought it better to disclose my mind to thee, who are
my mother, and to be straighten’d out by thee, than to reveal myself to another
person, much as I know for certain that in doing so I would obtain all that I
desire.33
Thus, it is not regarded as decent or proper for daughters to reveal their

feelings to their mothers, and modesty and restraint holds them back. It is really a
consequence of their education, since they have been first and foremost educated
to be virtuous, and love may endanger their virtue. Although unaware of their
affairs, mothers are nonetheless worried about their daughters’ marriage, and they
intervene in the negotiations. However, love and marriage still belong to different
worlds, since love within marriage is conceived as the “spiritual sympathy” of the
wills, not as passionate emotion.34
In fiction as in reality, marriage is a contract, an agreement negotiated by parents
that the offspring, in this case daughters, must accept because of the benefits the
moral and social mores transmitted though their education are expected to bring
them; and because their sense of duty—to be obedient, virtuous, and respectful—
makes them behave in accordance with the interests of the family group. At this
decisive time of their lives, the position of the mothers is as diverse as the reaction of
their daughters, some of them a paragon of obedience, and others, of defiance. Two
of the genre’s foundational texts, Amadís of Gaul (1508) and Palmerín of Olivia
(1511) relate elaborate and lengthy stories in which the relationship is particularly
relevant. In Amadís of Gaul, King Lisuarte has negotiated the marriage of his
daughter to the Roman Emperor disregarding her opinion (chapters lxxvi, lxxx,
32
Arderique, ed. Dorothy Molloy Carpenter (Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios
Cervantinos, 2000), 16. Polindo, ed. Manuel Calderón Calderón (Alcalá de Henares: Centro
de Estudios Cervantinos, 2003), 47.
33
“Señora, aunque para mí no sea honesto descubrir a la Vuestra Merced una cosa
que yo mucho deseo, he pensado que más vale descubrir mi pensamiento a vós, que sois
mi madre y ser reta por vós, que no descubrirme a otra persona, aunque de cierto supiese
que por aquello avía de alcançar todo aquello que deseava.” Félix Magno I–II, ed. Claudia
Dematté (Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2001), 25.
34
Asunción Rallo Gruss, “Los Coloquios matrimoniales de Pedro Luján. (Mujer y
espacio privado en el siglo XVI),” in Realidad histórica e invención literaria en torno
a la mujer, edited by María Teresa López Beltrán (Málaga: Servicio de Publicaciones,
1987), 54. On this and other contemporary texts, see Tobias Brandenberger, Literatura de
matrimonio (Península Ibérica, s. XIV–XVI) (Zaragoza: Pórtico, 1996).
lxxxi). Although present at the agreement, her mother Brisena cannot alter the pact,
as she is subject to royal authority, and simply asks her husband whether he knows
Oriana’s will (1267) since, as a sacrament, marriage required willful acceptance.
As García Herrero states, to enter “into a matrimony freely and voluntarily was
the cornerstone of canon law in this matter, because entering into marriage against
one’s inclination and will corrupted its very foundation.”35 Nevertheless, even
when recognized in theory, and referenced in Reglas de buen vivir (1552) by the
Dominican Antonio de Espinosa, and in Coloquios matrimoniales (1550) by Pedro
Luján,36 this was not always the case, either in reality or in fiction, for paternal
authority carried an overwhelming weight. When Oriana rebels and defies the
marriage, her mother acts as intermediary, yet her conscience struggles between
marital love and filial love: as a mother, she pities Oriana because of her refusal,
as a faithful wife she is forced to stand by her husband’s decision. Oriana comes to
her seeking help, and acknowledging her capacity “as advisor of saddened women,
to find remedies for the afflicted” [“para consejera de mujeres tristes, para buscar
remedio a las atribuladas”], a facet of the Queen unknown until that point, and to
which Oriana resorts, not in her capacity of mother, but as a woman. When Brisena
acts as mediator, mother and daughter gather and converse several times (1267,
1286, 1358), although the daughter at no time reveals her love for Amadís. Far
from asking about her feelings, the mother brings the situation back to the issue of
obedience, asking her daughter to be docile and submissive, just as she is proving
to be toward her husband at a different level (“My good child, I beseech thee now
to happily abide by the King’s behests, for I leave it to God’s mercy that they will
be for thy good, and that thou and I shall not be forsaken”).37 The same is required
35
“el entrar al estado matrimonial libre y voluntariamente era la piedra angular del
Derecho Canónico en este tema, pues realizar el matrimonio contra deseo y voluntad
corrompía el fundamento del mismo.” María del Carmen García Herrero, “Matrimonio y
libertad,” 111.
36
In his Reglas de buen vivir (Burgos, 1552), Antonio de Espinosa states that “marriages
require total liberty and a will neither forced nor deceived, as they must last until death”
[“Que los casamientos requieren suma libertad y voluntad no forzada ni engañada, pues han
de durar hasta la muerte”]. Cited by María Cecilia Trujillo Maza in “La representación de la
lectura femenina en el siglo XVI” (PhD diss., Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona, 2009),
95. Accessed at: http://www.tesisenred.net/bitstream/handle/10803/4907/mctm1de1.pdf?
sequence=1. In his Coloquios matrimoniales, Pedro Luján also requires that the wishes
of the future spouses be made known: “It is well for the father to counsel his son to marry
whom [the father] wishes, but he should take care not to force him if the son does not wish
to, for all forced marriages engender lack of love among the young” [“Bien es que el padre
aconseje a su hijo que se case con quien él quiere, mas guárdese no le haga fuerza si él no
quiere, porque todo casamiento forzoso engendra desamor entre los mozos”]. Cited in Rallo
Gruss, “Los Coloquios,” 56.
37
“Buena fija, ruégovos agora que seáis alegre en esto que vos el Rey manda, que
fío en la merced de Dios que será por vuestro bien y no querrá desamparar a vos y a mí.”
Amadís de Gaula, 1287.
by the Queen of Hungary of her disobedient daughter Griana in Palmerín of Olivia

(9), although this time the instigator of this undesired marriage is the mother, and
not the father. Nonetheless, in both cases, mothers are not really asking for their
daughters’ opinion, but for their consent.
In Claribalte (1519) and in Valerián de Hungría [Valerian of Hungary] (1540),
parents are also interested in learning about their daughters’ will regarding the
arranged marriages; however, in these novels, the maidens’ desires match those
of their parents. Dorendaina answers to her parents’ proposal submissively with
a well-learned discourse of obedience (Claribalte, 21), and so does princess
Albericia (Valerián de Hungría, 107).38 In the latter case, the Emperor asks the
Empress to speak to her in order to find out her opinion, leading to an interesting
dialogue between them in which the mother, again an educator, gives Albericia a
brief indoctrinating speech about obedience:
May it please God, my daughter, that in the days to come thou canst feel what
I now feel, in the children whom He shall please to give thee, that thou may
learn and feel that no joy can rival this one, for only through the obedience and
will which thou showest in keeping with thy father’s and mine canst thou pay
us the upbringing we gave thee and all the other benefits which thou mention’d
before, and we should still remain thy debtors, as with no other coin couldst
thou compensate or satisfy but one single hour of affliction which during thy
childhood, or during thine illnesses, we have endured. For thou must know
that no parent would accept that fervent duty of rearing their children, much as
nature may oblige, unless they have hope that they shall be thanked for it when
their children are grown by following their will in all, and with pleasure. As by
threats or spanks when children, by this aforesaid hope, they can suffer all the
passions and pains they undergo, but when this is lost, there is no parent who
shall not enjoy, and if it can be said, desire, one of two things: either that such
children had never been born, or that they die thus disobedient.39
38
Dionís Clemente, Valerián de Hungría, ed. Jesús Duce García (Alcalá de Henares:
Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2010).
39
“Plega a Dios, mi hija, que lo que yo agora siento puedas tú en los venideros días
sentir de los fijos que a él plazerá darte, porque sientas e conozcas que ninguna alegría
puede ser a esta semejante, pues sola la obediencia y voluntad que muestras de seguir la
de tu padre y mía es aquella moneda con que puedes pagarnos, assí la criança que en ti
hezimos como todos los otros beneficios que antes dixiste y aún te quedaríamos deudores,
lo que con otra ninguna (moneda) podrías compensar ni satisfacer sola una hora de pesar
que en tu niñez o por tus dolencias havemos pasado. Porque has de saber que ningún padre
ternía aquel ferviente cuidado que de criar sus hijos tiene, por más que la naturaleza a
ello lo obligue, si no tuviesse esperança que cuando serán grandes, se lo han de agradecer
siguiendo en todo su voluntad de grado. Assí como siendo niños con amenazas o açotes
y con aquella esperança que digo, pueden çufrir todas las pasiones y penas que por ellos
pasan, pero cuando la pierde ningún padre ay que no folgasse, y si es permitido dezir,
dessease una de dos cosas: o que tales hijos nunca le nacieran, o que assí inobedientes se le
muriessen.” Clemente, Valerián de Hungría, 107.
The mother praises her daughter’s subjection, and makes her understand that this
(together with caring for them in old age) is how children pay their parents in kind,
as is stated by Antonio de Guevara in Relox de príncipes: “There is no other aim
for parents to bring up their children than to be served by them when old.”40
On the contrary, disobedient and rebellious daughters suffer their parents’
wrath, a rage turning into physical aggression and imprisonment. Under such
circumstances, the relationship between mothers and daughters varies depending
on the attitude adopted by the mother in the course of events. Even when Brisena
sides with her husband as a model wife, mother and daughter never break their
affective bonds; this can be appreciated in tense and intense scenes, full of emotion,
in which words and actions (kneeling, hugging, crying, fainting) reveal respect,
virtue, and affection, and express their innermost feelings. The relationship ends
with a heartrending scene in which they faint while hugging each other and the
unconscious daughter is taken away from the mother. This episode belongs to the
primitive Amadís of Gaul and it could have influenced the sentimental fiction of
the late fifteenth century, a genre that in turn inspired Rodríguez de Montalvo to
update “the courtly and affective universe of the work” [“el universo afectivo y
cortesano de la obra”], and in particular all this scene, which matches a change in
sensibility toward a greater appreciation of maternal relations.41 In the following
books, their relationship is kept alive through a strongly emotional letter sent by
Oriana to her mother from Ínsola Firme, asking her once more to intercede with
her father (chapter xcv). The story ends happily with the physical reunion of both
women, teeming with joyful hugs and cries, gestures that go beyond the private
realm into the public one.
However, in Palmerín of Olivia (1511) the behavior of the Queen of Hungary
toward her daughter Griana, whom she has arranged to marry her nephew Tarisio
without her consent, is very different. The girl’s disobedience in rejecting the
marriage agreement brings about the family’s dishonor, and royal wrath results in
her imprisonment. In the tower, Griana receives her mother’s visit: she is hostile
and obsessed with having the proposed marriage celebrated, and insistently
demands her obedience and censures her behavior. Contrary to Oriana, Griana
does not show any affection for her mother, and explicitly breaks the bond when
she asks her to take her for dead and cry for her:
May Thy Ladyship leave me, and not talk to me in this matter, resting assured
that thy daughter Griana is dead, and thus cry for me. And from now on have no
pity on me, but let the Emperor do as he wishes and punish me, for I am happy
to oblige, though I bear no guilt.42
40
“No es otro el fin en los padres a criar sus fijos sino para que sirvan a sus padres
quando fueren viejos.” Guevara, Relox de príncipes, II, chapter xviii, 510.
41
Juan Manuel Cacho Blecua, “Introducción a los gestos afectivos y corteses en el
Amadís de Gaula,” in Amadís y sus libros: 500 años, eds. Aurelio González and Axayácatl
Campos García Rojas (México: El Colegio de México, 2009), 56.
42
“Vos, señora, dexadme e no me habléis en estos fechos, que fazed cuenta que
vuestra fija Griana es muerta e por tal me llorad. E de aquí adelante no tengáis piedad
After secretly giving birth in the tower, Griana agrees to abide by her parents’
command out of obedience, but not of her own volition; therefore, she does not
redeem her procreator, and hence she asks her husband to travel to Hungary
after the wedding in order to get away from her mother, “so as not to be with the
Empress” [“por no estar con la Emperatriz”].43 In her final farewell, the tears of
the Queen are meaningless to a daughter who reproaches her mother for her lack
of piety and her own banishment.
Throughout these examples, dialogues are intense and body language brings
us closer to the affective world of the characters, in this case a world of emotions,
one of complex and delicate female relations.
Daughters as Bargaining Chips
Widowed and single mothers present a very different reality since they must
bring their daughters up by themselves, and this is no easy task because, having
no husbands to protect them, they are exposed to ill-treatment and insult, some
times even by the knights of the different branches of patrilineal kinship. Widows
find in their daughters the means to keep their country estates, or to avenge the
death of their husbands. By wailing and weeping they try to awaken men’s pity,
lest their heiresses lose their properties, be turned into servants and be forced to
live by the labor of their hands, as the Duchess worries in Clarián de Landanís
[Clarian of Landanis] (1518).44 Maybe as a result of a more permissive education,
the daughters usually take the lead in these cases and it is they who go in search
of help when they find themselves under threat, as in Tristán de Leonís [Tristan of
Leonis] (1501), in Félix Magno [Felix the Great] (1549) or in Olivante de Laura
[Olivant of Laura] (1564).45 Diverging opinions do sometimes lead to duels or
confrontation among them, as in the one that takes place between Lucenia and
her mother Darsisa on the isle of Dardania, where “the laws given by Lycurgus in
Greece are kept, mainly that women’s dowries shall consist only of virtue, and that
their husbands shall provide them with dowries for all their needs that they lack,”46
comigo, mas dexad fazer al Emperador e darme la pena que él quisiere, que yo soy contenta
de recebirla, aunque culpa no tengo.” Silva, Palmerín de Olivia, 22.
43
Silva, Palmerín de Olivia, 28.
44
Gabriel Velázquez de Castillo, Clarián de Landanís (Libro primero), ed. Antonio
Joaquín González Gonzalo (Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2005), 208.
45
Tristán de Leonís, ed. Mª Luzdivina Cuesta Torre (Alcalá de Henares: Centro
de Estudios Cervantinos, 1999), 155; Félix Magno III–IV, ed. Claudia Dematté (Alcalá
de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2001), 2; Antonio de Torquemada, Obras
completas, II. Olivante de Laura, ed. Isabel Muguruza (Madrid: Biblioteca Castro, 1997),
503, 693.
46
“guardan las leyes que Licurgo dexó en Grecia, e principalmente que las mugeres
no se dotassen sino de virtud y los maridos las dotassen de dotes de lo necessario que ellas
no tienen.” Silva, Florisel de Niquea III, 29.
a law that also finds an echo in Luján’s Coloquios matrimoniales. Material dowry
aside, marriage must be based on morality and female virtue so, in order to comply
with this law, the maidens of the isle of Dardania live isolated from men until they
are of marriageable age, not being allowed to talk to them and dwelling in the
company of old matrons in castles secluded from males. Lucenia has breached this
rule, leading to confrontation with her mother, the Queen of Dardania.
In the development of the plot of Primaleón (1512), the story of the Duchess
of Ormedes and her daughter Gridonia, a filial-maternal relationship sustained
throughout the whole book and that ends in its sequel, Platir (1533), is particularly
relevant. The Duchess of Ormedes gives birth to Gridonia a short time after
becoming a widow, and promises to give her daughter’s hand in marriage to the
knight who avenges the death of her husband. The daughter never argues against
the decision of the mother and, in the course of events, she herself modifies the
conditions of the pact offered by her mother, by promising to marry whoever
brings Primaleón’s head to her as a bridegroom’s token. The daughter replicates
the mind-set of the mother and resorts to compensatory marriage as a strategy
for vengeance. Before being assaulted with threats and sexual intimidation, a
widowed and/or abandoned woman, a woman on her own, takes a step forward
and lays down the rules of the game by using her daughter as a bargaining chip,
as an object of desire—a decision that is not questioned by the girl at any time.
In this case, the relationship between mother and daughter is close and long. Just
as the mother claims that “may God never want to give her a husband against her
will,” the daughter does not want to disobey her and thus “she shall not disobey
commands from her grandmother and mother,” although her love inclines her to
wish that Perequín set vengeance aside and marry her.47 In the same manner, when
the Knight of Roca Partida (a sobriquet for Primaleón) proposes to flee to Apolonia
to fulfill Primaleón’s vengeance, Gridonia refuses to dishonor her mother: “and
how could I go with thee, for the Queen, my mother, will not allow me to go there
on any grounds? And to go without her knowing would be a great dishonor.”48 The
daughter’s destiny is impelled by the mother’s vengeance.
The relationship between the Duchess of Ormedes and her daughter Gridonia
finds its physical expression through a symbolic and affective body language,
particularly as Gridonia faints in her mother’s lap when learning of false news
about the death of the Knight of Roca Partida [Split Rock] and the Duchess then
finds out about her secret love. The tearful mother hugs her and regrets: “Should I,
unfortunate, have known of the great love thou hast for the Knight of Roca Partida,
47
“nunca Dios quisiesse qu’ella le disesse marido contra su voluntad”; “no avía de
salir de mandado a su avuela y madre.” Marín Pina (ed.), Primaleón, 274, 134.
48
“¿y cómo podría yo ir con vos, que no me dexará la Reina, mi madre, por ninguna
manera ir allá? Y pues ir sin que ella lo supiesse seríame grande desonra.” Marín Pina (ed.),
Primaleón, 280.
I would have done otherwise.”49 To console her, she lies by her side: “And all that
day, Gridonia was as if dead, and refused to eat. And once it was night, they laid
her on her bed, and her mother lay with her to console her.”50 The relationship
lasts throughout the book and, when driven apart, Gridonia repeatedly states that
she feels no sorrow but what her mother would feel for her. When the reunion
comes, dialogue and body language (hugging and weeping) are greatly intense
and emotive, as in the case of Amadís. The mother reproaches her disobedience,
restating the theme of paternal vengeance, but the daughter’s discourse and her
piteous tears quell her wrath and achieve her pardon (chapter cciv). The same tactic
is followed by Queen Sidonia in Florisel of Niquea III, who swears vengeance

from Florisel when he abandons her by offering the hand of her daughter Diana to
whoever may bring his head as a wedding token.
The daughters are also bargaining chips for those mothers whose husbands are
in prison. Finding themselves alone, they offer their daughter in marriage to that
knight who manages the release of their husband, completely disregarding the
damsel’s opinion. It is in that way that Polendos obtains the hand of Francelina in
Primaleón, and so does the King of Pequeña India with Florvereda’s in Cristalián
de España [Cristalian of Spain] (1545) by Beatriz Bernal (“the Queen, her wife,
mother of this beauteous princess, took an oath, swearing not to give her daughter
as a bride to any other knight but to the one who releases her husband from the
prison he is in ”).51 In this book by a woman author, so rich in female characters, the
couple under discussion here is barely relevant; the female author from Valladolid
does not show any interest in dealing with this topic and, as María de Zayas will
do years later, she seems to delete all maternal traces deliberately.52 However,
when she wrote the work (before 1537), Beatriz Bernal could hardly imagine that
destiny would bind her whole life to her daughter Juana de Gatos and that, a widow,
she alone would have to take care of her daughter’s education, negotiate Juana’s
marriage to licentiate Alonso Torres (undoubtedly one of convenience), and
“Y si yo, malaventurada de mí, supiera el grande amor que vós teníades al Cavallero
49
de la Roca Partida, yo fiziera estos fechos de otra manera.” Marín Pina (ed.), Primaleón,
328.
50
“Y todo aquel día estovo Gridonia ansí como muerta, que nunca quiso comer. Y
después que fue noche, echáronla en su lecho y su madre se echó con ella por la conortar.”
Marín Pina (ed.), Primaleón, 328.
51
“la Reina su muger madre de esta hermosa infanta prometió con juramento de no
dar a su hija por muger a otro cavallero sino al que librase al rey su marido de la prisión en
que estava.” Beatriz Bernal, Cristalián de España (Valladolid, 1545), fol. xj r.
52
The number of the female characters and their importance in this work has been
highlighted by Judith Whitenack, “Emphasis Added: An Introduction to Beatriz Bernal’s
Don Cristalián de España,” Monographic Review 12 (1997): 24–38. For bibliography, see
Donatella Gagliardi, Elami Ortiz Hernán Pupareli, and Monserrat Piera in “Clarisel” (http://
clarisel.unizar.es) and BIESES (http://www.uned.es/bieses). For relations between mothers
and daughters in María de Zayas and other early modern women authors, see Cruz, “La
búsqueda,” 62.
endure with her the mistreatment and abandonment by her womanizer husband.53
The female author lived in real life what she had left out of her early fiction, a
close relationship with her daughter that is known through various lawsuits and
documents recording their voices and feelings. We are indebted to her daughter
Juana de Gatos for the public acknowledgement of her mother, Beatriz Bernal, as
the author of Cristalián of Spain, a chivalric book whose first edition (1545) was
published by an unknown “lady, native” of Valladolid, and which she re-edited in
1587 disclosing her mother’s true identity.
Maternal Love and Filial Love until Death
The affective bonds between mothers and daughters are also expressed at the time
of death. Some daughters will commit suicide out of love for their mothers, as in
the case of the daughter of the wise woman Norcas, in Platir,54 while others will
lament the bereavement of their mother, as do Gridonia (123) and Florinda (247)
in the same novel. Florinda isolates herself briefly from the world to pray and
cry for her, and in her particular mourning she recalls their lifelong relationship,
a personal and tight connection that makes her give precedence to filial love
over passion, temporarily abandoning her beloved Platir. Florinda acknowledges
maternal love as supreme and apologizes to Platir for her oblivion:
even if the main cause of her great sorrow was the Queen’s gifts to her, which
brought back to her memory the life of the Queen her mother, and how dearly
beloved of her she had been, more than of anyone else in the world, I tell thee
that in this time of such sadness she did not wish to partake with Prince Platir, for
the Princess wanted to suffer all sorrow herself, without Platir partaking any.55
53
In 1536, Beatriz Bernal was widowed on the death of her second husband, Torres
Gatos, with whom she had been married three years. She requested a license to publish
Cristalián in 1537, but the novel was not published until 1545. When the mother was
widowed, Juana de Gatos, her daughter, was only two years old. The 1549 lawsuit by Juana
(then about 16 or 17 years old) against her husband, Alonso Gómez, mentions that she
received “terrible treatment” from him, witnessed by Bernal, since they all lived together
in the same house. Juana de Gatos died in 1588 and wished to be buried beside her mother
in the church of Saint Paul’s monastery. Donatella Gagliardi has discovered a rich trove of
information on Bernal’s life; see “‘Quid puellae cum armis?’ Una aproximación a doña
Beatriz Bernal y su Cristalián de España” (Barcelona: Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona,
2003), unpublished dissertation, accessible on the web, and Urdiendo ficciones. Beatriz
Bernal, autora de caballerías en la España del XVI (Zaragoza: Prensas Universitarias de
Zaragoza, 2010).
54
Platir, ed. Mª Carmen Marín Pina (Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios
Cervantinos, 1997), 210.
55
“aunque avía seído la principal causa la gran pena que las obsequias de la Reina le
davan en traerle a la memoria la vida de la Reina su madre, y cuán querida y amada avía
seído d’ella más que de persona del mundo, que vos digo que en tiempo de tanta tristeza no
Maternal love is understood as a feminine instinct, not as a feeling, so that when

such an instinct disappears, as in the case of the giantess Gromadaça in Amadís,
who prefers to see her daughter Madasima dead to losing her possessions, such
behavior is explained as due to the intellectual incapacity of women to assume the
roles for which they were created:
With her daughter Madasima and her maids, let her do as she pleases, for she
would give very little for them or their lives, save for what burden it may cause
her. From this, I say that it sets an example of how rigorous and strong the irate
heart of a woman is, in wanting to ignore the appropriate reasons for which
she was born, and as her nature cannot attain more, her little knowledge must
provide but little in this matter, and if any [woman] is found to be to the contrary,
it is due to the great grace of our highest Lord almighty, who can at all times lead
things wherever He most pleases, forcing and reversing all things in nature.56
The diminished understanding of women thus explains the lack of maternal love,
a love deemed all of a piece with every woman, since it is considered an instinct
instead of a human feeling, and as such, is uncertain, fragile, imperfect, and of
variable intensity.
Neither does filial love always conform to the rules: incest with the father may
lead to aberrant acts, as when, in Amadís, the daughter of the giant Bandaguido
kills her mother in order to continue having relations with him, a sin that is later
punished by the birth of monstrous Endriago:
that ill-ventured daughter whose mother loved her more than she loved herself,
when conversing with her while strolling in an orchard, pretended to see
something strange in the well, bade her mother look, and taking her by the hand,
threw her into the depth, where she drowned in a short space. She cried out that
her mother was fallen in the well.57
quería ella dar parte de sí al infante Platir, que toda la pena quería la infanta sufrir sin dar
d’ella parte a Platir.” Marín Pina (ed.), Platir, 248.
56
“Que de su hija Madasima e de sus donzellas, que haga lo que por bien tuviere, que
ella muy poco daría por ellas ni por su vida, solamente que algún pesar le puede hazer. Por
donde digo que assí se puede tomar por enxemplo cuán rigoroso y cuán fuerte es el coraçón
airado de la muger, queriendo salir de aquellas cosas convinientes para que engendrada fue,
que como su natural no lo alcança, forçado es que el poco conocimiento poco en lo que
cumple pueda proveer; y si alguna al contrario desto se falla, es por gran gracia del muy alto
Señor en quien todo el poder es, que sin ningún entrevallo las cosas puede guiar donde más
le plugiere, forçando y contrariando todas las cosas de natura.” Rodríquez de Montalvo,
Amadís de Gaula, 916–17.
57
“Aquella malaventurada fija que su madre más que a sí mesma amava, andando por
una huerta con ella hablando, fingiendo la fija ver en un pozo una cosa estraña y llamando a
la madre que lo viesse, diole de las manos, y echándola a lo hondo, en poco spacio ahogada
fue. Ella dio bozes diziendo que su madre cayera en el pozo.” Rodríguez de Montalvo,
Amadís de Gaula, III, 1132.
In Clarisel de las Flores [Clarisel of the Flowers], hulking Filotea “killed her
mother, who took care of her, to live free and by her will” [“por vivir libre y a
su plazer mató a su madre, que la tenía recogida”] (chapter xxi). It is important
to note, however, that this abnormal behavior among mothers and daughters is
displayed by giantesses, that is, by unbelievers that always embody evil.
In conclusion, although always as a secondary character, the mother is not
altogether absent from chivalric novels; as in Arthurian romances, she establishes
a relationship with her daughter in which both defy any attempt at classification,
since they are variable characters who are not confined to a single register. In
both cases, the authors attempt to show facets of the threefold personal, family,
and social standing of women as mothers and daughters, and their literary
representation must necessarily be explained within the ideological and cultural
context of the time. Even though the relationship between them seems to exist
throughout childhood and adolescence, it is rarely visible before marriage, and it
is at that time when a closer connection between both figures takes place. Their
relationship is then rendered in scenes of high dramatic tension in which gestures
say as much as words, taking us into the private world of feminine emotions and
sentiments. Despite the efforts of Renaissance educational treatises to give form
to the ideal woman—a task also undertaken by these novels—reality does not
always go hand in hand with desire and, in life as in fiction, not all of them become
exemplary mothers and daughters. Mothers who educate, intercede or mediate;
doting and cruel mothers; widowed or single mothers who use their daughters as
tools for vengeance—as well as obedient and disobedient daughters, submissive
and obliging, murderous daughters, let alone those who renounce being mothers
to become wise women— all constitute a constellation of feminine connections
far richer than that offered in other genres of the time. Indeed, it is in the long-
forgotten novels of chivalry that the literary history of the complex relations
between mothers and daughters may most strikingly and vividly be traced.
Works Cited
Badinter, Elisabeth. ¿Existe el instinto maternal? Historia del amor maternal

siglos XVII al XX. Barcelona: Paidós, 1991.
Barbazza, Marie-Catherine. “L’éducation féminine en Espagne au XVIème siècle:
une analyse de quelques traités moraux.” In École et église en Espagne et en
Amérique latine. Aspects idéologiques et institutionnels. Actes du colloque de
Tours (4–6 décembre 1987), 327–48. Tours: Publications de l’ Université de
Tours, 1988.
Basurto, Fernando. Florindo, edited by Alberto del Río Nogueras. Alcalá de
Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2007.
Beceiro Pita, Isabel. “Modelos de conducta y programas educativos para la
aristocracia femenina (siglos XII–XV).” In De la Edad Media a la Moderna:
mujeres, educación y familia en el ámbito rural y urbano, coord. Mª Teresa
López Beltrán, 32–72. Málaga: Universidad de Málaga, 1999.
Beltran i Tarrés, Marta, et al. De dos en dos: las prácticas de creación y recreación
de la vida y la convivencia humana. Madrid: Horas y horas, 2000.
Bergmann, Emilie L. “La exclusión de lo femenino en el discurso cultural del
humanismo.” In Actas del X Congreso de la Asociación Internacional de
Hispanistas [Barcelona, 21–26 de agosto de 1989], edited by Antonio
Vilanova, 365–72. Barcelona: PPU, 1992.
———. “Learning at Her Mother’s Knee? Saint Anne, the Virgin Mary, and the
Iconography of Women’s Literacy.” In Women’s Literacy in Early Modern
243–62. Farnham, UK and Burlington,VT: Ashgate, 2011.

Bernal, Beatriz. Cristalián de España. Valladolid, 1545.
BIESES. Bibliografía de escritoras españolas. http://www.uned.es/bieses.
Brandenberger, Tobias. Literatura de matrimonio (Península Ibérica, s. XIV–XVI).
Zaragoza: Pórtico, 1996.
Cacho Blecua, Juan Manuel. “Introducción a los gestos afectivos y corteses en
el Amadís de Gaula.” In Amadís y sus libros: 500 años, edited by Aurelio
González and Axayácatl Campos García Rojas. México: El Colegio de México,
2009.
———. “‘Nunca quiso mamar lech de mugier rafez’. (Notas sobre la lactancia.
Del Libro de Alexandre a don Juan Manuel).” In Actas del I Congreso de la
Asociación Hispánica de Literatura Medieval, Santiago de Compostela, 2 al 6
de diciembre de 1985, edited by Vicente Beltrán, 209–24. Barcelona: PPU, 1988.
Calderón Calderón, Manuel, ed. Polindo. Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios
Cervantinos, 2003.
Castillejo, Cristóbal de. Diálogo de mujeres (Venecia, 1544), edited by Rogelio
Reyes Cano. Madrid: Castalia, 1986.
CLARISEL. Bases de datos bibliográficas. http://clarisel.unizar.es.
Clemente, Dionís. Valerián de Hungría, edited by Jesús Duce García. Alcalá de
Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2010.
Cravens, Sydney P. Feliciano de Silva y los antecedentes de la novela pastoril en
sus libros de caballerías. Chapel Hill: Estudios de Hispánofila, 1976.
Cruz, Anne J. “La búsqueda de la madre: psicoanálisis y feminismo en la literatura
del Siglo de Oro.” In Historia silenciada de la mujer: la mujer española desde
la época medieval hasta la contemporánea, edited by Alain Saint-Saëns,
137–44. Madrid: Editorial Complutense, 1996.
Cuesta Torre, María Luzdivina. “Notas sobre las relaciones paternofiliales en la
narrativa castellana medieval.” Scriptura 13 (1997): 193–206.
———, ed. Tristán de Leonís. Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos,
1999.
Dematté, Claudia, ed. Félix Magno I–I1, III–IV. Alcalá de Henares: Centro de
Estudios Cervantinos, 2001.
Egido, Aurora. “La Nobleza virtuosa de la Condesa de Aranda, doña Luisa de
Padilla, amiga de Gracián.” Archivo de Filología Aragonesa 54–5 (1998):
9–41.
El Saffar, Ruth Anthony. Beyond Fiction: The Recovery of the Feminine in the
Novels of Cervantes. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984.
———. Rapture Encaged: The Suppression of the Feminine in Western Culture.
London & New York: Routledge, 1994.
Fernández de Oviedo, Gonzalo. Claribalte, edited by Alberto del Río Nogueras.
Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2001.
Freixas, Laura, ed. Madres e Hijas. Madrid: Anagrama, 1996.
Gagliardi, Donatella. “‘Quid puellae cum armis?’ Una aproximación a doña
Beatriz Bernal y su Cristalián de España.” PhD diss., Barcelona: Universitat
Autònoma de Barcelona, 2003.

———. Urdiendo ficciones. Beatriz Bernal, autora de caballerías en la España
Del XVI. Zaragoza: Prensas Universitarias de Zaragoza, 2010.
García Herrero, María del Carmen. Del nacer y el vivir. Fragmentos para un
historia de la vida en la baja Edad Media. Zaragoza: Institución “Fernando el
Católico,” 2005.
Grieve, Patricia E. “Mothers and Daughters in Fifteenth-century Spanish
Sentimental Romances: Implications for Celestina.” Bulletin of Hispanic
Studies 67 (1990): 345–55.
Guevara, Antonio de. Relox de príncipes. Madrid: ABL Editor, 1994.
James-Raoul, Danièle. “Les discours des mères. Aperçus dans les romans et lais
du XIIe et XIIIe siècles.” In Bien dire et bien aprandre. La mère au Moyen
Âges. Actes du Colloque du Centre d’Études Médiévales et Dialectales de Lille
3, 16 (1998): 145–57.
Lalanda, Martín, ed. Florisel de Niquea. (Tercera Parte). Alcalá de Henares:
Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 1999.
Lida de Malkiel, María Rosa. La originalidad artística de “La Celestina.” Buenos
Aires: Eudeba, 1962.
Marín Pina, Mª Carmen, ed. Platir. Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios
Cervantinos, 1997.
———, ed. Primaleón. Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 1998.
Martín Romero, José Julio. “El Ornamento de princesas: un diálogo sobre
educación femenina de Feliciano de Silva.” Tirant: Bulletí informatiu i
bibliogràfic, 10 (2007). http://parnaseo.uv.es/Tirant/Butlleti.10/Art.Romero_
Feliciano.htm.
Molloy Carpenter, Dorothy, ed. Arderique. Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios
Cervantinos, 2000.
Muñoz Fernández, Ángela. “El monacato como espacio de cultura femenina.
A propósito de la Inmaculada Concepción de María, representación de la
sexuación femenina.” In Pautas históricas de sociabilidad femenina. Rituales
y modelos de representación, edited by Mary Nash, Mª José de la Pascua, and
Gloria Espigardo, 71–89. Cádiz: Universidad de Cádiz, 1999.
Muraro, Luisa. El orden simbólico de la madre. Madrid: Horas y horas, 1994.
Rallo Gruss, Asunción. “Los Coloquios matrimoniales de Pedro Luján. (Mujer y
espacio privado en el siglo XVI).” In Realidad histórica e invención literaria
en torno a la mujer, edited by María Teresa López Beltrán, 47–67. Málaga:

Servicio de Publicaciones, 1987.
Rodríguez de Montalvo, Garci. Amadís de Gaula, edited by Juan Manuel Cacho.
Madrid: Cátedra, 1987–88, 2 vols.
Romero Tabares, Isabel. “Modelos de mujeres en los libros de caballerías
hispánicos. El Rosián de Castilla.” In “Fechos antiguos que los cavalleros
en armas passaron.” Estudios sobre la ficción caballeresca, edited by Julián
Acebrón Ruiz, 191–215. Lleida: Edicions de la Universitat de Lleida, 2001.
Ruiz Doménec, José Enrique. La mujer que mira. (Crónicas de la cultura cortés).
Barcelona: Quaderns Crema, 1986.

Ruiz-Gálvez, Estrella. “Religion de la Mère, religion des mères. Sainte Anne
éducatrice: les images de la mère selon l’iconographie de sainte Anne.
XVe–XVIIe siècle.” In La religion de ma mère. Le rôle des femmes dans la
transmission de la foi, edited by Jean Delumeau, 123–55. París: Éditions du
Cerf, 1992.
Saletti Cuesta, Lorena. “Propuestas teóricas feministas en relación al concepto de
maternidad.” Clepsydra 7 (2008): 169–83.
Salvador, Nicasio. Isabel la Católica. Educación, mecenazgo y entorno literario.
Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2008.
Sau, Victoria. Ser mujer: el fin de una imagen tradicional. Barcelona: Icaria, 1986.
Silva, Feliciano de. Amadís de Grecia, edited by Ana Carmen Bueno Serrano
and Carmen Laspuertas Sarvisé. Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios
Cervantinos, 2004.
———. Lisuarte de Grecia, edited by Emilio J. Sales Dasí. Alcalá de Henares:
———. Palmerín de Olivia. edited by Stefano, Giuseppe di. Alcalá de Henares:
Sprangle, Irma Iris. “The Figure of the Mother in Selected Works of Spanish
Literature from Medieval Period to the Seventeenth Century.” PhD diss., The
Catholic University of America, Washington, 1984.
Torquemada, Antonio de. Obras completas, II. Olivante de Laura, edited by Isabel
Muguruza. Madrid: Biblioteca Castro, 1997.
Trujillo Maza, María Cecilia. “La representación de la lectura femenina en el siglo
XVI.” PhD diss., Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona, 2009.
Tubert, Silvia. Figuras de la madre. Madrid: Cátedra, 1996.
Velázquez de Castillo, Gabriel. Clarián de Landanís (Libro primero), edited by
Antonio Joaquín González Gonzalo. Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios
Cervantinos, 2005.
Whitenack, Judith. “Emphasis Added: An Introduction to Beatriz Bernal’s Don
Cristalián de España.” Monographic Review 12 (1997): 24–38.
Chapter 3
Fathers and Sons in Don Quixote
Anne J. Cruz
Cervantes’s novel Don Quixote is born at the historical moment when the most
popular books of fiction in Spain nostalgically recalled legendary exploits of
chivalry, proliferating tales of valiant knights who set forth to seek adventure.1
The literary history of these immensely well-received novels is complex, but what
is of import to my essay is their genealogical trope: the knights-errant’s progeny
propagate the genre from the late medieval to the early modern period.2 The first
and most famous Castilian novel of chivalry, and no doubt Cervantes’s favorite,
was Amadís de Gaula [Amadis of Gaul].3 It was soon followed by many others;
according to Henry Thomas, for the next hundred years, some 50 new novels were
published at a rate of almost one yearly between 1508 and 1550, and nine added
between 1550 and 1558.4 Amadís de Gaula is a collection of 12 books, the first
four of which recount the exploits of the knight Amadís; the fifth, Las aventuras
de Esplandián [The Adventures of Esplandián], written by Garci Rodríguez de
Montalvo, deals with Amadís’s son.5 This book went through no fewer than nine
For an extensive bibliography of the novels of chivalry, see Daniel Eisenberg and
1
M Carmen Marín Pina, Bibliografía de los libros de caballerías castellanos (Zaragoza:

a
Prensas Universitarias de Zaragoza, 2000); also Daniel Eisenberg, Romances of Chivalry in

the Spanish Golden Age (Newark, DE: Juan de la Cuesta, 1982).
2
The father-son relationships in the novels by no means eclipse the significance of
mother-daughter relations, as Ma Carmen Marín Pina’s chapter in this collection shows. See
also Charlene Villaseñor Black for another approach to mother-daughter relationships.
3
Although there was most likely an earlier version, the first extant edition of this
novel dates from 1508. The anonymous books I–IV were rewritten and expanded by
Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo, who also wrote Esplandián (Eisenberg and Marín Pina,
Bibliografía, 129).
4
Thomas lists 39 Spanish and Portuguese chivalric novels, of which only three came
out before Don Quixote. Henry Thomas, Spanish and Portuguese Romances of Chivalry:
The Revival of the Romance of Chivalry in the Spanish Peninsula, and Its Extension and
Influence Abroad (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1920), 147–8. Eisenberg adds
four more to these: see Daniel Eisenberg, “Don Quijote and the Romances of Chivalry:
the Need for a Reexamination,” Hispanic Review 42 (1973): 511–23. Recently, Howard
Mancing has counted 68 Spanish romances of chivalry, from 1508 to 1602, with 214
editions in total. My thanks to Professor Mancing for this information and for his comments
on my essay.
5
Esplandián first appears in Book III, as Amadís and Oriana’s love child.
66 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Cruz
editions from 1510 to 1588. Book 6 also dealt with the young sons of Amadís’s
brothers Galaor and Florestán; Book 7, written by Feliciano de Silva, revives the
series’ fame with the adventures of Esplandián’s son, Lisuarte de Grecia [Lisuarte
of Greece]. Lisuarte would go on to sire his own son, Amadís de Grecia [Amadís
of Greece] who, in turn, sires Florisel de Niquea [Florisel of Nicaea], the hero
of a new chronicle. The last of the Amadís clan, Silves de la Selva [Silves of the
Forest], son of Amadís of Greece, appears in Book 12 (Thomas 76–7).6
The Amadís cycle’s popularity, which in turn inspired the six-book Palmerín
cycle and other isolated novels of chivalry,7 induced Cervantes to parody the genre
in an ingenious narrative of literary self-creation that, while replicating itself

in a second book, proffered a protagonist too old to procreate. Certainly, Don
Quixote is an unusual, if not bizarre hero for a tale of adventure: at 50 years of
age, physically gaunt and increasingly melancholy, he is the exact opposite of the
vigorous alpha males who appear in the novels that he so loves to read, and whose
sons are destined to carry on the literary tradition in inexhaustible sequels that
constantly reiterate the fathers’ own youthful feats.8 By contrast, Don Quixote had
never left his village; without a wife or children, he lived solely in the company
of a housekeeper and young niece who cared for his necessities while he sold off
parcels of land to satisfy his obsession for chivalric romances.
As readers well know, the price paid by the hidalgo for his book addiction
resulted not only in the shrinkage of his property, but in the drying up of his brain,
causing the old man to foolishly emulate the deeds of much younger knights. These
fictional youths were assigned the vague age of “mancebía,” a stage past early
adolescence, but not quite reaching adulthood. According to Fernando Gómez
Redondo, “Youthfulness is a fresh and vigorous age, when the knight risks behaving
arrogantly; yet it is a crucial one in which to take on the trials that will establish his
knightly identity.”9 Once having entered adulthood and attained maturity, knights
6
The Amadís cycle also produced ballads and dramatic pieces; the play La gloria de
Niquea by the Count of Villamediana was purported to have caused a court scandal and may
have instigated his murder (Thomas, Spanish and Portuguese Romances of Chivalry, 79).
7
Palmerín de Oliva’s first extant edition is dated 1511; it was followed by Primaleón,
Palmerín’s son, and by his son, Platir. The cycle contains three books in Castilian and three
in Portuguese. A later, more successful novel, Belianís de Grecia [Belianís of Greece] was
published in parts in 1547 and 1579. Cristalián de España [Cristalián of Spain] (1545) is
important for having been written by a woman, Beatriz Bernal. See Ma Carmen Marín Pina
in this volume for an analysis of her relations with her daughter and of mother-daughter
relations in chivalric novels.
8
For sons as palimpsestic heroes less appealing than their fathers, see Dayle
Seidenspinner-Núñez, “Fathers and Sons: Notes on the Evolution of the Romance Hero,”
Tristania 13 (1987–88): 19–34.
9
“La mancebía se presenta como una edad de lozanía, arriesgada por la soberbia con
que puede comportarse el caballero, pero fundamental para acometer las pruebas de las que
va a depender su identidad caballeresca.” Fernando Gómez Redondo, “El paradigma de la
mancebía en el Amadís de Gaula,” in Amadís de Gaula: Quinientos años después. Estudios
Fathers and Sons in Don Quixote 67
were expected to pass on the wisdom gained from their experiences and transmit
their chivalric values to their sons. Yet the behavioral inversion performed by Don
Quixote while attempting to seek adventure in imitation of his storybook heroes
proves to mirror the changing social mores of the early modern period, when
masculinist behavior was first critiqued.10 Whereas conduct manuals had exalted
fathers as their sons’ primary instructors and exemplars, as Darcy Donahue notes
in her essay in this collection, at least one treatise, by the humanist (and a printer
and translator of novels of chivalry) Pedro de Luján, had earlier presented the
mother as role model, although she had followed her father’s example.11 Grace
Coolidge, for her part, perceptively argues that at this time in Spain, it was not at
all uncommon for the death of one or the other to break whatever bonds had been
forged between fathers and sons.
Don Quixote’s reversal of the fictional chivalric paradigm by commencing
his knightly course of action, not as a young man, but past his prime and still
childless, inverts the puer-senex archetypal pattern of masculine development. In
Jungian psychology, the puer or boy symbolizes a youthful irresponsibility whose
positive aspects are, however, creativity, originality, elusiveness, and inspiration.12
en homenaje a Juan Manuel Cacho Blecua, José Manuel Lucía Megías and Ma Carmen
Marín Pina, eds (Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 2008), 283–313, 298.
10
Space does not allow me to analyze masculinity as espoused in these narratives
as a theoretical category; for discussions of the various practices of masculinities in
early modern Europe, see Susan Broomhall and Jacqueline Van Gent, eds, Governing
Masculinities in the Early Modern Period (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011). For masculinity
in Don Quixote, see José R. Cartagena Calderón, Masculinidades en obras: El drama de
la hombría en la España imperial (Newark, DE: Juan de la Cuesta, 2008), 208 ff.; and
Mar Martínez Góngora, El hombre atemperado: Autocontrol, disciplina y masculinidad
en textos españoles de la temprana modernidad (New York: Peter Lang, 2005), 107–56.
For a study of masculinity in an age of decline, see Elizabeth A. Lehfeldt, “Ideal Men:
Masculinity and Decline in Seventeenth-Century Spain” Renaissance Quarterly 61 (Spring
2008): 463–94.
11
A major promoter of novels of chivalry, Luján surely must have anticipated the
tensions in male comportment. In 1549, he published the twelfth book of the Amadís series,
Silves de la Selva, and translated an Italian chivalric romance, Leandro el Bel in 1563, under
the title Libro Segundo del esforzado caballero de la Cruz Lepolemo Príncipe de Alemania
[Second Book of the Brave Knight of the Cross, Lepolemo, Prince of Germany]. See Anna
Bognolo, El Lepolemo o Caballero de la Cruz y el Leandro el Bel. Estudio crítico (Alcalá
de Henares: Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de Cervantes, 2011).
12
See Steven Walker, Jung and the Jungians on Myth (New York and London:
Routledge, 2002), 151–3. For a different view of the puer-senex archetype in Don Quixote,
see Eduardo Urbina, “Don Quijote, puer-senex: un tópico y su transformación paródica
en el Quijote,” Journal of Hispanic Philology 12 (1987–88): 127–38, 137–8; and John
Beebe, “The Memory of the Hero and the Emergence of the Post-Heroic Attitude,” in
Barcelona 2004: The Edges of Experience: Memory and Emergence. Proceedings of the
16th International IAAP Congress for Analytical Psychology, Lynn Cowan, ed. (Einsiedeln,
Switzerland: Daimon Verlag, 2006), 259–74.
Since Don Quixote eventually returns to his village disheartened and depressed,
his sanity recovered and his creative powers extinguished, his comportment never
fully assumes the archetypal puer’s traits.13 Nonetheless, his initial desire to imitate
the knights’ exaggerated exploits awakens for the duration of his sallies these two
aspects in him, which are often diminished or lost at middle or old age.14 As the self-
proclaimed knight mentally recreates the masculine fantasy world encountered in
chivalric fiction, Don Quixote’s brand of chivalry thus devolves from an inverted
case of impotent old age that then engenders and harbors a creative imagination.
Don Quixote’s irrational urge to act out archaic male fantasies in actuality
informs at several levels what I consider to be two interrelated yet often ambivalent
features of the novel’s social critique. Once he is knighted, he adopts an anachronistic
paternal figure that imaginatively transforms and physically challenges the world
around him, while at the same time he labors to impose an obsolete belief system
on that same changed and changing world. In this essay, I analyze the father-son
motif deployed in various episodes from both a socio-historical and a symbolic-
metaphorical perspective to make apparent these patterns’ contradictions in Don
Quixote, as Cervantes’s ambiguous commentary on changing social realities. In
striving to mimic the masculinist precedents in the novels of chivalry, Don Quixote
promotes a historically unstable patriarchal hegemony, thus undermining his own
efforts to liberate those whom he deems most oppressed. Cervantes replicates the
conflictive transition from one generation to another by pitting the protagonist’s
failure to uphold chivalric values against his equally ineffective efforts to assist
those in need. And, by calling the novel his stepson, the author also meaningfully
overturns the chivalric conventions of generic linearity to formulate a new genre
engendered not by any one literary source, but by many.15
Slyly applying the rhetorical strategy of humilitas, Cervantes seemingly
disparages his work (and himself) in his prologue:16
Although this study is not intended to attribute all notions of the Jungian puer-senex
13
dichotomy to Don Quixote, his invention of Dulcinea might be viewed as his projection of
a mother figure to whom he owes his allegiance.
14
In early modern Europe, a 50-year-old was considered old; from the sixteenth to the
eighteenth centuries, less than 10 percent of the population lived beyond 60 years of age.
See Daniel Schäfer, Old Age and Disease in Early Modern Medicine: The Body, Gender,
and Culture (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2011), 8.
15
Not surprisingly, the modern novel’s paternity, although often attributed to
Cervantes, is just as frequently assigned to other authors. See my “The Pícaro meets Don
Quixote: The Spanish picaresque and the origins of the modern novel,” special issue
“Remapping the Rise of the European Novel,” ed. Jenny Mander, Studies on Voltaire and
the Eighteenth Century 10 (2007): 127–37; and other essays in the journal.
16
Martínez Mata believes that Cervantes’s deprecating comments instead reveal the
doubts that he may have had about this new form, and an awareness that he could not have
high hopes for a book written so late in life. Emilio Martínez Mata, Cervantes on Don
Quixote, trans. Clark Colahan (Bern: Peter Lang, 2010), 21.
I wish this book, the child of my brain, were the handsomest, the liveliest, and
the wisest that could be conceived. But I could not violate Nature’s ordinance
whereby like engenders like. And so, what could my sterile and uncouth genius
beget but the tale of a dry, shriveled, whimsical offspring … But I, who appear
to be Don Quixote’s father, am in reality his stepfather. (DQ, I, 41)17
There is good reason for Cervantes to first echo the genealogical pattern typical
of chivalric novels, then to overturn the metaphor by denying his paternity. As
he goes on to state, it allows him to collapse the book Don Quixote together with
the protagonist Don Quixote, in order to deny any responsibility for the one’s
influence and the other’s actions:
[I] do not intend to follow the usual custom, nor to beg you, almost with tears in
my eyes, as others do, dearest reader, to pardon or dissemble the faults you may
see in this child of mine. You are no kinsman or friend of his; your soul is in your
own body, and you are as much at home in your own house, and master thereof
as the king is over his taxes. (DQ, I, 42)
Just as he questions its literary patrilinearity, in several of the novel’s episodes,

Cervantes interrogates whether men and women have, in effect, any freedom to do
what they wish, given how tightly they are bound by social and familial contracts.
If, by reason of his age and madness, Don Quixote cannot ideally reproduce the
paradigmatic chivalric novels, in his inappropriate paternal role, he contests the
Spanish patriarchal system by destabilizing the father-son metaphor that stands for
the conventional social hierarchy.
Indeed, as an aged, unmarried man without heirs, Don Quixote does not
operate under the traditional Roman law of a “familia,” with the adult male as
“paterfamilias” in “potestas” or control of all property, wives, children, and
descendants.18 His household situation is such that he cannot function within a
patrilineal economy that requires the inheritance of titles and property by first-
borns. Although Castilian laws were more advantageous to women than those of
other European countries,19 the closing of Spain’s frontier in Andalusia after the
fall of Granada required the protection of noble estates from fragmentation or loss.
The establishment of primogeniture and of entailed estates made sure to keep the
family property in the hands of the eldest sons and, occasionally, of daughters.
17
I cite from Walter Starkie’s translation of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don
Quixote of La Mancha (New York: Signet Classic, 1979). Perhaps in response to Cervantes’s
doubtful paternity, Starkie himself dedicated his translation to his own children and his
grandchildren.
18
See Jane F. Gardner, Family and Familia in Roman Law and Life (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1998), 8. For the Roman origins of the paterfamilias, see Carlos Felipe
Amunátegui Perelló, Origen de los poderes del paterfamilias. El pater familias y la patria
potesta (Madrid: Dykinson, 2009).
19
James Casey, Early Modern Spain: A Social History (New York; London:
Routledge, 1999), 28–9.
Because women were pledged properties and received considerable inheritance,

their marriage alliances were critical to the maintenance of family clans and were
carefully overseen by their fathers.20 Spanish society thus depended on a political
structure that, despite women’s right to inherit and to govern, still operated for the
benefit of patriarchal and state interests.21 It is no coincidence, therefore, that the
terms patria or fatherland and patrimonio or patrimony are etymologically linked
to pater, the Latin word for father. Covarrubias’s seventeenth-century dictionary
defines patria as “the land where one is born” [la tierra donde uno ha nacido],
effecting a re-allegorization of one’s political origins from a nation-state to that of
birth from a biological father.

The German economist Max Weber coined the term “patrimonialism” to
define those forms of government based on rulers’ family households, where the
ruler’s authority is personal-familial, and the household the model for political
administration.22 They are projections of the rule of the father within the family,
typical of the Spanish Habsburg dynasty established by Charles V, who abdicated
the throne to his son, Philip II in 1556. Philip II was less fortunate than Charles
in siring a son who would rule Spain with as much dedication and devotion as he
had.23 His political obligation to provide the Habsburg monarchy with an heir led
him to marry four times, the last to his niece, Anna of Austria. The magnitude of
such an event is evinced in Titian’s painting, Allegory of the Battle of Lepanto,
which combines the celebration of the birth of Philip’s son, Fernando, with the
permanent reversal of the balance of naval power in the Mediterranean and the end
of the threat of the Ottoman Empire (Figure 3.1).24 In the painting, Philip offers
his new-born son—his hand assuredly grasping the infant’s genitals—to Winged
Victory to give thanks for having defeated the Turks at Lepanto. The infant that
Philip is holding, however, is an anachronistic representation, since the battle was
won on October 7, 1571, fully two months before Anna gave birth to their first
Casey, Early Modern Spain, 202.

20
In spite of Spain’s many queens-regnant and regents, female rule was often marked
21
by political vulnerability and social anxiety, and Spanish kingdoms were traditionally
governed by male rulers based on patrilinearity. On European rule, see The Rule of Women
in Early Modern Europe, edited by Anne J. Cruz and Mihoko Suzuki (Urbana-Champaign:
University of Illinois Press, 2009).
22
“And patriarchy is the historical seed of patrimonialism, which Weber believes is
a genetic extension of the patterns of governance in a ruler’s or chief’s family household.”
Julia Adams, “The Rule of the Father: Patriarchy and Patrimonialism in Early Modern
Europe,” in Max Weber’s Economy and Society, Charles Camic et al., eds (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2005), 237–66, 239.
23
For Philip II’s rule, see Geoffrey Parker, The Grand Strategy of Philip II (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998); for Philip III, see Paul C. Allen, Philip III and
the Pax Hispanica, 1598–1621: The Failure of Grand Strategy (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 2000).
24
The importance of a male heir would be replayed two generations later on the birth
of Baltasar Carlos to Philip IV. See Alejandra Franganillo in this volume.
Fig. 3.1 Titian (Tiziano Vecellio) (1487–1557), Philip II, 1527–1598, King
of Spain 1556–98 Offers His Son to Victory or Allegory of Battle of
Lepanto, c. 1571, 325 × 274 cm, oil on canvas, Museo Nacional del
Prado, Madrid. Art Resource, NY.
child.25 The inclusion of this as yet unborn male child in a painting acclaiming
early modern Spain’s greatest victory, one in which Cervantes had so proudly
taken part, was not only intended to emphasize the continuance of the monarchy
through male rule, it certified the kings’ paternal vigilance as father of the country
and defender of the church.
As I discuss more at length below, Cervantes recreated his military experiences
in his novel, but not through the figure of his major protagonist. Indeed, Don
Quixote’s own preference for utopian fictions over the real battles waged by
Spanish armies in order to retain the empire’s possessions, or over the perilous
enterprise in subduing a new world,26 perpetuates instead his yearning for freedom
and self-autonomy.27 His retreat into the imaginary realm of knight-errantry is
co-extensive with his rejection of the law, but his is merely the most extreme
reaction in a society that was both suspicious of and subjugated by systems of
power. Historian Ruth MacKay has addressed what she calls the limits of royal
authority, showing that the subjects of early modern Spain simultaneously resisted
and obeyed authority, specifically that of the king: “Precisely because of the non-
absolute nature of royal authority, [subjects] were not compelled to resist in a
manner that would threaten the structures of civil society. They could couch their
actions in words of obedience, they could appeal to the king’s mercy and justice,
they could demand, in short, that he behave as a king should behave, by granting
them favors.”28 MacKay’s formulation focuses on the highest level of vassalage:
that of a subject to his monarch. Kings were considered the fathers of the state, and
hereditary kingship ensured that their sons would in turn rule as fathers to their
vassals. Opposition to paternal rule was never overt, but resisted or negotiated.
For MacKay, the most obvious means of resisting control to royal authority was
through draft evasion.
25
Although it conflates the battle with the child’s birth, the painting itself was not
finished until 1574. Fernando was born December 4, 1571 and died October 18, 1578; of
the four sons Anna of Austria bore during her 10-year marriage, only the fourth, Philip III,
born in 1578, would live to adulthood.
26
The Spanish conquistadores would find analogies between their experiences and
the novels of chivalry; see Manuel Alvar, “Fantastic Tales and Chronicles of the Indies,”
in Amerindian Images and the Legacy of Columbus, René Jara and Nicholas Spadaccini,
eds, Jennifer Lang, trans. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992), 163–82.
Anthony J. Cascardi states that the chronicle of Bernal Díaz del Castillo “defines itself
within and against the forms of fiction of his day, most notably the romances of chivalry.”
Anthony J. Cascardi, “Chronicle toward Novel: Bernal Díaz’ History of the Conquest of
Mexico,” Novel 15 (1982): 197–212, 185.
27
In a recent study, Cascardi deliberates on Cervantes’s oblique method of dealing
with constraints, from those of actions to words themselves. Anthony J. Cascardi,
Cervantes, Literature, and the Discourse of Politics (Toronto: University of Toronto Press,
2012), 238–9.
28
Ruth Mackay, The Limits of Royal Authority: Resistance and Obedience in
Seventeenth-Century Castile (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 3.
Service in the king’s armies had at its origins the conscripted roles of soldiers
and military leaders carried out by both the lower classes and the nobility in
the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. Continued recruitment through
commissions, contracts, or compulsion, whether due to the enticement of the New
World or to dispatches to European battlefields, resulted in the constant drain of
manpower during the sixteenth century. In 1574, three years after the battle of
Lepanto, Philip II maintained 86,000 men in the Netherlands alone and tens of
thousands more in Italy and the Mediterranean; by 1630, Spain relied on over
150,000 soldiers, not counting its naval fleet.29 Many were civilians who took
up arms; others were professional soldiers, both conscripts and volunteers, and
most were probably, in the majority, young and raw.30 As a soldier who enlisted
in his early twenties, Cervantes was well aware that military service offered poor
youths a means of employment, no matter how miserly: in the novel, he has a
young man recite a tellingly cynical couplet: “I’m off to the wars for the want
of pence / if I had any money, I’d show more sense” [A la guerra me lleva mi
necesidad / si tuviera dineros, no fuera en verdad] (DQ, II, xxiv, 700). The episode
of Ruy Pérez de Viedma, a captain who like Cervantes had been a slave in Algiers
and escapes with the help of the Christianized Muslim Zoraida, is, as numerous
critics have pointed out, the most autobiographical part of the novel.31 As Diane
Sieber comments, Pérez de Viedma’s ethnographic narrative consists of a series
of social and linguistic exchanges that construes the self against a cultural Other;
she notes, however, that one of its fundamental systems of exchange is also that
of family organization.32 The captive’s tale further emblematizes familial relations
by encapsulating in its narrative the folktale of the father who divides his property
among his three sons so they may each make their living.33
Having been a spendthrift when young, the father wills his land to his sons
so they will learn to work. Instead of keeping his property, the father gives all
three a part with which to go off and earn their living. It is important both for
the fictional plot and for Cervantes’s critique of contemporary society that the
29
This was a large percentage of the population. Jan Glete, War and the State in
Early Modern Europe: Spain, the Dutch Republic and Sweden as Fiscal-Military States,
1500–1660 (New York; London: Routledge, 2002), 28.
30
Lorraine White, “The Experience of Spain’s Early Modern Soldiers: Combat,
Welfare and Violence,” War in History 9 (2002): 1–38, 2.
31
For the most detailed analysis of this episode and Cervantes’s captivity, see María
Antonia Garcés, Cervantes in Algiers: A Captive’s Tale (Nashville: Vanderbilt University
Press, 2002).
32
Diane E. Sieber, “Mapping Identity in the Captive’s Tale: Cervantes and
Ethnographic Narrative,” Cervantes: Bulletin of the Cervantes Society of America 18
(1998): 115–33, 123.
33
For folktypes, see the entry “Brothers” in The Greenwood Encyclopedia of Folktales
and Fairy Tales, ed. Donald Haase, Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2008, 140–42.
father does not follow the custom of primogeniture.34 Rather, he represents the
means by which, in early modern Spain, young men without a title of nobility
or inherited wealth could sustain themselves. The options available were neatly
condensed in the popular saying “church, sea, or royal court ” [iglesia, mar, o casa
real], wherein a second son [segundón] could either join the church, go to the
new world, or enter the king’s service. As Grace Coolidge confirms in her essay,
all three choices had the potential to advance the family fortunes. Reiterating the
same advice, the father in Cervantes’s interpolated tale tells his sons, “I mean to
express a wish that one of you should pursue learning, another commerce, and the
third should serve the king in his wars, for it is difficult to obtain a place in his
household, and although war does not bring much wealth, it gradually brings great
fame and renown” (DQ, I, xxxix, 394). Revealing the pressures put on real land
owners to keep properties within the family and the vicissitudes of primogeniture,
the captive breaks with folk tale conventions, as he recounts that an uncle bought
his father’s property.35
In contrast to the folktales that deal with a father figure in dispute with his sons,
Cervantes allows the father to keep some of his land, and although the sons give
him back two-thirds of the inheritance so he can survive, the father quickly uses
the monies to buy back part of the property. Not wishing to exploit his father, the
captive refuses to ask him for ransom when he is taken prisoner at the Battle of
Lepanto. The similarities with the author’s history have been pointed out before:
after Lepanto, Cervantes, who was also taken prisoner to Algiers, requested
ransom from his family.36 At the time, religious orders such as the Mercedarians
and the Trinitarians served as intermediaries to buy back captives from the enemy,
frequently putting themselves in the place of war slaves. The concepts of liberty
and free will are constantly interrogated in Cervantes’s novel, and he makes use
of this episode to assess the likelihood of achieving freedom from religious and
familial obligations as much as the possibility of assimilating with an Other. The
captain relates the story of a Spanish soldier, a certain Saavedra by name, who
was treated surprisingly well by his Muslim master: “To whom he never gave a
blow himself, or bade anyone else strike him, or even spoke a rough word to him,
34
According to Richard Kagan, “paternal authority was exerted most forcefully in
the case of the eldest son—symbol of the family’s lineage, the object of family hopes
and aspirations, and the one to whom the bulk of the family’s wealth would go through
Spain’s strong laws of primogeniture and entail—the mayorazgo system.” (Richard Kagan,
Students and Society in Early Modern Spain, http://libro.uca.edu/students/students1.htm.
Accessed August 29, 2012, 6). See also Bartolomé Clavero, Mayorazgo. Propiedad feudal
en Castilla, 1369–1836 (Madrid: Siglo XXI, 1989); and Roberto González Echevarria,
Love and the Law in Cervantes (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), 262, n. 12.
35
Coolidge explains that noble families saw their children as investments in the
patrilineal system to guarantee and strengthen their wealth and property.
36
Yet, complicating the tale’s homologous nature, according to Jean Canavaggio,
it was Cervantes’s mother who managed to secure her son’s ransom. Jean Canavaggio,
Cervantes, trans. J.R. Jones (New York: Norton, 1990), 90, 94.
though the man did things that will live in the memory of the people there for many
years to come. He did all these things to recover his lost liberty” (DQ, I, xxxix,
404). Despite the special treatment received, however, it is clear that his efforts
distinguished him from the Christian renegades who opted to remain in Muslim
countries.37
Of the three options (the church, the new world, or the king’s service), therefore,
the captain has chosen the most dangerous and life-threatening. Obeying one
master, he is placed in the position of rejecting another. Yet, as MacKay points out,
for those who resisted authority, a space was carved out between opposition and
obedience that allowed for liberty of action. In contradistinction to the captain’s

contemporary quandary, Don Quixote’s anachronistic role-playing as a knight-
errant highlights the uselessness of this social position as he recounts it in his
discourse on art and letters, an interruption in the narrative that foregrounds the
captain’s submerged anxieties about war.38 Don Quixote’s pronouncements create
a dichotomy between knight and soldier: we remember that, having lost his wits
and putting his chivalric plans into action, he refurbishes as his own arms his great-
grandfather’s rusty armor, with only half a helmet (DQ, I, i, 59). The inefficiency
of the arms handed down from his precursor contrasts with the soldier’s weapons
he now praises as the more manly choice over the career of letters:
To achieve eminence in letters costs a man time, vigils, hunger, nakedness,

dizziness in the head, indigestion, and other inconveniences … but to arrive by
grades to be a good soldier costs a man all that it costs the student, only in so
much greater degree that that there is no comparison between them, for at every
step he is in danger of losing his life. (DQ, I, xxxvii, 390–91)
Nevertheless, he revokes modern arms by assuming the archaic values of the

novels of chivalry: he ends his discourse by reclaiming the ideals of knight errantry
against the weapons of modern warfare: “I have a mind to say that I am grieved in
my soul at having undertaken this profession of knight-errantry in so detestable an
age as this we live in … [But] I shall win all the greater fame if I am successful in
my quest, for the dangers to which I expose myself are greater than those that did
beset the knights of past ages” (DQ, I, xxxviii, 392).
Unlike Cervantes and his soldier avatar, Don Quixote turns his back on royal
authority, insisting instead on total freedom to compel everyone to follow the code
of chivalry. One of the clearest examples of his failure is his early attempt to free
the galley slaves, a dozen men on foot shackled together by the neck and wrists.
Sancho tells him that these are a chain of prisoners on the way to the galleys
under the king’s orders. Claiming that they have been taken by force and not of
37
For Christian renegades, see Bartolomé Bennassar and Lucile Bennassar, Les
chrétiens d’Allah. L’histoire extraordinaire des renégats (Paris: Perrin, 2001).
38
For González Echevarría, interruptions “facilitate the emergence of a different,
challenging or adversarial truth, unknown to the teller himself and certainly to his
interlocutors.” González Echevarría, Love and the Law, 98.
their own will, Don Quixote demands their freedom, arguing that “here is the
opportunity for me to carry out my duty: to redress grievances and give help to
the poor and the afflicted” (DQ, I, xxii, 209–10). The episode shows Cervantes’s
continued concerns about the meaning of liberty and the justice of the law, since
Don Quixote believes that the slaves should not suffer what he considers unjust
bondage because God and nature had made them free.39 Yet by releasing the slaves
and defying the king’s dominion over them, he breaks the law, since the slaves
fall under royal authority. While the ungrateful slaves pelt him with rocks as they
run away, in his questionable role of liberator, he usurps—all the while placing in
doubt—the king’s problematic authority as father of the state.

Although increasingly challenged by the frequency of female rulers and the
contingent nature of the patriarchy, the rule of the father nevertheless remained
an undeniable symbolic force in early modern social and religious institutions.
Like the conduct books, the letters and “instructions” written by well-known
political figures to their sons, studied recently by Nieves Baranda, demonstrate
the interest taken in their offspring’s education and moral development, typically
when the sons were about to leave home either as soldiers or students.40 In his
Espejo del príncipe christiano, the theologian Francisco Monzón instructed that
fathers who brought up vice-ridden sons should be publicly punished, for they
had not paid their debt to the state and could not call themselves good citizens.41
39
Cervantes’s concerns surely reflected his view of his own imprisonment; according
to Pike, most “royal slaves” [esclavos del rey] were prisoners of war; Ruth Pike, Penal
Servitude in Early Modern Spain, Chapter 1: The Galleys, http://libro.uca.edu/pservitude/
pservitude.htm. Accessed August 30, 2012. For legal discourse as the formation of the
modern novel, see González Echevarría, Love and the Law.
40
Baranda has found some 20 manuscripts housed in Madrid’s Biblioteca Nacional;
it is likely that the majority of these documents, most of which are not holographs, were
saved owing to the authors’ renown. At least one letter is from a cardinal to his nephews,
and another from a widow to her son, while another two are written to the son’s tutor. The
most prominent, which we will have occasion to discuss later, are the letter from Emperor
Charles V to Prince Philip; the “instruction” from Philip II to his brother, Juan of Austria;
and the letter from Philip III to his daughter Ana of Austria, the only one addressed to a
woman. Baranda rightly questions the documents’ authenticity, although she concludes that
some of the topics mentioned are sufficiently personal as to apply solely to the addressee.
For a perceptive discussion of the documents’ rhetoricity and their relationship to conduct
manuals, see her articles “Escritos para la educación de nobles en los siglos XVI y XVII,”
Bulletin Hispanique 97.1 (1995): 157–71; and “Los nobles toman cartas en la educación de
sus vástagos,” Siglo de Oro: Actas del IV Congreso Internacional de AISO Alcalá 1996, ed.
María Cruz García de Enterría and Alicia Cordón Mesa (Alcalá de Henares: Universidad de
Alcalá, 1998), 215–23.
41
“Cosa justa sería que con publica justicia castigassen a los padres que criassen
viciosos a sus hijos, pues no satisfaze[n] a la deuda q[ue] deuen a su republica, q[ue] no
abasta para poderse llamar bvenos cibdadanos q[ue] engendren hijos.” Only afterwards
does he address the prince: “que son obligados a criarlos virtuosos, para q[ue] sean pacificos
y suficientes para regir y augm[ent]tar su pueblo” [as they are obliged to rear virtuous sons,
It is not insignificant, therefore, that whether idealized or devalued, so many male

parental figures appear in early modern fiction.42 In Don Quixote, moreover, the
generational tensions between fathers and sons trope the historical break between
the medieval past and modernity. Similarly to the generic confrontation that takes
place between chivalric novels and Cervantes’s narrative, the epistemic fractures
between generations become visible during the familial conflicts experienced by
the novel’s characters, such as the captive soldier Ruy Pérez de Viedma and his
father, the young servant Andrés and his master, the Knight of the Green Cloak
and his son, and even Don Quixote and his squire, Sancho.
Don Quixote’s earliest attempts at liberating a perceived victim involve his

paternal intervention when he encounters the young servant Andrés being whipped
(Figure 3.2). The 15-year-old had probably been signed by his father under
contract to his master, a common practice in early modern Spain, where children
served for four or five years in exchange for food, lodging, and a small salary.
According to Aurelia Martín Casares, servants lived and slept in their masters’
houses, coming under constant supervision. In his essay in this volume, Edward
Behrend-Martínez further investigates the ill treatment given children as cases
of child abuse, questioning whether society has the obligation to interfere when
the situation places the child’s life at risk. In Don Quixote, this becomes a legal
quandary, since the boy’s wealthy master, Juan Haldudo, has potestas over him;
because he holds him accountable for the disappearance of his sheep, he refuses to
pay him his wages. Moreover, a new section in the 1598 Nueva Recopilación de
las Leyes del Reino [New Compendium of the Laws of the Kingdom] regarding
domestic servants included the regulation of those serving in affluent households.
It thus established punishments for servants who stole and punishments for people
who bought goods from servants, as these were considered thieves and were then
also punishable by law.43
Despite Juan Haldudo’s legal right to punish Andrés, Don Quixote threatens
the man, stating to the young boy that his master will stop flaying him, because
“I have only to command and he will respect me and do my behest. I shall let
him go free and guarantee payment to you, provided he swears by the order of
knighthood that he has received” (DQ, I, iv, 76). A skeptical Andrés responds that
Juan, never having been knighted, is under no obligation to act according to the
who will be peaceful, reign well, and increase the population]. Francisco Monzón, Libro
primero del Espejo del principe christiano: que trata como se ha de criar vn principe o niño
generoso desde su tierna niñez (Lisboa, 1544), fol. xii-r.
42
While the novels of chivalry present an idealized view of fathers, the picaresque
novels satirize the father-son relationship by questioning the paternity of the pícaros’
fathers. For fathers in plays, see Naima Lamari, El padre en la dramática de Tirso de
Molina (Madrid: Revista de Estudios, 2010); and Evelyn Ruegg, “El padre en el teatro de
Lope de Vega,” Hispanófila 25 (1965): 1–16.
43
See Aurelia Martín Casares, “Domestic Service in Spain: Legislation, Gender and
Social Practice,” http://www.antropologiadelaesclavitud.org/uploads/docs/Domestic%20
Service%20Legislation%20Spain.pdf, 200. Accessed August 29, 2012.
Fig. 3.2 Héliodore Pisan, The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote of La Mancha
by Spanish Writer Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616). Scene with
Don Quixote. Engraving of drawing by Gustave Doré (1833–1883).
Art Resource, NY.
chivalric code. Still, arguing that “every man is the son of his own works,” Don
Quixote orders Juan to pay the boy his wages. As soon as Andrés’s purported
savior leaves, the master calls the boy: “Come here, my boy; I want to pay you
what I owe you” (76–7). Carrying out the cruel play on words, he ties the boy up
again and whips him harder than before. Not only does Don Quixote fail to free
the child from his master’s abusive authority, but he makes the situation even
worse by having the boy punished for his—Don Quixote’s—intrusion in their
relationship. Indeed, Andrés will accuse Don Quixote exactly of this when he
meets him several days later. Andrés’s reappearance interrupts Don Quixote’s
reverie over his visit to El Toboso, yet he again begins to fantasize, this time about
his visit to Dorotea’s imaginary kingdom. Andrés realizes that Don Quixote has
failed him a second time: “For the love of God, sir knight-errant, if you meet me
again, even though you see me being cut to pieces, do not come to my aid, but
leave me to my misfortunes. No matter how great they are, they will not be as
great as those that spring from your help” (DQ, I, xxxi, 318).
Don Quixote’s failure to grant Andrés protection from the law’s severity shows
his counterproductive involvement in father-son relations. Two chapters in Part II
that immediately follow one another deal with topical situations involving adult
children’s choices that often conflict with parental wishes. The first, Don Quixote’s
encounter with Don Diego de Miranda, the Knight of the Green Cloak, presents
perhaps the most famous example of fathers who intend to control the desires and
actions of their sons; it will also emphasize the knight’s inability to intercede for
the son and resolve their generational conflicts. Critics have commented that Don
Diego functions as Don Quixote’s counterpart:44 both are about 50 years old, both
are hidalgos and have received a similar humanist education. They live away from
court, and although Don Diego is wealthier, both enjoy the leisure sport of hunting
small game. Yet, unlike Don Quixote, Don Diego fits the paradigm of the Roman
paterfamilias in that he is married and has offspring.45 The son, who is 18 years
of age and a student at the University of Salamanca, has become obsessed with
poetry (see Figure 3.3). The father is upset at his only son’s refusal to study law: “I,
Don Quixote, have one son, and if he did not exist, perhaps I might count myself
44
See Darío Fernández-Morera, “Chivalry, Symbolism, and Psychology in Cervantes’
Knight of the Green Cloak,” Hispanic Review 61 (Autumn, 1993): 531–46. See also
Francisco Márquez Villanueva, “El caballero del verde gabán y su reino de paradoja,”
in Personajes y temas del Quijote (Madrid: Taurus, 1975), 147–227; and Charles D.
Presberg, “‘Yo sé quien soy:’ Don Quixote, Don Diego de Miranda and the Paradox of Self-
Knowledge,” Cervantes 14 (1994): 42–69. The difference is in their physiognomy: “[Don
Diego] was amazed at his long scrawny neck, his tall body, his gaunt sallow face, his armor,
his gestures and his carriage, a figure and image not seen in those parts for many a year”
(DQ, II, xvi, 632).
45
Cervantes inserts a classicist joke that will later resonate with the Basilio and
Quiteria episode: Don Diego protects his handsome mare from the broken-down Rocinante
so he does not become aroused by her scent, a concern Sancho interprets as offensive to
Rocinante’s honor (DQ, II, xvi, 631).
Fig. 3.3 Gustave Doré, Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. The student
Don Lorenzo reads the poems at their guests Don Quixote and
Sancho and his family. (DQ, II, 18). Engraving, nineteenth century.
Art Resource, NY.
more fortunate than I do at present, not because he is wicked, but because he is not
as good as I would wish” (DQ, II, xvi, 635).
Don Diego’s repeated aspirations for his son—“I wished him to proceed to the
study of other sciences;” “I would like him to study [Law] or … Theology;” “I
wish him to be a credit to his family”—are, in effect, complaints about the son’s
desire to pursue his own interests.46 The father’s concern that the son study law
rather than poetry inspires one of Don Quixote’s most lucid speeches. Fully three
pages long, the pronouncement is essentially a defense of poetry and a guide for
parents on rearing children and letting them choose their own career path.47 No
doubt, the episode represents a strong, if equivocal critique of the practice in the
early modern period of parents selecting their children’s profession, no matter how
ill-suited they may have been to a particular occupation, since, as Coolidge and
Martha Hoffman indicate, it was meant to ensure the preservation of family and
46
In courses I have taught on Don Quixote, students often find this episode similar to
their own experience with their parents, perhaps revealing the theme’s near-universality.
47
The speech reiterates Monzón’s earlier counsel: “It is the duty of their parents to
guide them from infancy along the paths of virtue, good breeding, and Christian behavior,
so that grown up, they may be the staff of their parents’ old age and the glory of their
posterity. But when it comes to forcing them to study this or that science, I consider it
unwise, although there may be no harm in persuading them” (DQ, II, xvi, 635).
dynasty.48 The possible link between temperament and cognition had been earlier
expounded by the physician Juan Huarte de San Juan in his Examen de ingenios
para las sciencias [The Examination of Men’s Wits] (1575), the first systematic
attempt to correlate psychology with physiology. Carroll Johnson and other critics
have investigated the influence Huarte de San Juan’s study had on our author.49
The book, which was an enormous success in Europe, stresses the “varieties of
nature” and the different capacities of men for different professions, based on
their intelligence or “wit.”50 Although relying on humoral theory, the physician’s
belief in the application of specific talents to men’s choice of career anticipates
the arguments proposed by Don Quixote to Don Diego. Indeed, the book’s censor,
Fray Lorenzo de Villalvicencio, declared in his license to the book’s publication
that all fathers should give its main thesis serious consideration, since if its tenets
were followed, the church, the state, and its families would no doubt be assured of
outstanding administrators and subjects.51
Struck by how cogent his arguments sound, therefore, Don Diego begins to
doubt the knight’s insanity. Yet after an ineffectual attack on a caged lion, whose
apathetic demeanor underlines once more Don Quixote’s “childish bravado,” he
names himself “Knight of the Lions,” a title that, according to the “author of this
story,” recalled the historical knight Don Manuel Ponce de León, who had taken
part in the Catholic Monarch’s siege of Granada (DQ, II, xvii, 643, n. 2).52 A newly
deranged Don Quixote thus proclaims his final argument to Don Diego. Reverting
to the same irrational anachronism that led him to imitate the novels of chivalry,
he assures the young man that while poetry is a worthwhile profession, knighthood
is the better choice, since one can achieve fame and power much more quickly.
He ends by saying to the son: “ I do not know whether I have told your worship
before, but if I have, I will repeat it, that if you would save labor and pains in
climbing to the inaccessible peak of the temple of Fame, you have only to quit the
48
See Martha K. Hoffman, Raised to Rule: Educating Royalty at the Court of the
Spanish Habsburgs, 1601–1634 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2011).
49
See Carroll B. Johnson, Madness and Lust: A Psychoanalytical Approach to Don
Quixote (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1983); and Chester S.
Halka, “Don Quijote in the Light of Huarte’s Examen de ingenios: A Reexamination,” Acer
19 (1981): 3–13.
50
The first English version of Huarte de San Juan’s Examen De ingenios was
translated as The Examination of Men’s Wits (London, 1594), by Richard Carew from the
Italian translation.
51
“Su principal argumento es tan necesario de considerar de todos los padres de
familia, que si siguiesen lo que en este libro se advierte, la Iglesia, la república y las familias
tendrian e ministros y sugetos importantísimos,” cited in Juan Huarte de San Juan, Examen
de ingenios para las ciencias (Madrid: 1846), x.
52
The episode, however, references Ponce de León’s offer to retrieve a lady’s glove
from a lion’s den. After he gives the glove to the lady, he slaps her across the face for
placing him in such danger. Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, Batallas y quinquagenas, vol. 2
(Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 2000), 309–10.
rather narrow road of poetry and follow the narrowest path of all, that of knight-
errantry, which is sufficient to raise you to be an emperor in the twinkling of an
eye” (DQ, II, xviii, 656). For once settling their disagreements, both father and son
are left shaking their heads at the knight’s apparently sudden shift from reason to
madness.
Yet Don Quixote’s act of counsel to Don Diego’s son is itself an appropriation
of the father’s role, as he ends up acknowledging himself the son’s intellectual
parent. His last words admonish the father that the son should not pay attention
to his parents’ opinions, since they often delude themselves as to their children’s
intelligence:
God knows I should like to take Don Lorenzo with me to teach him how to spare
the humble and subdue and trample upon the proud, accomplishments proper to
the profession I follow. But … I content myself with advising him that as a poet
he will be able to acquire fame … For there is no father or mother to whom their
children seem ugly, and this delusion is even more prevalent where the children
of the brain are concerned (DQ, II, xviii, 656).
In the end, Don Quixote’s sympathy toward the young poet is as easily disrupted
as his mental state. Although he emphasizes their mutual interest in poetry, their
relationship is quickly severed when he believes he has accomplished his paternal
duty. Predicated on Don Quixote’s inconsistent arguments, the father and son’s
reconciliation is bound to be equally temporary.
The chapter that follows, on Don Quixote’s attendance at Camacho’s wedding
feast, although usually analyzed for its theme of romantic love versus cupidity,
deals also with generational conflicts. This episode foregrounds yet another case
of parent-child discord, in this case, the adult children’s desire to marry against
their parents’ wishes. Quiteria’s father had arranged to marry her to Camacho,
who was far wealthier than her other suitor, Basilio. Don Quixote at first agrees
with the parental decision: “If all who love one another well were to marry,
parents would lose the right to marry their children when and to whom they
choose … for love and fancy easily blind the eyes of understanding, which are
so necessary when choosing one’s state” (DQ, II, xix, 695). Yet Basilio’s trick,
whereby he pretends he has stabbed himself at the wedding ceremony in order to
marry Quiteria, will completely reverse the outcome, and instigate Don Quixote’s
erratic reasoning. On their arrival, Don Quixote and Sancho are mere spectators:
the narrative force of the events is taken over by ostentatious excess, as the rich
farmer Camacho sumptuously celebrates his wedding to Quiteria. Her love for
Basilio, whose epithet of “poor” counters that of the “rich” Camacho, sets up the
dichotomy between wealth and love. Quiteria’s lineage is superior to Camacho’s,
yet the exaggerated descriptions of abundant food and the allegorical dances that
play out the actual divisions between social classes and emotions—Love, Interest,
Liberality, and Poetry—serve to remind us that because hunger and death always
haunt the poor, Quiteria’s marriage to Basilio must then become reason enough to
interrogate her sincerity and virtue.
Passively accepting her father’s orders to marry Camacho—and unlike so

many other daughters in the novel—Quiteria is no more than a pawn among men.
She is objectified by the paleness that comes over her during the wedding, where
she is displayed in the rich dress and jewels that show off Camacho’s wealth,
and by the etymological significance of her name, which alludes to “quitar” or
quit (from the Hebrew kiter – to separate and divide), but also “quitación” or
salary, and “quitanza” or payment.53 The story’s romantic love triangle is based on
the socio-economic difference between the two suitors, as Don Quixote reminds
the spectators of Basilio’s trick wedding: “Camacho is rich and can purchase his
pleasure when, where, and how he pleases. Basilio has nothing but this one ewe
lamb, and no one, however powerful he may be, shall take her from him” (DQ, II,
xix, 676). What at this point in his argument has convinced Don Quixote of
Basilio’s worth is not, however, the young man’s true love or even his artfulness,
but his physical prowess. For his views on love, Don Quixote relies as usual on
his readings of chivalric novels: he deems that Basilio, like those novels’ youthful
knights, deserves to marry not only “the fair Quiteria, but Guinevere herself,
where she alive today, in spite of Lancelot and of all who should try to prevent
it” (DQ, II, xix, 659). For Don Quixote, this is high praise indeed. He continues
to clarify his position to Basilio that the end justifies the means: “Trick it should
not be called … Seeing that it aimed at virtuous ends. The marriage of lovers is a
most excellent end, for the greatest enemy of love is hunger and continuous want”
(DQ, II, xxii, 678). Although he opposes the father’s desire to force his daughter
to marry someone whom she does not love, his own reason becomes clouded
when arguing for a marriage based on affect, yet threatened by material lack. His
equivocal statement thus questions the redemptive quality of love in marriage, for
how can the choice of a spouse be made willingly, if its main purpose is to avert
poverty?54
It is instead Sancho Panza who, at the beginning of the episode, gives a
pragmatic reason for the father’s rejection of the “forlorn Basilio” as a son-in-law:
Fancy wanting to marry in the clouds when one hasn’t a penny to bless one’s
name! By my faith, sir, it’s my opinion that the poor fellow should be content
with what he can get and he shouldn’t be ferreting for dainties at the bottom of
53
“Del verbo hebreo kiter, que vale apartar y dividir. Quitación, el salario que se da;
y asi decimos racion y quitacion.” Pedro Felipe Monlau, Diccionario etimológico de la
lengua castellana (Madrid: Imprenta y Esterotipia de M. Rivadeneyra, 1856), 369.
54
I am not as convinced as González Echevarría of this episode’s “happy ending,”
Love and the Law, 134. The final resolution and success of Basilio and Quiteria’s marriage
are left undecided: Don Quixote is aware that Basilio’s talents earn him no money, and that
he should “set himself to acquiring a livelihood by lawful and industrious means” (DQ,
II, xxii, 678–9). The allusion to the Pyramus and Thisbe myth, which ends with the two
lovers’ deaths, and which connects this chapter to the previous episode of the Knight of
the Green Cloak, may be more ominous than merely a case of “bodies changed.” González
Echevarría, Love and the Law, 137.
the sea. I’d bet my arm Camacho could cover Basilio in gold pieces, and if it is
so, as it must be, Quiteria would be daft to throw away the jewels and the finery
Camacho must have given, and can give her… On a good foundation you can
build a solid house, and the best foundation and ground work in the world is
money. (DQ, II, xx, 665)
At the start of Book II, Sancho is still more interested in realizing his own desires
than in criticizing those of others. As the less educated and the more dependent of
the two, Sancho has endured Don Quixote’s paternalistic attitude throughout all
their adventures. Of the two, however, it is Sancho who, like the knights of the
novels of chivalry, finally reaches an unexpected level of maturity through the

trials he undergoes when fulfilling his initial wish to govern an island.55 Although
already a pater familias, his abandonment of the family home to seek his fortune
had underscored his immaturity. Indeed, the ironic description of his departure on
their first journey converted him in jest into a patriarchal figure: “Sancho Panza
rode along on his ass like a patriarch, with his saddlebags and wineskin, full of
a huge longing to see himself governor of the island his master had promised
to him” (DQ, I, 7, 96).56 As an inspired device for generating the novel’s plot,
the promise of an island motivates Sancho to bear with Don Quixote’s irascible
behavior, as he unwittingly educates himself while on the road with Don Quixote.
Certainly, one of the real lessons absorbed by Sancho when he becomes
governor of Barataria is to be careful for what one wishes. As in the other
episodes, Don Quixote acts in the role of a father figure to counsel Sancho at great
length on his new position, revealing in the process not a little resentment over
his squire’s success.57 Don Quixote’s final counsel, the letter he writes Sancho
when he ultimately assumes the governorship, testifies to the squire’s newly
acquired wisdom and humility. Nonetheless, Don Quixote, accustomed to his
parental role, cannot keep from lecturing him, even recommending that Sancho
not act so humbly and implying that he has yet to reach manhood: “They tell me
that you govern like a man, yet as a man you might as well be a dumb beast so
55
Sancho’s own behavior as a father to Sanchica and Sanchico will come full circle;
he first abandons them, then, after his maturation as governor of Barataria, he longs to
return home to his family.
56
The image, ingrained in readers’ minds by innumerable renderings, helps to
formulate a view of the pair, not solely as physically dissimilar, but hierarchically and
intellectually incommensurate.
57
“I give Heaven infinite thanks, Sancho, my friend, that even before I have met with
response to my fondest hopes, good fortune has gone out to welcome you. I, who trusted
in my own success for the reward of your good services, find myself at the beginning
of my advancement, while you, before our time and beyond all reasonable expectation,
have crowned your wishes” (DQ, II, xlii, 824). For an excellent analysis of Don Quixote’s
fictional letters to Sancho and their similarity to the Count-Duke of Olivares’s “self-
characterizing” letters to his son-in-law, see Elias L. Rivers, “Don Quixote’s Fatherly
Advice, and Olivares’s,” Cervantes 18 (1998): 74–84.
humbly do you behave. But I wish you would take note, Sancho, that it is often
fitting and necessary for the authority of one in office to go counter to his natural
humility” (DQ, II, l, 894).58 Aware that the letter will be read aloud to Sancho,
Don Quixote writes in an elevated, formal style, signing off as “your friend,” yet
distancing himself by adding his full title, “Don Quixote de la Mancha.”59 The
mix of styles evokes the letter mentioned earlier from Charles V to young Prince
Philip, which the emperor named both “letter” and “instructions.” As Baranda
points out, although belonging to two different categories (the letter participates in
the sermo absentium, while the instruction functions at the level of governance),
the emperor’s missive combines both.60

In his letter to Don Quixote however, Sancho maintains his same form of popular
diction; he feels no pressure to act differently as he complains about his position.
Suggesting that he has learned his lesson, he grumbles that instead of hot food and
a warm bed, he has found only discomfort. Ignoring Don Quixote’s manipulative
remark that he is planning to leave “this idle life,” an aside probably parodying
the emperor’s abdication and intended to recall the squire from Barataria, Sancho
apprises the knight of his doings. He has acted very much like a typical father in
selecting a young man as his son-in-law, a thought possibly inspired by his having
witnessed Basilio and Quiteria’s recent marriage. In another mature move, he asks
for news from home, a request he had never before made: “If my wife Teresa
Panza should write to me, pay the carriage and send me the letter, for I have a great
longing to hear how things are with my house, my wife, and my children” (DQ, II,
li, 898). Although Don Quixote believes he must continue to instruct Sancho on
the correct way of governing—among a long list of recommendations, he cautions
him not to wear trinkets or fancy clothes, not to make too many laws, and to be a
“father to virtues and a stepfather to vices”—it is evident from Sancho’s response
that the disillusioned squire is impatient to leave Barataria; he has learned to
appreciate what he had left behind and is ready to resume his paternal role.
One important incident that takes place before Sancho assumes his government
post is the dukes’ ploy to ridicule Sancho at their palace. When viewed with Don
Quixote’s need to control the squire so he can sustain his imaginative powers,
the incident offers a clue to Sancho’s attainment of his eventual maturity. At the
palace, Merlin the magician appears as a figure of death, charging Sancho with
58
Sancho’s proud depiction on his ass when he leaves and his humble demeanor when
governor thus come full circle, in representing his asinine nature and the ass as Christian
symbol of humility. Adrienne Laskier Martín, “Public Indiscretion and Courtly Diversion:
The Burlesque Letters in Don Quijote II,” Cervantes 11 (1991): 87–101, 92, nn. 13, 14.
59
Although Teresa Panza’s correspondence with the duchess may be classified as
burlesque, Sancho’s letter follows his customary oral comic discourse with Don Quixote.
See Martín, “Public Indiscretion” for a fine study of burlesque letters.
60
Baranda, “Los nobles toman cartas,” 217. For another perspective, see Helena
Percas de Ponseti, “Los consejos de don Quijote a Sancho,” Cervantes and the Renaissance:
Papers of the Pomona College Cervantes Symposium, November 16–18, 1978, ed. Michael
McGaha (Newark, DE: Juan de la Cuesta, 1980), 194–236.
the task of disenchanting Dulcinea by giving himself 3,300 lashes. This physical
punishment was of the kind inflicted on the buttocks of ill-behaved youths, such
as the penalty earlier meted to Andrés: “Needful it is that thy squire, Sancho
Panza, / Three thousand and three hundred stripes should lay / On both his brawny
buttocks bar’d to heaven, / Such as may sting and tease and hurt him well: / The
authors of her woes have thus decreed / And therefore, lords and ladies, I am
here” (DQ, II, xxxv, 784). Intended as a practical joke by the duke and duchess,
the command nevertheless enjoins Sancho to yield to Don Quixote’s will by
assenting to his humiliation. Carroll Johnson has interpreted the episode as a
critique of feudalism, since Sancho’s interest in economic gain had until then been
restrained by the loyalty expected from him in the hierarchical old order.61 Yet the
concession also tests the squire’s resolve, since the governorship has released him
from Don Quixote’s guardianship. The split at this time in the narrative, with each
protagonist going his separate way, denotes their psychological separation and
Sancho’s increasing agency in contrast to Don Quixote’s decline.
Aiming to liberate Dulcinea from the enchantment, Don Quixote decides that
he should impose the punishment on Sancho to comply with Merlin’s conditions.
He comes at Sancho sleeping and tries to untie his pants, ranting, “I have come
to whip you, Sancho, and discharge, at least in part, the debt that you did engage
yourself to pay. Dulcinea is perishing; you live on without caring what becomes
of her; I am dying with longing; so, let down your breeches of your own free will”
(DQ, II, lx, 955). Sancho reacts by tripping the knight and throwing him to the
floor; putting one knee against his chest, he holds his hands down so Don Quixote
can neither breathe nor move. Shocked, Don Quixote exclaims: “How, traitor!
Do you dare to raise a hand against your master and against the hand that feeds
you?” Sancho replies, “I only defend myself, who am my lord. If you promise me,
master, that you’ll let me alone and not try to whip me, I’ll set you free” (DQ, II,
lx, 955–6). As Johnson comments, their hierarchical relationship has come apart
due to the physical rebellion manifested against the master’s authority. Disclosing
that he has not yet liberated himself, however, Sancho will cry out for Don Quixote
when a mysterious dangling leg touches his head as he rests beneath a tree.
In spite of Sancho’s fears in the dark wood, allayed only by Don Quixote’s
protective companionship, the episode demonstrates just how much the tables
have turned. Part II’s adventures have reduced Don Quixote’s creative powers,
since the readers of Part I expect his actions to match his previous behavior.
Victimized by those same readers who, like the duke and duchess, impose their
will on him, the knight also falls victim to his story’s own plot in order to retain
his sense of identity. The episode’s nod to an erotically homosocial encounter,
which would have Sancho willingly expose his buttocks to Don Quixote, thus
“It is clear that feudalism has been rendered inoperative. Respect for his obligations
61
to his master is not sufficient to compel Sancho to administer the beatings.” Carroll B.
Johnson, Cervantes and the Material World (Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois
Press, 2000), 32.
substituting for a still enchanted and absent Dulcinea to gratify Don Quixote’s
longing, transforms instead into a violent power struggle, as Don Quixote assumes
the bottom position, with Sancho on top. It is no longer Don Quixote who states,
as in the past, that he knows who he is, but Sancho, whose self-knowledge has
increased immeasurably in considering himself his own lord. Armed with this
knowledge, accumulated over time, Sancho counters Don Quixote’s assertion that
he is still under his rule. The pair’s incongruity in fact results from the inversion of
the father-son hierarchy: even if he will later call out for his help, Sancho claims
he will liberate Don Quixote if he will end his paternal behavior.
It will not be until his return to La Mancha, however, that Don Quixote
abandons all pretense of paternal control. His final act, the writing of his last will
and testament, ends by diminishing, if not erasing altogether, his importance as
head of the household:
The household was in grief and confusion; and yet, after all, the niece continued
to eat her meals, the housekeeper drowned her sorrows in wine, and Sancho
Panza puffed himself up with satisfaction, for the thought of a legacy possesses
a magic power to remove, or at least to soothe, the pangs that the heir should
otherwise feel for the death of his friend. (DQ, II, lxxiv, 1048–9)
Surrounded by the few heirs who will receive whatever monies the knight had
managed not to squander in payment for his beloved books of chivalry, Don
Quixote at his deathbed at once recalls and parodies one of the most famous poems
of the Spanish middle ages, the Coplas por la muerte de su padre [Odes on the
Death of His Father], by Jorge Manrique. The poem eloquently addresses the
manner in which men conducted their lives, calling attention to real historical
persons and occurrences, not old myths and legends.62 After celebrating his father’s
great deeds, which merited a Christian death in his own bed accompanied by his
loved ones, Jorge Manrique alludes to the fame his father achieved as his second
life, and to the eternal life he deserves.63
Cervantes was surely familiar with the poem, alluded to by the notary when,
on seeing Don Quixote receive all the sacraments and hearing his condemnation
62
I cite from the translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: “I speak not of the
Trojan name / neither its glory nor its shame / has met our eyes; / nor of Rome’s great and
glorious dead / though we have heard so oft, and read, their histories. / … Our theme shall
be of yesterday.” John Armstrong Crow, ed. “Jorge Manrique. Odes on the Death of His
Father,” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, trans., in An Anthology of Spanish Poetry: From
the Beginnings to the Present Day (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1979),
22–31, 22. For an extensive study of the poem’s receptivity, see Nancy F. Marino, Jorge
Manrique’s Coplas Por La Muerte de Su Padre: A History of the Poem and Its Reception
(Woodbridge: Tamesis, 2011).
63
“Encircled by his family, / watched by affection’s gentle eye, / so soft and kind, /
His soul to Him who gave it rose; / God lead it to its long repose, / Its glorious rest! / And,
though the warrior’s sun has set, / Its light shall linger round us yet, / Bright, radiant, blest.”
Crow, “Jorge Manrique,” 31.
of books of chivalry, he asserts that “he had never read of any knight who ever
died in his bed so peacefully and like a good Christian as Don Quixote” (DQ, II,
lxxiv, 1049). As Coolidge suggests in her essay, the rituals flanking death are a
means to stave off fear, yet the true measure of a “good death” is one’s biological
legacy. As he lays dying, the childless Don Quixote paradoxically resumes the
same characteristics of medieval knighthood that he has just renounced, as
Manrique’s father had been a real knight belonging to the old order. In the end, it
is not Sancho, even in the guise of a prodigal son, who writes the father’s eulogy,
but Cervantes’s stepson, the fictitious historian, Cidi Hamete Benengeli. In a final
reversal of paternal-filial correspondence, the Moor ventriloquizes his pen, giving

it credit for engendering Don Quixote: “For me alone Don Quixote was born,
and I for him; he knew how to act, and I knew how to write” (DQ, II, xlxxiv,
1050). Although a bold reproof of Avellaneda’s recently published sequel, Hamete
Benengeli’s closing words also intend to discredit the “false and absurd” chivalric
novels, whose prestige has been shattered by the tale of his “true” knight.
What the Moor leaves unsaid, yet what the novel’s father-son episodes
repeatedly albeit ambiguously enact, are the anxieties produced by the fracturing
of generational and generic linearity. As Cervantes—who, like Don Quixote, never
fathered a biological son—proposes in this most successful critique of familial and
literary genealogies, the knight’s attempts to forcefully implement his concept of
an exemplary paternity instead serve merely to sustain the old order. In the same
way, Don Quixote’s idealist vision of freedom remains always dependent on his
failed imitation of masculinist chivalric adventures. His efforts to liberate those
whom he believes oppressed by that same order, therefore, irretrievably miscarry.
Works Cited
Adams, Julia. “The Rule of the Father: Patriarchy and Patrimonialism in Early
Modern Europe.” In Max Weber’s Economy and Society, edited by Charles
Camic et al., 237–66. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005.
Allen, Paul C. Philip III and the Pax Hispanica, 1598–1621: The Failure of Grand
Strategy. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000.
Alvar, Manuel. “Fantastic Tales and Chronicles of the Indies.” In Amerindian
Images and the Legacy of Columbus, edited by René Jara and Nicholas
Spadaccini. Translated by Jennifer Lang, 163–82. Minneapolis, MN: University
of Minnesota Press, 1992.
Amunátegui Perelló, Carlos Felipe. Origen de los poderes del paterfamilias. El
pater familias y la patria potestas. Madrid: Dykinson, 2009.
Baranda, Nieves. “Escritos para la educación de nobles en los siglos XVI y XVII,”
Bulletin Hispanique 97 (1995): 157–71.
———. “Los nobles toman cartas en la educación de sus vástagos.” In Siglo de
Oro: Actas del IV Congreso Internacional de AISO Alcalá 1996, edited by
María Cruz García de Enterría and Alicia Cordón Mesa, 215–23. Alcalá de
Henares: Universidad de Alcalá, 1998.
Beebe, John. “The Memory of the Hero and the Emergence of the Post-Heroic
Attitude.” In Barcelona 2004: The Edges of Experience: Memory and
Emergence. Proceedings of the 16th International IAAP Congress for Analytical
Psychology, edited by Lynn Cowan, 259–74. Einsiedeln, Switzerland: Daimon
Verlag, 2006.
Bennassar, Bartolomé, and Lucile Bennassar. Les chrétiens d’Allah. L’histoire
extraordinaire des renégats. Paris: Perrin, 2001.
Bognolo, Anna. El Lepolemo o Caballero de la Cruz y el Leandro el Bel. Estudio
crítico. Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de Cervantes, 2011.
Broomhall, Susan, and Jacqueline Van Gent, eds. Governing Masculinities in the
Early Modern Period. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011.
“Brothers.” In The Greenwood Encyclopedia of Folktales and Fairy Tales, edited
by Donald Haase, 140–42. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2008.
Canavaggio, Jean. Cervantes. Translated by J.R. Jones. New York: Norton, 1990.
Cartagena Calderón, José R. Masculinidades en obras: El drama de la hombría en
la España imperial. Newark, DE: Juan de la Cuesta, 2008.
Cascardi, Anthony J. Cervantes, Literature, and the Discourse of Politics. Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 2012.
———. “‘Chronicle toward Novel: Bernal Díaz.’ History of the Conquest of
Mexico.” Novel 15 (1982): 197–212.
Casey, James. Early Modern Spain: A Social History. New York; London:
Routledge, 1999.
Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de. Don Quixote of La Mancha. Translated by Walter
Starkie. New York: Signet Classic, 1979.
Clavero, Bartolomé. Mayorazgo. Propiedad feudal en Castilla, 1369–1836.
Madrid: Siglo XXI, 1989.
Covarrubias, Sebastián de. Tesoro de la Lengua Castellana o Española. Edited by
Martín de Riquer. Ad Litteram, 3. Barcelona: Editorial Alta Fulla, 1998.
Crow, John Armstrong, ed. “Jorge Manrique. Odes on the Death of His Father.”
Translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. In An Anthology of Spanish
Poetry: From the Beginnings to the Present Day, 22–31. Baton Rouge:
Louisiana State University Press, 1979.
Cruz, Anne J. “The Pícaro Meets Don Quixote: The Spanish Picaresque and
the Origins of the Modern Novel.” Special Issue “Remapping the Rise of
the European Novel,” edited by Jenny Mander. Studies on Voltaire and the
Eighteenth Century 10 (2007): 127–37.
Cruz, Anne J., and Mihoko Suzuki, eds. The Rule of Women in Early Modern
Europe. Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2009.
Doré, Gustave. Don Quixote: Student Don Lorenzo Reads Poems (DQ, II, 18).
Engraving, nineteenth century.
Eisenberg, Daniel. “Don Quijote and the Romances of Chivalry: the Need for a
Reexamination.” Hispanic Review 42 (1973): 511–23.
———. Romances of Chivalry in the Spanish Golden Age. Newark, DE: Juan de
la Cuesta, 1982.
Eisenberg, Daniel, and María Carmen Marín Pina. Bibliografía de los libros de
caballerías castellanos. Zaragoza: Prensas Universitarias de Zaragoza, 2000.
Fernández de Oviedo, Gonzalo. Batallas y quinquagenas. Vol. 2. Madrid: Real
Academia de la Historia, 2000.
Fernández-Morera, Darío. “Chivalry, Symbolism, and Psychology in Cervantes’
Knight of the Green Cloak.” Hispanic Review 61 (Autumn, 1993): 531–46.
Garcés, María Antonia. Cervantes in Algiers: A Captive’s Tale. Nashville:
Vanderbilt University Press, 2002.
Gardner, Jane F. Family and Familia in Roman Law and Life. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1998.

Glete, Jan. War and the State in Early Modern Europe: Spain, the Dutch Republic
and Sweden as Fiscal-Military States, 1500–1660. New York; London:
Routledge, 2002.
Gómez Redondo, Fernando. “El paradigma de la mancebía en el Amadís de
Gaula.” In Amadís de Gaula: Quinientos años después. Estudios en homenaje
a Juan Manuel Cacho Blecua, edited by José Manuel Lucía Megías and
María Carmen Marín Pina, 283–313. Alcalá de Henares: Centro de Estudios
Cervantinos, 2008.
González Echevarría, Roberto. Love and the Law in Cervantes. New Haven: Yale
Halka, Chester S. “Don Quijote in the Light of Huarte’s Examen de ingenios: A
Reexamination.” Acer 19 (1981): 3–13.
Hoffman, Martha K. Raised to Rule: Educating Royalty at the Court of the Spanish
Habsburgs, 1601–1634. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2011.
Huarte de San Juan, Juan. Examen de ingenios para las ciencias. Madrid, 1846.
———. Examen De ingenios, Para las sciencias. Donde se muestra la differencia
de habilidades que ay en los hombres, y el género de letras que a cada vno
responde en particular. Baeza, 1575.
Johnson, Carroll B. Cervantes and the Material World. Urbana-Champaign:
University of Illinois Press, 2000.
———. Madness and Lust: A Psychoanalytical Approach to Don Quixote.
Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1983.
Kagan, Richard. Students and Society in Early Modern Spain. http://libro.uca.edu/
students/students1.htm. Accessed August 29, 2012.
Lamari, Naima. El padre en la dramática de Tirso de Molina. Madrid: Revista de
Estudios, 2010.
Lehfeldt, Elizabeth A. “Ideal Men: Masculinity and Decline in Seventeenth
Century Spain.” Renaissance Quarterly 61 (2008): 463–94.
MacKay, Ruth. The Limits of Royal Authority: Resistance and Obedience in
Seventeenth-Century Castile. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999.
Marino, Nancy F. Jorge Manrique’s Coplas Por La Muerte de Su Padre: A History
of the Poem and Its Reception. Woodbridge: Tamesis, 2011.
Márquez Villanueva, Francisco. “El caballero del verde gabán y su reino de
paradoja.” In Personajes y temas del Quijote, 147–227. Madrid: Taurus, 1975.
Martin, Adrienne Laskier. “Public Indiscretion and Courtly Diversion: The

Burlesque Letters in Don Quijote II.” Cervantes 11 (1991): 87–101.
Martín Casares, Aurelia. “Domestic Service in Spain: Legislation, Gender and
Social Practice.” http://www.antropologiadelaesclavitud.org/uploads/docs/
Domestic%20Service%20Legislation%20Spain.pdf. Accessed August 29,
2012.
Martínez Góngora, Mar. El hombre atemperado: Autocontrol, disciplina y
masculinidad en textos españoles de la temprana modernidad. New York:
Peter Lang, 2005.
Martínez Mata, Emilio. Cervantes on Don Quixote. Translated by Clark Colahan.

Bern: Peter Lang, 2010.
Monlau, Pedro Felipe. Diccionario etimológico de la lengua castellana. Madrid:
Imprenta y Esterotipia de M. Rivadeneyra, 1856.
Monzón, Francisco. Libro primero del Espejo del principe christiano: que trata
como se ha de criar vn principe o niño generoso desde su tierna niñez. Lisboa,
1544.
Parker, Geoffrey. The Grand Strategy of Philip II. New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press, 1998.
Percas de Ponseti, Helena. “Los consejos de don Quijote a Sancho.” In Cervantes
and the Renaissance: Papers of the Pomona College Cervantes Symposium,
November 16–18, 1978, edited by Michael McGaha, 194–236. Newark, DE:
Juan de la Cuesta, 1980.
Pike, Ruth. “Chapter 1: The Galleys.” Penal Servitude in Early Modern Spain.
http://libro.uca.edu/pservitude/pservitude.htm. Accessed August 30, 2012.
Pisan, Héliodore. Don Quixote. Engraving of drawing by Gustave Doré.
Presberg, Charles D. “‘Yo sé quien soy:’ Don Quixote, Don Diego de Miranda and
the Paradox of Self-Knowledge.” Cervantes 14 (1994): 42–69.
Rivers, Elias L. “Don Quixote’s Fatherly Advice, and Olivares’s.” Cervantes 18
(1998): 74–84.
Ruegg, Evelyn. “El padre en el teatro de Lope de Vega.” Hispanófila 25 (1965):
1–16.
Schäfer, Daniel. Old Age and Disease in Early Modern Medicine: The Body,
Gender, and Culture. London: Pickering & Chatto, 2011.
Seidenspinner-Núñez, Dayle. “Fathers and Sons: Notes on the Evolution of the
Romance Hero.” Tristania 13 (1987–88): 19–34.
Sieber, Diane E. “Mapping Identity in the Captive’s Tale: Cervantes and
Ethnographic Narrative.” Cervantes: Bulletin of the Cervantes Society of
America 18 (1998): 115–33.
Thomas, Henry. Spanish and Portuguese Romances of Chivalry: The Revival
of the Romance of Chivalry in the Spanish Peninsula, and Its Extension and
Influence Abroad. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1920.
Titian. Philip II Offers His Son to Victory or Allegory of Battle of Lepanto, c. 1571.
Oil on canvas, 325 x 274 cm. Madrid, Museo Nacional del Prado.
Urbina, Eduardo. “Don Quijote, puer-senex: un tópico y su transformación

paródica en el Quijote.” Journal of Hispanic Philology 12 (1987–88): 127–38.
Walker, Steven. Jung and the Jungians on Myth. New York; London: Routledge,
2002.
White, Lorraine. “The Experience of Spain’s Early Modern Soldiers: Combat,
Welfare and Violence.” War in History 9 (2002): 1–38.
Chapter 4
Paintings of the Education
of the Virgin Mary and the Lives of Girls
Charlene Villaseñor Black
In seventeenth-century Spain, a number of different paintings and sculptures gave

visual form to the subject of the Virgin Mary’s education as a young girl. Scenes of
the Presentation depict her at the age of three years, taking leave of her parents and
entering the Temple of Jerusalem, where she received instruction until her betrothal
to St. Joseph at the age of 14. A number of memorable paintings and sculptures
represent the elderly St. Anne teaching or reading with her young daughter. While
these are the two best known scenes depicting Mary’s education, several other
types were produced by Spanish Golden Age artists. Four paintings by Sevillian
artist Francisco de Zurbarán picture Mary as a young girl of about eight years
old praying, embroidering, and reading, scenes that, I will argue, represent her
childhood education. With the exception of the Presentation scene, all of these
subjects seem to appear out of the blue in the early seventeenth century in Spanish
art, as demonstrated by tender examples by Sevillian artists Francisco de Zurbarán,
Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, Juan de Roelas, and Juan Martínez Montañés, and
seem to enjoy popularity in Spain. Why were these scenes of Mary’s childhood
commissioned and for whom? What visual and textual sources inspired artists and
patrons? Are they primarily records of a novel trend in Marian devotion, or can
such scenes tell us something of the lives of ordinary girls in early modern Spain?
This chapter endeavors to answer these questions. First, I analyze the various
images, attempting to establish their visual genealogy. While the scene of St. Anne
reading with Mary has its roots in northern European art, what are the sources
for the other images? Or, to ask the question differently, how were depictions of
the education of the Virgin constructed in the absence of an established visual
tradition in Spain? In the face of scant visual evidence, period texts are employed
to help elucidate how the Golden Age beholder understood these images.
Interestingly, none of the scenes has its source in the Bible. Medieval sources such
as the Golden Legend and other apocrypha inform some of the images. In addition,
Counter Reformation texts such as the life of the Virgin, devotional books, Juan
Luis Vives’s comportment manual for women and girls, and painting treatises
open new interpretative paths. These various images and texts suggest complex
and diverse reactions to the artworks by period viewers. While perhaps designed
94 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Villaseñor Black
to inspire young girls to emulate the young Virgin, the artworks simultaneously
suggested that Mary, even as a child, encapsulated superhuman ideals.
The oldest and most established of the images relating to Mary’s education is
the Presentation in the Temple, which pictures Mary’s parents, Anne and Joachim,
bidding farewell to their three-year old daughter at the Temple of Jerusalem,
where she received instruction until her betrothal. The young Mary is usually
seen ascending a flight of stairs toward the high priest, who waits to receive her,
as her resigned parents look on. Typically, artists emphasized St. Anne, giving
her a prominent position right behind her daughter. The stairs symbolize Mary’s
movement away from her former home life, as well as her ascent toward a higher
purpose. Normally forming part of a series on the life of the Virgin, the scene
was executed by a number of important Golden Age artists, including Francisco
Herrera the Elder (Madrid, Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando,
seventeenth century), Francisco de Zurbarán (El Escorial, Monasterio de San
Lorenzo de El Escorial, 1629), and Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (see Figure 4.1).
The components of the poignant farewell—the young Virgin climbing the stairs,
parents left behind, high priest waiting above—have not changed much over the
centuries. Indeed, one can compare various earlier examples: Giotto’s 1305 fresco
in the Arena Chapel (Padua), Albrecht Dürer’s 1511 woodcut (discussed below),
or Titian’s large 1534–1538 canvas in the Galleria dell’Accademia in Venice.
Despite the stability of the Presentation scene’s iconography over the centuries,
Inquisition censor and painter Francisco Pacheco elaborated at length on the proper
depiction of the event, in the final part of his treatise, El arte de la pintura [The
Art of Painting], in a section entitled “Adiciones a Algunas Imágenes” (“Additions
to Some Images”). This text, written in the first third of the seventeenth century,
but not published until 1649, contains explicit instructions for the proper,
Inquisition-approved depiction of numerous sacred subjects. Pacheco’s discussion
of the Presentation begins with a critique of its representation by two artists. His
most extensive criticisms are of the engraving by Dutch printmaker Cornelis
Cort, which Pacheco uses as an example of how not to present the scene. Most
egregiously, according to Pacheco, Cort incorrectly portrayed the young Virgin as
15 or 16 years old, and furthermore, represented her in an undignified manner—
feet uncovered, wearing only a tunic, and with her hair loose and flowing down
below her waist. Neither Mary nor her mother, Anne, wear crowns to distinguish
them from the others, and Anne is represented with her hand on Mary’s shoulder,
as if impelling her daughter up the Temple stairs. Moreover, it is impossible to
distinguish St. Joachim among the bystanders in the scene, who also include a
beggar in the bottom right corner and various “desnudas” (“nudes”).1 A much
better representation was executed by Albrecht Dürer, part of his 1511 Life of the
1
Francisco Pacheco, El arte de la pintura, ed. Bonaventura Bassegoda i Hugas
(Madrid: Cátedra, 1990), 584, with an illustration on 585.
Fig. 4.1 Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, Presentation in the Temple, 1680, oil on canvas, 61 1/32 × 81 7/8 in. (155 × 208 cm),
Kreuzlingen, Switzerland, private collection, Album/Art Resource.
Virgin woodcut series, although Pacheco again criticizes the artist for depicting
Mary as older than 10, and for her long, flowing hair.2
Pacheco informs the reader as to the proper arrangement of the scene. “The
event happened in this manner,” he begins: “being the most holy Virgin Mary
three years old, some saying even younger, her parents brought her to the Temple
of Jerusalem to offer her to God, as they had promised, so that she would be
raised with the other virgins …” Artists should represent her ascending the Temple
staircase, which, according to Pacheco, “had fifteen steps.” Mary climbed the steps
“with extreme grace, lightness, and happiness, with no one helping her or taking
her hand … and quickly she said goodbye to her parents and dedicated herself to
the Lord.” The high priest, Zacharias, received her and she remained in the Temple
until she was betrothed to St. Joseph at the age of 14. Her aged parents died when
she was 11, “without having had more children.”3 Significantly, the Presentation in
the Temple at the age of three, and Mary’s betrothal to Joseph at 14, corresponded
to events in the lives of real girls from noble Spanish families in the early modern
period. Many girls were given over to convents at a young age, and 14 years
old was a typical time to be married off, as discussed by social historians Grace
Coolidge and Martha Hoffman.4
To reiterate the proper depiction of the scene, Pacheco added a description of
his own painting of it. “I painted this history for a convent of nuns in Puerto de
Santa María, in 1634, as it seems to me that one should paint it:”
a fragment of sumptuous temple, with the authorized staircase of fifteen steps;

more than halfway up, toward the top, the glorious Girl ascending by herself,
aged three years, very beautiful; her hands pressed together, her tunic rose-
colored, her little blue mantle, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, short, suitable
to her young age, the color of gold, tied back with a rose-colored ribbon; her
earrings in her ears and feet shod with little blue shoes, both things favored by
Pacheco, El arte, 584, with an illustration on 586.

2
Pacheco, El arte, 585–6: “El hecho pasó desta suerte: siendo la Santísima Virgen
3
de tres años, algunos dicen que de menos, la llevaron sus padres al Templo de Jerusalén
para ofrecerla a Dios, como lo habían prometido, para que se criase con las otras vírgenes;
había una escalera que tenía quince gradas para subir al altar y, puesta la santísima Niña
en la primera, con estremada gracia, ligereza y alegría, sin que nadie la ayudase ni llevase
de la mano, subió por sí sola hasta lo alto, no sin grande admiración de todos los que
estaban presentes, espantados de ver la extremada belleza y gracia de la Niña y, más, del
contento y prontitud con que se despedía de sus padres y se dedicaba al Señor. Recibióla
el sacerdote, que fue el santo Zacarías, con grande amor y estima, dexándosela a él y a los
demás sacerdotes muy encargada sus padres. Allí fue la primera que consagró su purísima
virginidad con voto perpetuo al Señor (algunos quieren que haya sido condicional). Estuvo
en el templo hasta entrar en catorce años y a los once murieron sus padres muy viejos, sin
tener más hijos.”
4
See Coolidge, “Investing in the Lineage: Children in the Early Modern Spanish
Nobility, 1350–1750,” and Hoffman, “Childhood and Royalty at the Court of Philip III,” in
this volume.
Paintings of the Education of the Virgin Mary and the Lives of Girls 97
sacred Scripture, one foot on tiptoe on a stair, the other raised and placed on
the highest step. The priest dressed as we will indicate, with his arms open, as
if wishing for her to arrive in order to take her in among them, accompanied
by other figures of authority such as ministers of the Temple; on the right,
her mother St. Anne with other matrons, watching her ascend the stairs with
admiration and happiness; her father, St. Joachim, on the left, accompanied by
other venerable men, with his hat in his right hand as a sign of reverence, his
eyes fixed on the blessed girl.5
In this passage, Pacheco signals several very important points about the scene,
most significantly, the proper depiction of the Virgin Mary. Consistent with the
textual sources for the story, the apocryphal Gospel of James (circa CE 150), the
seventh-century Gospel of the Pseudo-Matthew,6 and the ninth-century Nativity
of Mary, as well as their popularization in the later Golden Legend, Mary is
represented as three years old. Also significant is that the little girl willingly enters
the Temple, without being pushed by her parents, indicating that she gladly gave
herself to God. Furthermore, Pacheco’s great concern with the decorous depiction
of the young Virgin stands out in the passage, concerns reflective generally of
gender norms in the period. Her golden hair must be pulled back, not loose and
long, and her feet covered. Pacheco’s keen interest in the topic of the Presentation
of Mary in the Temple is indicated by a third passage on it, within his section on
paintings of St. Anne teaching the Virgin, a topic to which we will turn shortly.
In this section, he mentions that while in the Temple Mary learned “las letras
hebreas” (“Hebrew letters”), as well as to embroider, read, and write.7
5
Pacheco, El arte, 587: “Yo pinté esta historia para un convento de monjas del
Puerto de Santa María, año 1634, como me parece que se debe pintar: un pedazo de templo
sumtuoso, con una autorizada escalera de quince gradas; a más de la mitad, hacía lo alto,
la gloriosa Niña subiendo sola, de edad de tres años, muy hermosa; sus manos puestas,
su túnica rosada y mantellina azul, el cabello como coleta, corto, conforme a su poca
edad, como de color de oro, una cinta rosada ceñida por él; sus sarcillos en las orejas y
calzada con sus zapaticos azules, ambas cosas favorecidas en la Escritura sagrada, un pie
de puntillas en un escalón, el otro, levantado y asentado en el más alto. El sacerdote, vestido
como diremos, con los brazos abiertos como deseando que llegue, para recogerla en ellos,
acompañado de otras figuras de autoridad como ministros del Templo; a la parte derecha,
su madre Santa Ana, con otras matronas, viéndola subir con admiración y alegría; a la parte
isquierda su padre, San Joachim, acompañado de otros venerables varones con el sombrero
en la mano derecha en señal de reverencia, puestos los ojos en la bendita Niña.” According
to p. 587, n. 56, this painting no longer exists.
6
Emilie L. Bergmann, “Learning at Her Mother’s Knee? Saint Anne, the Virgin
Mary, and the Iconography of Women’s Literacy,” in Women’s Literacy in Early Modern
Spain and the New World, Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández, eds (Farnham, UK and
Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011), 248. Jeannine Baticle, Zurbarán, exh. cat. New York,
Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York: Abrams, 1987), 256.
7
Pacheco, El arte, 584: “Además, que el lugar de San Epifanio citado, no dice que
sus padres le enseñaron las letras hebreas, sino que las aprendió estando ellos vivos pero,
Spanish Golden Age artists’ works generally reflect Pacheco’s concerns. This
can be seen in examples by Herrera the Elder, Zurbarán, and Murillo (Figure 4.1),
all of which represent the young Mary willingly ascending the steps, hands clasped
prayerfully. Wearing both tunic and mantle, Mary’s hair is appropriately restrained,
“suitable to her young age,” in Pacheco’s words; no bare feet can be seen. While
following Pacheco’s most important points, all three artists eliminated some of the
Inquisition censor’s numerous details, such as the 15 steps, or particulars such as
Mary’s earrings, her “little blue shoes,” or the rose-colored ribbon tying back her
hair. Nevertheless, the images present an overall impression of a pious, composed
little girl ascending to the high priest’s open arms, an interpretation in keeping
with Pacheco’s overall tone.
Other period textual sources also discussed the story of the Presentation of
the Virgin Mary and expand our understanding of the scene. The important Jesuit
hagiographer, Pedro de Ribadeneyra, elaborated upon the event in his entry for
the November 21 feast day of the Presentation of the Virgin in the Temple in his
popular Flos Santorum.8 Another Jesuit, Francisco Arias, published a text in 1630,
On the Imitation of Our Lady, which included a meditation on the subject of the
child Virgin in the Temple.9 Most notably, the Franciscan nun, mystic, and author
Sor María de Jesús de Ágreda included extensive discussion of Mary’s childhood
in her Mystical City of God [Mística Ciudad de Dios. Vida de la Virgen María], a
life of the Virgin Mary based upon a series of visions experienced by the author.
In fact, Ágreda dedicated an entire chapter to the topic of Mary’s Presentation,
“Libro Segundo. Capitulo Primero. De la Presentación de María Santissima en el
Templo, el Año tercero de edad” (“Book Two. Chapter One. On the Presentation
of the Most Holy Mary in the Temple, at three years of age”).10 Ágreda’s text
elaborated upon the scarce details provided by other authors.
ni a labrar, bordar, leer ni escribir tuvieron lugar de enseñarle, pues la apartaron de sí y

entraron en el Templo de menos de tres años, como veremos luego; y, así, impropiamente, se
pinta aprendiendo pues en tan tierna edad era, naturalmente, incapaz de este exercicio; mas,
entrada en el Templo, enseñada del cielo, luego leía en todos los libros sagrados y profetas,
como testifica Mantuano en sus versos y, así concluyo en que con más razón rendiremos la
gloria deste magisterio al Espirítu Santo, pues lo exercitó más en la Virgen nuestra Señora
que en ninguna otra pura criatura, y quedará logrado mi discurso y desaficionados los
devotos desta pintura.”
8
Pedro de Ribadeneyra, Flos Sanctorum, de las Vidas de los Santos, vol. 3 (Madrid:
Joachin Ibarra, 1761; orig. edn, 1599–1610), 800.
9
Cited in Baticle, Zurbarán, 256, n. 3: Francisco Arias, De la imitación de la
bienaventurada Virgen María Nuestra Señora: Escrita por un monje premonstratense, 4th
edition (Madrid: Biblioteca del Apostolado de la Prensa, 1907; orig. edn, 1630).
10
Sor María de Jesús de Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, Milagro de Su Omnipotencia,
y Abismo de la Gracia: Historia Divina y Vida de la Virgen Madre de Dios, Reyna y Señora
Nuestra Maria Santissima, Restauradora de la Culpa de Eva, y Medianera de la Gracia
(Antwerp: Cornelio y la Viuda de Henrico Verdussen, 1722; orig. edn, 1670), 125.
In amplifying the narrative recounted by Pacheco, Ágreda added an intriguing

element—that after Saints Anne and Joachim relinquished their daughter to the
high priest, “they all together took her to a room, where the girls’ school was
located …”11 Her teacher there was the Prophetess Anna.12 Despite Mary’s
heavenly privilege as the future mother of the Savior, she was treated the same
as all the others girls in the Temple. In fact, she requested extra work—sweeping,
cleaning, and washing the dishes—in order to serve the other girls.13 In a speech
to Mary, the high priest enumerated her duties and schedule: “My daughter, you
will attend, with all reverence and devotion, the Divine praises and canticles of the
Lord, and you will always pray to the most High for the necessities of your Holy
Temple, and your people, and for the coming of the Messiah.” He then specified
Mary’s activities by the hour:
At eight in the evening you will go to sleep; at dawn you will get up to pray
and bless the Lord until the hour of Terce (this hour is that which now is at
nine); from Terce until the afternoon you will be occupied in some handiwork,
so that you are taught everything. And with food, which you will take after work,
maintain moderation. You will then go to listen to what the teacher teaches you;
and the rest of the day you will be busy with reading the holy scriptures: and in
all you will be humble, affable, and obedient to what your teacher orders you
to do.14
These various texts and images represent Mary’s entrance into the Temple,
where she was educated from the age of three until 14 years of age, learning to
read and write, study the scriptures, as well as mastering the arts of sewing and
embroidery. Paintings of St. Anne teaching the Virgin, some of the most appealing
and well-studied images of Mary’s education, however, contradict the Presentation
narrative (see Figures 4.2 and 4.3). In these paintings and sculptures, in which
Mary is represented as between five to six years old up to 13 or 14, the young child
is being taught by her mother, St. Anne, at home, not by the Prophetess Anna in
11
Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, 127–8: “ … è juntos todos la llevaron à un quarto,
donde estaba el Colegio de las donzellas …” Ágreda specifies that Mary was taken to the
Temple on her third birthday (108).
12
Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, 132.
13
Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, 109, 140–41.
14
Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, 140: “Ordenòla tambien el Sacerdote sus
ocupaciones, y la dixo: Hija mia, à las Divinas alabanças, y canticos del Señor assistireis
con toda reverencia, y devocion, y hareis siempre oracion al muy Alto por las necessidades,
de su Templo Santo, y de su pueblo, y por la venida del Messias. A las ocho de la noche
os recogereis à dormir; y al salir el Alva os levantareis à orar, y bendezir al Señor hasta à
hora de Tercia (esta hora era la que aora las nueve) desde Tercia hasta la tarde ocupareis
en alguna labor de manos, para que en todo seais enseñada. Y en la comida, que despues
del trabajo tomareis, guardad la templança, que conviene. Ireis luego à oir los que la
Maestra os enseñare; y lo restante del dia ocupareis en la leccion de las Escrituras Santas:
y en todo sereis humilde, afable, y obediente à lo que mandare vuestra Maestra.”
the Temple of Jerusalem. There are no textual sources for this scene, as Pamela
Sheingorn has noted: “The devotional image of Anne teaching the Virgin Mary
flourishes in spite of a virtual, if not total absence of textual sources.”15 These
images thus contradicted official Counter Reformation teachings on the subject of
Mary and St. Anne. Furthermore, they represent a unique aberration in the history
of sacred art in Spain—images not linked to sacred texts.
The subject of St. Anne teaching the young Virgin has garnered a significant
amount of scholarly attention, testimony to its appeal even today. Yet, the subject
is relatively uncommon in Spanish Golden Age art. Three important examples, two
paintings and one sculpture, were produced in Seville, and an additional painting
was executed later in the century in Madrid at the royal court. Carmen Calderón
Benjumea, in her study of the iconography of St. Anne in Seville, has documented
an additional 11 examples.16 The scene is relatively infrequent, due to official
discouragement of the cult of St. Anne, a topic I have argued elsewhere, but which
merits a few words here.17 St. Anne was a figure of great popularity in late medieval
Spain and into the sixteenth century, as documented by anthropologist William A.
Christian Jr., in his analysis of the 1575–1580 relaciones topográficas, a census
issued by King Philip II of his empire.18 Shortly thereafter, however, Church and
Inquisition officials sought to curb popular enthusiasm for St. Anne. Commissions
for new artworks depicting her fell dramatically in number. The Inquisition also
sought to censor older texts about her, as witness the existence of an expurgated
life of St. Anne in the holdings of the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid. Anne also
began to disappear from Holy Family scenes, as St. Joseph took center stage. Art
historian Mindy Taggard has further suggested that the subject of Anne teaching
the Virgin declined in popularity in the sixteenth century as the iconography of the
Immaculate Conception became firmly established.19 Although few in number, the
examples of St. Anne teaching the Virgin that exist are certainly memorable, and
inspired a series of fascinating, albeit contradictory, articles written in the 1990s
and 2000s.20
Pamela Sheingorn, “The Wise Mother,” Gesta 32 (1993): 71.

15
Carmen Calderón Benjumea, Iconografía de Santa Ana en Sevilla y Triana (Seville:

16
Diputación Provincial, 1990), 93–4.

17
See Chapter 3, “Happy Families,” in Charlene Villaseñor Black, Creating the Cult
of St. Joseph: Art and Gender in the Spanish Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
2006), 59–87.
18
William A. Christian, Jr., Local Religion in Sixteenth-Century Spain (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1981).
19
Mindy Nancarrow Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne Teaching the Virgin to Read and the
Question of Female Literacy and Learning in Golden Age Spain,” Konsthistorisk tidskrift/
Journal of Art History 68 (1999): 33.
20
Lola Luna, “Santa Ana, modelo cultural del Siglo de Oro,” Cuadernos
Hispanoamericanos 498 (1991): 53–64; Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” 1999; Sheingorn,
“The Wise Mother”; Bergmann, “Learning at Her Mother’s Knee,” 2011; and Emilie L.
At issue among scholars in this series of articles was the question of the
meaning of these scenes for female viewers in the period. The most commonly
held and certainly appealing opinion is that these works served as sources of
inspiration for mothers and daughters, validating the importance of mothers’
wisdom, as well as the importance of reading and learning for girls and women.
A study of the theme in late medieval Northern European art, where the subject
originated in the early 1300s, even regards the images as fruitful sources on female
literacy and education.21 With its visual sources in medieval images of women
and girls with books, found most often in manuscripts such as books of hours,
scenes of Anne teaching provided documentation of the important instructional

role played by mothers at the time. Another scholar has gone further, suggesting
that such scenes in Spain should be understood as subversive in their validation
of female learning.22 Others have noted that the scene recognizes and promotes
female literacy and mothers’ teaching role.23 But the art historian Taggard, in a
closely argued essay, takes issue with prevailing opinion, and suggests a contrary
reading, that these scenes produced “orthodox” meanings that discouraged women
and girls from learning. Spanish Golden Age artists did this by singling out the
Virgin Mary and St. Anne as unique beings, elevated above common, earthly
women. Taggard’s argument is worth reviewing in some detail.
One of the earliest identified examples of St. Anne teaching in Spain, by Juan
de Roelas, from around 1610–1615, was commissioned by the Shod Mercedarians
in Seville for their church (see Figure 4.2). Although commissioned by a group of
male religious, the painting was on “public view” in their church, hanging on a
wall near the church’s side entrance, not hidden away in the monastery.24 Taggard’s
interpretation highlights the Immaculate Conception references within the scene,
while it suggests a shift away from the focus on mother-daughter instruction seen
Bergmann, “A Maternal Genealogy of Wisdom: The Iconography of the Virgin in Early

Modern Spanish Iconography,” Confluencia 24 (2008): 154–61.
21
Sheingorn, “The Wise Mother,” 1993. Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” publishes a
reproduction of a very early Iberian example on p. 34 by Ramón Destorrents, dating from
1353 (Lisbon, Museu Nacional d’Art Antiga).
22
Luna, “Santa Ana,” 1991.
23
Bergmann, “Learning at Her Mother’s Knee,” 2011, especially 244 and 260.
Other discussions of female literacy can be found Cruz and Hernández, 2011; see Cruz’s
“Introduction,” 1–16, and her essay, “Reading over Men’s Shoulders: Noblewomen’s
Libraries and Reading Practices,” Chapter 2, 41–58. Sara T. Nalle’s study from 1989
is fundamental: “Literacy and Culture in Early Modern Castile,” Past and Present 125
(November 1989): 65–96. On mothers as teachers, see Montserrat Pérez-Toribio, “From
Mother to Daughter: Educational Lineage in the Correspondence between the Countess of
Palamós and Estefania de Requesens,” 59–77 in Cruz and Hernández, 2011.
24
Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” 33 and 36, and n. 18, where she credits Juan Agustín
Ceán Bermúdez for revealing the original location in his Diccionario histórico de los más
ilustres profesores de Bellas Artes en España (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1800),
vol. 4, 232.
Fig. 4.2 Juan de Roelas, St. Anne Teaching the Virgin, c. 1610–1615, oil on
canvas, 90 1/2 × 67 in. (230 × 170 cm), Seville, Museo Provincial
de Bellas Artes © Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte Hispánico.
Archivo Mas.
in medieval examples. References to the Immaculate Conception include the

stars around the young Virgin’s head, her crown, mantle, and the angels present
in a large gloria filling the right corner. In contrast to previous depictions, which
showed Anne teaching her daughter, Mary pointedly does not receive help from
her mother as she reads the large missal before her. This interpretation is thus
in keeping with the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, notably, that Mary
received divine knowledge at the moment of her conception, and thus was not in
need of earthly lessons.25 In Taggard’s estimation, this scene suggested to viewers
that reading was for men and the Virgin Mary, but not for ordinary women.26
Because Roelas so carefully set Anne and Mary apart from the rest of mortal
women, female viewers would not have understood the painting as promoting
female literacy.
Taggard interprets Murillo’s later version of the subject, painted in the 1650s,
in a similar manner (see Figure 4.3). Based on a print by Schelte a Bolswert after
Rubens’s portrayal for the Antwerp Carmelites of the 1630s, Murillo’s painting,
in comparison to that of Roelas, is significantly simplified.27 Even without the
many explicit symbols of the Immaculate Conception, though, Murillo included
enough signifiers of the divine to discourage viewers’ identification with Anne
and her daughter. Specifically, the “significant look” exchanged between mother
and daughter, “which is the focus of the painting,” reveals that this dyad is not
like other earthly mothers and daughters.28 Taggard interprets a sculpted example
of the pair, by Juan Martínez Montañés, circa 1630 (Seville, Convento de Santa
Ana) in a similar manner. As in Murillo’s painting, St. Anne is presented “as
witness to the miracle of Mary’s infused knowledge, and not as her tutor.”29 Thus,
all three of these images of St. Anne teaching the Virgin emphasize the latter’s
unique status, and her special access to divine knowledge granted at the moment
of the Immaculate Conception.30 Taggard interprets a later painting, circa 1674,
by court artist Juan Carreño de Miranda, commissioned by King Carlos II for his
mother, Queen Mariana, to be hung in the Convent of Discalced Carmelites in
Madrid, in the same way.31 In this scene, the Virgin Mary wears the attire of the
Immaculate Conception—a white gown, blue mantle, and crown of stars. She is
now accompanied not only by her mother, St. Anne, but also by her father, St.
Joachim.
25
Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” 34–5.
26
Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” 36.
27
Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” 31, n. 1.
28
Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” 36. Bergmann interprets this as the two
acknowledging “the Virgin’s role in the Incarnation …” “Learning at her Mother’s Knee,”
257.
29
30
Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” 42–3.
31
Fig. 4.3 Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, St. Anne Teaching the Virgin, c. 1655,
oil on canvas, 86 1/4 × 65 in. (219 × 165 cm), Madrid, Museo del
Prado © Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte Hispánico. Archivo
Mas.
This shift in the scene, from late medieval Northern European renditions
that seem to valorize the transmission of knowledge from mother to daughter,
to Golden Age Spanish examples, which focus on Mary’s unique status due to
the Immaculate Conception, can be situated within shifting attitudes toward the
education of girls and women in Spain. Taggard connects them to a move away
from Renaissance humanists’ promotion of female literacy to societal attitudes
that encouraged domestic skills such as keeping house, needlework, and other
“[m]anual skills”32 for girls. She writes, “Spanish representations of the reading
Virgin reflect the shifting views expressed in the popular guidebooks for female
instruction.”33 This change is exemplified in the two paintings by Roelas and

Murillo by the dramatic decrease in the size of the book in the scene, and the shift
from Mary reading the book, in Roelas’s picture, to its presence as an attribute
in Murillo’s later work. About Murillo’s canvas Taggard writes, “The painting is
structured to guide women viewers to the conclusion the outcome of an education
that privileges needlework over reading is a chaste, marriageable female modeled
after the paradigm of the ideal virgin, Mary.”34
Taggard’s thesis, which stands in contrast to the interpretations suggested by
other scholars, is thought-provoking. Most convincing is her proposal that these
paintings are related to depictions of the Immaculate Conception, which seems
especially credible in the case of the work by Roelas. I do think it probable, though,
that female viewers understood these scenes in various ways, not always in the
“orthodox” manner. Surely, viewers detected the references to the Immaculate
Conception, given the currency of this idea and the controversy over it in Seville,
as evidenced by the Immaculist riots.35 Others certainly understood this scene in
relation to Mary’s future role as mother of the “word made flesh,” and connected
it to depictions of Mary reading during the Annunciation. And sometimes viewers
must have identified with the picture of domestic bliss and mother-daughter
bonding presented in these images, an idea that Taggard alludes to at the end of
her article.36
Perhaps accounting for the original context of such works expands our
understanding of them. The Spanish art historian Carmen Calderón Benjumea,
who documented depictions of St. Anne in early modern Seville, presents
32
Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” 36. Important sources on the education of women
and girls in Spain, in addition to the works cited, include Lisa Vollendorf, The Lives of
Women: A New History of Inquisitional Spain (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press,
2005), especially 169–92; and Nieves Baranda Leturio, “L’éducation des femmes dans
l’Espagne post-tridentine,” in Genre et identités aux Pays-Bas Méridionaux. L’éducation
religieuse des femmes après le concile de Trente, eds Silvia Mostaccio and Jean-Pierre
Delville (Louvain-la-Neuve: Bruylant-Academic, 2010), 29–63.
33
34
35
See Suzanne L. Stratton, The Immaculate Conception in Spanish Art (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994), especially Chapter 3, 70–75 and 78–87.
36
evidence that the subject of Anne teaching the Virgin was popular in convents,37
where literacy and teaching abilities would have been valued. In colegios de niñas,
schools for orphaned girls, girls learned to read and write and were trained in
domestic labors;38 one imagines the teachers and students there identified with
the instructional dyad of mother and daughter. Finally, a number of scholars have
pointed to evidence that mothers did teach reading at home; surely mothers and
daughters recognized themselves in this scene.
Period commentary on the subject is hard to come by. This author has located
several important seventeenth-century sources, though, that shed some light on
viewers’ understanding of this anomalous scene. Sor María de Ágreda’s numerous

visionary experiences allowed her to expand upon the narrative of Mary’s life at
home with her parents, before her entry into the Temple on her third birthday. In
addition to such captivating details as Mary began to talk when she was one and
a half years old, and her first words were to ask her parents to bless her, Ágreda
reports that the little girl learned to read from her parents.39 Ágreda specifically
mentions both parents, indicating that St. Joachim participated in teaching, possibly
the source for images of him teaching Mary that date from the eighteenth century.40
The other point that is significant to note, though, is that apparently the Virgin
Mary learned to read by the age of three, a precocious feat! Despite the addition of
fascinating details to Mary’s life as a girl, Ágreda’s text does little to clarify period
viewers’ understanding of images of St. Anne teaching the Virgin. That Mary
learned to read at home from her parents is consonant with data on noble Spanish
families, where mothers played important roles in educating their daughters.41
The one person who does comment specifically on artistic depiction of the
subject is Pacheco, in a section of his treatise entitled “Painting of St. Anne
teaching Our Lady” [“Pintura de Santa Ana dando lección a Nuestra Señora”].
Following a section entitled “A Painting No Longer in Use of St. Anne” [“Pintura
Calderón Benjumea, Iconografía, 93–4. On literacy in convents, see Cruz’s

37
“Introduction”; and Darcy R. Donahue, “Wondrous Words: Miraculous Literacy and

Real Literacy in the Convents of Early Modern Spain,” Chapter 5, 105–22 in Cruz and
Hernández, Women’s Literacy, 2011.
38
Elizabeth Teresa Howe, Education and Women in the Early Modern Hispanic
World (Aldershot, UK and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008), 116.
39
Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, 119, “Como al año y medio, començò à hablar
la Niña María Santissima; y sus ocupaciones hasta que fuese al Templo.” Also on p. 119
Ágreda notes that Mary began to speak to humans at age one and a half years; before that
she spoke with God through “una intelectual vision …” Her first words to her parents were
to ask them to bless her: “la primera palabra hablò con sus Padres San Joachin, y Santa Ana,
pidiendoles la bendixessen …” (121). She spoke very little from the age of one and a half
until she went to the Temple at age three (121). On p. 122 Ágreda reports that Mary learned
to read from her parents.
40
These have been researched by Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” 43.
41
See Coolidge, “Investing in the Lineage: Children in the Early Modern Spanish
Nobility, 1350–1750,” in this volume.
no usada de Santa Ana”], which forbids depictions of the Holy Kinship, Pacheco’s
negative assessment of the teaching scene begins: “With less foundation and more
frequency, today is painted the blessed St. Anne teaching the Mother of God to
read, which painting is new, but embraced by the common people.”42 Pacheco
focuses his critique on a depiction of the subject by his rival, Juan de Roelas.
He finds much to condemn. First of all, Roelas rendered Mary as 13 or 14 years
old. More importantly, though, Mary was divinely infused with knowledge at the
moment of the Immaculate Conception, and therefore did not need her mother to
teach her. Furthermore, he finds not one shred of textual evidence to support the
notion that Anne taught Mary to read, noting that she entered the Temple at age
three, and before this “she was incapable” of such learning.43
The frustrating lack of textual sources for the scene is in some ways illuminating.
It forces us to consider the paintings and sculptures that exist as primary sources
in and of themselves. Despite the scene’s novelty, as well as its lack of textual
authority, seventeenth-century Spanish worshipers clearly responded to the
subject, as Pacheco notes. Calderón Benjumea points out the frequency of the
subject in convents, a clear indication that Spanish women and girls favored the
subject, and perhaps found inspiration in it. The other point worth noting is that
such scenes indicate confusion over the early events of Mary’s life, confusion that,
nevertheless, did not lessen devotion to her figure.
Four other scenes of the education of Mary, all of them novel, by the Sevillian
artist Francisco de Zurbarán also merit consideration. The paintings are extremely
unusual, their subject matter rare. Given Mary’s age in these scenes—about eight
years old—they seem to represent events that occurred while she was a young
girl in the Temple at Jerusalem. They include a painting currently in New York’s
Metropolitan Museum of Art, datable circa 1635–1640,44 which represents Mary
as a young girl seated on the ground, hands pressed together in prayer, eyes raised
heavenward, discarded embroidery on her lap (Figure 4.6). A second scene exists
in two versions, one authentic (Figure 4.4) and one questionably attributed to
Zurbarán (Santander, Sala de Arte del Grupo Santander). In this painting, the
42
Pacheco, El arte, 582: “Pintura de Santa Ana dando lección a Nuestra Señora.” “Con
menos fundamento, y más frecuencia, se pinta hoy la bienaventurada Santa Ana enseñando
a leer a la Madre de Dios, cuya pintura es muy nueva, pero abrazada del vulgo; …”
43
Pacheco, El arte, 583; and 584: “Además, que el lugar de San Epifanio citado, no
dice que sus padres le enseñaron las letras hebreas, sino que las aprendió estando ellos vivos
pero, ni a labrar, bordar, leer ni escribir tuvieron lugar de enseñarle, pues la apartaron de sí y
entraron en el Templo de menos de tres años, como veremos luego; y, así, impropiamente, se
pinta aprendiendo pues en tan tierna edad era, naturalmente, incapaz de este exercicio; mas,
entrada en el Templo, enseñada del cielo, luego leía en todos los libros sagrados y profetas,
como testifica Mantuano en sus versos y, así concluyo en que con más razón rendiremos la
gloria deste magisterio al Espirítu Santo, pues lo exercitó más en la Virgen nuestra Señora
que en ninguna otra pura criatura, y quedará logrado mi discursos y desaficionados los
devotos desta pintura.”
44
See Baticle, Zurbarán, cat. 47, 255–8.
young girl leans her head on her right arm, seemingly asleep, a book clasped in
her left hand. Finally, a fourth painting shows Mary seated in a chair, eyes raised
to heaven, her needlework abandoned on her lap (Figure 4.5). Depictions of the
Virgin Mary alone as a child are extremely rare in Spanish art. More typically, as
a child she appears in scenes of the Presentation, or with her family. Depictions of
the Immaculate Conception, very popular in Golden Age Spain, represent Mary
alone, but she is 13 or 14 years old,45 no longer a little girl.
How are we to understand Zurbarán’s unusual scenes? While not discussed
specifically by Pacheco in El arte de la pintura, Pacheco’s discourses on the
Presentation of the Virgin and St. Anne teaching the Virgin may shed light on
Zurbarán’s paintings. In particular, the passage on Mary’s activities in the Temple is
useful. Here Pacheco elaborates upon what earlier, medieval sources had reported,
namely, that while in the Temple Mary learned spinning, weaving, embroidery,
reading, and writing.46 He recounts:
There she occupied herself in spinning wool and linen, silk and cambric and
sewing and embroidering the priestly vestments and all that was necessary for
Temple worship and so that, after, [she would be able] to serve and to make and
give to her precious Son the seamless tunic. She learned Hebrew letters; she
read the divine Scriptures and understood them perfectly; she was visited and
regaled by the angels and our Lord himself; and there are serious authors who
say that the angels brought her food to eat so that being free, she could devote
herself to God.47
Pacheco’s passage is helpful to identify the subjects of Zurbarán’s unusual

paintings. In two of the works, the book she holds in her hand may refer to her
study of the scriptures (Figure 4.4). In the other two, the pictorial representation of
Mary’s embroidery corresponds to textual accounts of her activities in the Temple
(Figures 4.6 and 4.5). Finally, angels appear in both of the book scenes, and in
one of the embroidery scenes (Figures 4.6 and 4.4). These must be the angels that
“visited and regaled” the Blessed Virgin as a girl in the Temple.
Let us examine the two paintings in which Mary has fallen asleep reading (see
Figure 4.4).48
45
This is the age specified by Pacheco, El arte, 575–7.
46
Sheingorn, “The Wise Mother,” 69.
47
Pacheco, El arte, 586: “Allí se empleaba en hilar lana y lino, seda y holanda y coser
y labrar las vestiduras sacerdotales y todo lo que era menester para el culto del Templo y
para, despúes, servir y regalar a su precioso Hijo y hacerle la túnica inconsútil. Aprendió
las letras hebreas; leía las divinas Escrituras y las entendía perfectamente; era visitada y
regalada de los ángeles y del mesmo Señor; y hay autores graves que dicen que los ángeles
le traían de comer para que, estando desembarazada, pudiese vacar a Dios.” The seamless
tunic was the garment the Roman soldiers gambled for at the Crucifixion. Also see the
passage from Pacheco in n. 43 of this chapter.
48
Baticle, Zurbarán, cat. 60, 287–9. The painting in Santander is probably a later copy
of the canvas in the Cathedral in Jérez, possibly a workshop piece. Note the extra details
Fig. 4.4 Francisco de Zurbarán, The Young Virgin, c. 1640–1650, oil on

canvas, 42 7/8 × 35 3/8 in. (109 × 90 cm), Jérez de la Frontera
(Cádiz), Colegiata/Catedral © Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte
Hispánico. Archivo Mas.
Seated on an ottoman, she leans against an adjacent chair, head resting on her
hand. With her other hand she clasps a book, fingers inserted into it to hold her
page. She wears the pinkish-red tunic prescribed by Pacheco, with her blue mantle
on her lap. Her medium-length hair is somewhat loose, indicative of the intimate,
casual nature of the moment depicted. The still life details are worth lingering on.
The flowers include reddish-pink roses and white lilies, symbolic of the Virgin’s
beauty and chastity. Both appear in scenes of the Immaculate Conception, perhaps
bringing this event to viewers’ minds, and thus Mary’s role as the mother of the
Savior. The flowers are arranged in a blue and white bowl, the design of which
recalls Chinese import ware. The bowl rests on a pewter plate possibly imported
from South America, the major source of tin at the time. While these objects
allude to the global trade networks of the Spanish empire, the simple setting,
including the plain wood chair with handwoven rush seat, bring to mind the words
of Sor María de Agreda, who emphasized Mary’s great humility. In the Temple,
Mary lived “alone, deprived, and stripped away from all the others [that is, other
girls] …” She had only her “most ardent love of the Lord” and “her degradation
and humiliation” to keep her company.49
Given our focus on Mary’s education, what do we make of her pose and the
book in her hand in these two paintings? Obviously, she has been reading the book,
and has stopped to meditate (or sleep?), head resting on hand. The presence of
angels clustered around her head argues for meditation, or even a visionary event.
The scene clearly corresponds to Pacheco’s description of Mary’s activities in the
Temple learning Hebrew and studying the scriptures, as referenced above. We
glean more details from the Spanish Jesuit hagiographer Pedro de Ribadeneyra’s
discussion of her life in the Temple: “She read the holy scriptures often and with
great attention, and she ruminated and meditated upon them and understood them
perfectly, due to her high and delicate ingenuity and the sovereign light that the
Lord infused her with.”50 In the same passage, Ribadeneyra seems to explain the
angelic vision taking place: “She fasted a lot, and with the concentration, solitude,
silence and quietude she prepared herself for contemplation and union with God,
in which she was so absorbed and so entranced, and she was visited and regaled
by the Lord and the angels, that she seemed more a girl come from heaven than
included, and the lack of finesse in the modeling of the Virgin’s face. For an illustration,
see http://contenidos.universia.es/especiales/sala-arte/mejores-obras/zurbaran/index.htm.
Accessed July 1, 2012.
49
Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, 132: “Diòle tambien la Maestra orden de vivir
à la dulcissima Niña, aviendolo comunicado primero con el Sumo Sacerdote; y con
esta desnudez, y resignacion consiguiò la Reyna, y Señora de las criaturas, quedar sola,
destituida, y despojada de todas ellas, y de si misma, sin reservar otro afecto, ni possession,
más de solo el amor ardentissimo del Señor, y de su propio abatimiento, y humillacion.”
50
Quoted in Pacheco, El Arte, 586–7, n. 55: “… leía a menudo y con gran atención
las divinas escrituras, y las rumiaba y meditaba y entendía perfectamente, por su alto y
delicado ingenio y por la luz soberana que el Señor la infundía.”
one raised here on earth …”51 The author who wrote most extensively on Mary’s
angelic visions as a child was Sor María de Ágreda. She reports: “She often read
the ancient Sacred Scriptures … she was so capable [of understanding] all of them,
and of the profound mysteries none was concealed from her; because the Most
High showed her all His secrets, and Sacraments, and she discussed and conferred
with the Holy guardian Angels, confirming these [secrets], asking them many
things, with incomparable profundity and great sharpness.”52 In fact, according to
Ágreda, the “Most High” (“el Altissimo”) granted to Mary the ability to “see and
communicate with her Holy guardian Angels, and with the rest of the angels, who
visited her on diverse occasions on His behalf.”53 In fact, Zurbarán’s paintings

seem to depict the “divine colloquys” that the child Virgin experienced, according
to Ágreda (“coloquios Divinos de sus Angeles Santos”).54
An earlier textual source, dating from circa 1400, may shed additional light on
this unusual scene, and provides a possible source. The text is by Catalan Françesc
Eiximenis, a Franciscan tertiary, his Vita Christi, a collection of chapters drawn from
his Libre del Crestia, or Book for Christians. This important text, and its influence
on visual culture in Castile, has been the subject of a recent ground-breaking study
of late medieval Spanish art and religious devotion by Cynthia Robinson.55 The
author is the first to fully document that Christian spiritual practices and religious
art in late medieval Spain were unique in Europe, the result of the so-called
“convivencia,” or co-existence of the three confessions—Catholicism, Judaism,
and Islam. To simplify greatly her significant and amply documented study, late
medieval Castilians, in contrast to their European counterparts, did not focus on
Christ and Mary’s humanity in their religious devotions, but on their divinity. She
traces this distinct approach to influences from Islam and Judaism, as well as to
the need for what she describes as a “polemical” approach to Christianity, given
the objective of conversion. Interesting for Zurbarán’s paintings, Robinson argues
that the Castilian interpretation of the Virgin Mary can be traced to Muslim views
51
Quoted in Pacheco, El Arte, 586–7, n. 55: “Ayunaba mucho, y con el recogimiento,
soledad, silencio y quietud se disponía a la contemplación y unión con Dios, en la cual
estaba tan absorta y arrobada, y era tan visitada y regalada del Señor y de los ángeles, que
más parecía una niña venida del cielo, que criada acá en la tierra …”
52
Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, 142: “Leìa mucho en las Sagradas Escrituras
antiguas, y con la ciencia infusa estava tan capaz de todas ellas, y de sus profundos
mysterios que ninguno se le ocultò; porque le manifestò el Altissimo todos sus secretos, y
Sacramentos, y con los Santos Angeles de su custodia los trataba y conferia, confirmandose
en ellos, preguntandoles muchas cosas con incomparable profundidad, y grande agudeza.”
53
Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, 194: “Para este Capitulo remitì otro modo màs
singular, y privilegiado, que concediò el Altissimo à su Madre Santissima, para que viesse,
y comunicasse à los Santos Angeles de su guarda, y à los demàs, que de parte del mismo
Señor en diversas ocasiones la visitaban.”
54
Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, 122, “coloquios Divinos de sus Angeles Santos …”
55
Cynthia Robinson, Imagining the Passion in a Multiconfessional Castile (University
Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2013).
of her as “the Light of the World,” a “luminous” figure known for her religious
meditations. Furthermore, Eiximenis’s descriptions of the Virgin’s life as a child
present her as a model of pious behavior, devoted to prayer. Similar to Ágreda,
Eiximenis recounts that angels visited the child Mary to discourse with her, and
that Mary received divine knowledge from them, which inspired her in religious
ecstasies. Robinson credits this view of Mary to Qur’anic interpretations as well
as Muslim “mystical practices.”56 Eiximenis and Ágreda agree on another key
detail that seems to be represented in Zurbarán’s pictures: that while living in
the Temple, Mary chose to reside alone in her room, apart from the other girls,
refusing all visitors. Eiximenis’s text thus provides a possible source for these
unusual scenes in Spanish art, a source that seems to indicate Islamic influences.
Mary’s angelic communion is pictorialized by the ring of angels, lightly and
deftly painted around her head. The sacred text held in her hand points to the
origin of her visionary experience. Her closed eyes thus indicate not sleep, but
deep meditation. So, too, the gesture of head on hand, which, while it can indicate
sleep, in this case is a sign of divine vision. See, for comparison, images of St.
Joseph’s Dream, in which the same gesture is employed in this scene of angelic
visitation.57 The gesture sometimes also indicates melancholy, and one wonders if
it may additionally allude to her future Son’s Passion. In a painting by Zurbarán of
The Holy House of Nazareth (Cleveland, Museum of Art, c. 1640), the adult Mary
sadly rests her head on her hand and weeps as she contemplates her young Son
plaiting a crown of thorns.
The book itself is also a signifier of some complexity. In addition to the
interpretations suggested by period texts, the scholar Emilie Bergmann’s
observations on the book in depictions of St. Anne and the Virgin also apply
here. According to Bergmann, the presence of a book indicates on the most basic
level the Virgin’s piety. It also refers to the Old Testament prophecy in Isaiah
7:14 that a Virgin will give birth, and thus to the “Word made flesh.”58 On a more
contextual level, books call up societal attitudes at the time toward women, girls,
and reading. She references Juan Luis Vives, whose Education of the Christian
Woman advocates reading of devotional texts for women.59
Two additional canvases by Zurbarán depict the young Virgin alone in
meditation, embroidery abandoned on her lap, hands clasped in prayer as she
looks heavenward (Figures 4.6 and 4.5). The pillow on her lap has been identified
by Bergmann as the type used for making lace, and the basket as the kind used
for needlework.60 In both paintings, a prominent white cloth appears, referring
to the sacred vestments Mary worked on in the Temple, but also symbolic of the
Robinson, Imagining the Passion, 177.

56
See Chapter 2, “Love and Marriage,” in Villaseñor Black, Creating the Cult,
57
especially 49–52 (which includes several illustrations).

58
Bergmann, “Learning at Her Mother’s Knee,” 246.
59
Bergmann, “Learning at Her Mother’s Knee,” 255–6. On Vives, also consult Pérez-
Toribio, “From Mother to Daughter.”
60
Bergmann, “Learning at Her Mother’s Knee,” 256.
altar cloth and Christ’s shroud. In both cases, the artist carefully picked out the
gleaming white cloth, lavishing attention on its architectonic folds, which he
highlighted with strong, focused light. In the painting by Zurbarán of The Holy
House in Nazareth, referred to above, embroidery is clearly associated with
Christ’s Passion, and one suspects that period viewers would have recognized the
same reference in these two scenes.61
One of the paintings, the one in Russia, is clearly linked to the paintings of the
Virgin with her book (see Figure 4.5). The model looks similar, although perhaps
a bit younger, and she wears a comparable red dress, with her blue mantle on her
lap. As in the other examples, the composition is unusual, and sources for it are
difficult to pinpoint. The young girl is represented full length, seated in a simple
wood chair, very similar to the chair seen in the Jérez and Santander paintings. She
is placed at a three-quarter angle to the front plane of the picture. The simplicity
and casual mood bring to mind the tone of genre scenes, or even portraiture,
lending the scene an air of facticity. In comparison to the other examples, though,
this picture is absolutely simplified, reduced to its essential elements. Not even
angels clutter the setting. But the Virgin’s prayerful pose and the luminous glow
around her upper body indicate the sacred nature of the event depicted.
The final painting by Zurbarán, dated the earliest of all the ones discussed,
also represents Mary in prayer or meditation or ecstasy, having abandoned her
embroidery on her lap (see Figure 4.6). She looks heavenward, hands clasped in
her lap, angels and a heavenly glow surrounding her head. This time, however, she
is seated on the floor, in a frontal position, a pose reminiscent of the Madonna of
Humility. She is framed by curtains, a device reminiscent of “statue paintings,” that
is, paintings of real devotional images, usually sculptures, in churches, which are
typically framed by curtains.62 Here, the pulled back curtains function to indicate
that the viewer is being granted an inside view, an intimate look at a personal,
private moment in Mary’s life.
The painting’s many realistic details bring to mind genre scenes. On the left
of the seated Virgin is a wooden table, its top tilted up slightly to reveal a leather
bound book, a pair of scissors (for the embroidery), and a small blue flower. The
proximity of the closed book and the scissors points to Mary’s two principal
educational tasks in the Temple—handiwork and studying scripture. A humble,
earthenware mug sits on the floor, in front of the table and in the left corner, one
of its handles turned toward the Virgin. More flowers are scattered on the floor,
each singled out for enhanced visibility. In the right corner rests a basket with
61
The reference to the Passion is more obvious in the Cleveland painting, as Christ
pricks His finger while He plaits a crown of thorns; note the contrast to Mary, who wears a
thimble as she works on her embroidery. Such symbolism was frequent in European painting,
such as Caravaggio’s 1609 Adoration of the Shepherds (Messina, Museo Regionale), in
which a folded white cloth in a basket refers to Christ’s shroud and the altar cloth.
62
A number of these images are discussed in Luisa Elena Alcalá, “The Image and Its
Maker: The Problem of Authorship in Relation to Miraculous Images,” in Ronda Kasl, ed.,
Sacred Spain: Art and Belief in the Spanish World, exh. cat., Indianapolis Museum of Art,
in association with Yale University Press, 2009.
Fig. 4.5 Francisco de Zurbarán, The Young Virgin, 1658–1660, oil on canvas,
29 1/8 × 21 1/4 in. (73 × 53 cm), St. Petersburg, The Hermitage
© Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte Hispánico. Archivo Mas.
Fig. 4.6 Francisco de Zurbarán, The Young Virgin, c. 1635–1640, oil on

canvas, 46 × 37 in. (117 × 94 cm), New York, Metropolitan Museum
of Art © Fundació Instituto Amatller de Arte Hispánico. Archivo
Mas.
a white cloth. Above it a richly gilded, green glazed vase holds lilies and roses,
traditional Marian flowers. Mary is framed by rose colored curtains, pulled back
to reveal the scene of her mystical contemplation. Her clothing is different in this
painting. Instead of the red tunic and blue mantle described in texts, she wears
more distinctive clothing, with an embroidered neckline and cuffs, which match
the embroidery in her lap. Interestingly, this black and white embroidery, which
combines cross stitch and floral motifs, is typical of the small town of Llerena, in
Extremadura, where the artist lived from 1617–1628. Her eyes, glistening with
tears, attest to the sincerity of her prayers. A subtle luminosity radiates from her
head, and delicately portrayed, evanescent angel heads surround her, creating a
passageway to heaven in the top of the picture. The various passages from period
texts that discuss Mary’s “colloquys with angels” come to mind.
Given Mary’s age, one assumes that the scene depicted took place in the
Temple. The numerous still life details, though, seem to contradict accounts of
Mary’s simple life in the Temple. Furthermore, a related picture raises questions
about the setting. Mary appears in the exact same pose and clothing in a painting
of her with her parents, Saints Anne and Joachim (Madrid, private collection,
seventeenth century). Seated on the floor in the center, hands clasped in prayer,
embroidery in her lap, she again looks up to heaven. On the right, St. Anne reaches
out to embrace her, and hands her a pewter plate with fruit on it, including a ripe
pear and two figs. On the left, St. Joachim sits slightly behind the two female
figures, resting his head on his hand, as he contemplates his daughter’s religious
ecstasy. On the table appear a white two-handled cup and a pink rose, both on a
pewter plate, a detail that also appears in Zurbarán’s famous Still Life with Lemons,
Oranges and a Rose (Pasadena, Norton Simon Museum, 1633). This painting of
Mary with her family seems to indicate that these scenes of religious ecstasy took
place at home, not in the Temple.
Neither this scene of the ecstatic young Virgin seated as the Madonna of
Humility in the presence of her family, nor scenes of St. Anne teaching the Virgin,
correspond to period or traditional textual sources. In fact, both contradict the
notion that Mary was educated in the Temple from the age of three to 14 years,
indicating confusion in some worshipers’ minds over Mary’s early life. Instead
of interpreting these, though, as iconographic “mistakes,” a more appealing
explanation for their creation comes to mind—that these images clearly responded
to devotees’ desires to imagine Mary’s family as similar to their own. The
importance given St. Anne in these apocryphal scenes speaks to a yearning on
the part of mothers and daughters, I believe, to see themselves in Anne and Mary.
The pictures also testify to artists’ and devotees’ abilities to inspire new artworks,
ones not canonized or officially approved by the Church and Inquisition, and not
ones with previous pictorial sources. Most of these scenes were entirely new in
the seventeenth century. Unfortunately, little is known about the commissions or
original locations of these works.63
63
Baticle, Zurbarán, 289. One of the two paintings of the sleeping Virgin is presently
in the Cathedral of Jérez de la Frontera, but there is no proof it was created for that setting,
But what, if anything, can these pictures and related texts tell us about the
education of girls in seventeenth-century Spain? Speaking of the Virgin’s behavior
in the Temple, Ágreda writes, “With this rare example, we souls, especially
nuns, will be taught to not follow our little desires …”64 So, while clearly not
like other girls or women, the Virgin Mary could serve as an example to follow,
a model to aspire to imitate. Other texts and visual examples clearly elucidate
appropriate gender norms, including the importance of modesty and piety for
girls, whose loose, flowing hair or bare feet could be understood as indecorous, or
even as provoking illicit desires. But can these scenes tell us anything about the
importance of reading for girls and women in Spain? Taggard argued that in no
way did scenes of Anne teaching Mary encourage literacy among girls. Bergmann
and Taggard point out that over time, the books in these pictures became smaller
and the embroidery increased in size, thus indicating a shift from an emphasis on
reading to handiwork in girls’ educations.65 While the transformation of the book
in paintings of St. Anne teaching the Virgin, from the large missal in the painting
by Roelas to the small, closed volume in Murillo’s later work, noted by Taggart,
makes a convincing argument for the decreased importance placed on reading in
girls’ lives, what about the paintings by Zurbarán? The chronology in this case
does not uphold a similar shift. Books appear in the earliest picture, the one in the
Metropolitan, and in the later ones, dating from the 1640s to 1650s. In fact, in the
later ones the artist took pains to make clear to the viewer that Mary’s visions were
inspired by her reading, and her fingers remain in her book, holding open her place.
Thus, the visual evidence, when read in conjunction with texts and analogous
pictures, presents a mixed impression. Reading, particularly in the service of
religious devotion, was suitable for girls. So, too, was handiwork such as sewing
and embroidery. On the basis of the totality of the visual evidence, it is difficult
to valorize one over the other, although Zurbarán’s pictures seem to privilege the
spiritual over the worldly. What is clear, though, is that injunctions in texts such
as the one by Sor María de Ágreda to imitate the Virgin Mary, and paintings filled
with realistic details, including figures of Mary based on live models, enabled, if
not encouraged, female readers and viewers to look up to and emulate Mary to
the best of their abilities. So it seems that even as Mary encapsulated superhuman
ideals, she could simultaneously inspire viewers to devotion and emulation.
although one scholar has speculated that it may have always been in Andalusia. The painting
of the Virgin seated in a chair in the Hermitage was reportedly discovered in a convent in
Medina del Campo by Spanish art historian Manuel Gómez Moreno, suggesting it was
commissioned by or for nuns (Baticle, Zurbarán, 256).
64
Ágreda, Mystica Ciudad de Dios, 140: “Con este raro exemplo quedarèmos
enseñadas las almas, especialmente las Religiosas, à no seguir nuestros fervorcillos, y
dictamenes contra el de la obediencia, y voluntad de los Superiores …”
65
Taggard, “Murillo’s St. Anne,” 39; Bergmann, “Learning at Her Mother’s Knee,”
247.
Works Cited
Ágreda, Sor María de Jesús. Mystica Ciudad de Dios, Milagro de Su Omnipotencia,

y Abismo de la Gracia: Historia Divina y Vida de la Virgen Madre de Dios,
Reyna y Señora Nuestra María Santissima, Restauradora de la Culpa de Eva, y
Medianera de la Gracia. Antwerp: Cornelio y la Viuda de Henrico Verdussen,
1722 [orig. edn, 1670].
Alcalá, Luisa Elena. “The Image and Its Maker: The Problem of Authorship in
Relation to Miraculous Images.” In Sacred Spain: Art and Belief in the Spanish
World, edited by Ronda Kasl, 55–73. New Haven, CT: Indianapolis Museum
of Art and Yale University Press, 2009. Exhibition catalog.

Arias, Francisco. De la imitación de la bienaventurada Virgen María Nuestra
Señora: Escrita por un monje premostratense. 4th edn. Madrid: Biblioteca del
Apostolado de la Prensa, 1907 [orig. edn, 1630].
Baranda Leturio, Nieves. “L’éducation des femmes dans l’Espagne post-tridentine.”
In Genre et identités aux Pays-Bas Méridionaux. L’éducation religieuse des
femmes après le concile de Trente, edited by Silvia Mostaccio and Jean-Pierre
Delville, 29–63. Louvain-la-Neuve: Bruylant-Academic, 2010.
Baticle, Jeannine. Zurbarán. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York:
Abrams, 1987. Exhibition catalog.
Bergmann, Emilie L. “Learning at Her Mother’s Knee? Saint Anne, the Virgin
Mary, and the Iconography of Women’s Literacy.” In Women’s Literacy in
Early Modern Spain and the New World, edited by Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie
Hernández, 243–61. Farnham, UK and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011.
———. “A Maternal Genealogy of Wisdom: The Iconography of the Virgin in
Early Modern Spanish Iconography.” Confluencia 24 (2008): 154–61.
Black, Charlene Villaseñor. Creating the Cult of St. Joseph: Art and Gender in the
Spanish Empire. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006.
Calderón Benjumea, Carmen. Iconografía de Santa Ana en Sevilla y Triana.
Seville: Diputación Provincial, 1990.
Ceán Bermúdez, Juan Agustín. Diccionario histórico de los más ilustres profesores
de Bellas Artes en España. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1800.
Christian, Jr., William A. Local Religion in Sixteenth-Century Spain. Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1981.
Cruz, Anne J. “Reading over Men’s Shoulders: Noblewomen’s Libraries and
Reading Practices.” In Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain and the New
World, edited by Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández, 41–58. Farnham, UK
and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011.
Cruz, Anne J., and Rosilie Hernández, eds. Women’s Literacy in Early Modern
Spain and the New World. Farnham, UK and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011.
Donahue, Darcy R. “Wondrous Words: Miraculous Literacy and Real Literacy in
the Convents of Early Modern Spain.” In Women’s Literacy in Early Modern
105–22. Farnham, UK and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011.
Howe, Elizabeth Teresa. Education and Women in the Early Modern Hispanic
World. Aldershot, UK and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008.
Luna, Lola. “Santa Ana, model cultural del Siglo de Oro.” Cuadernos
Hispanoamericanos 498 (1991): 53–64.
Nalle, Sara T. “Literacy and Culture in Early Modern Castile.” Past and Present
125 (November 1989): 65–96.
Pacheco, Francisco. El arte de la pintura. Ed. Bonaventura Bassegoda i Hugas.
Madrid: Cátedra, 1990 [orig. edn, 1649].
Pérez-Toribio, Montserrat. “From Mother to Daughter: Educational Lineage
in the Correspondence between the Countess of Palamós and Estefania de

Requesens.” In Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain and the New World,
edited by Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández, 59–77. Farnham, UK and
Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011.
Ribadeneyra, Pedro de. Flos Sanctorum, de las Vidas de los Santos. Vol. 3. Madrid:
Joachin Ibarra, 1761 [orig. edn, 1599–1610].
Robinson, Cynthia. Imagining the Passion in a Multiconfessional Castile.
University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2013.
Sala de Arte del Grupo Santander. Universia. Monografías España. “Las 10
mejores obras.” http://contenidos.universia.es/especiales/sala-arte/mejores-
obras/zurbaran/index.htm.
Sheingorn, Pamela. “The Wise Mother.” Gesta 32 (1993): 69–80.
Stratton, Suzanne L. The Immaculate Conception in Spanish Art. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994.
Taggard, Mindy Nancarrow. “Murillo’s St. Anne Teaching the Virgin to Read
and the Question of Female Literacy and Learning in Golden Age Spain.”
Konsthistorisk tidskrift/Journal of Art History 68 (1999): 31–46.
Vives, Juan Luis. The Education of a Christian Woman: A Sixteenth-Century
Manual, edited by Charles Fantazzi. Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
2000.
Vollendorf, Lisa. The Lives of Women: A New History of Inquisitional Spain.
Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2005.

PART 2
Children at Court

Chapter 5
Childhood and Royalty
at the Court of Philip III
Martha K. Hoffman
Philippe Ariès famously argued that Europeans prior to the seventeenth century
possessed little understanding of the special needs and qualities of childhood but
that around that time a shift in perception can be detected that eventually leads to
the modern child-centered family.1 While other historians have challenged and
amended this theory, it retains a certain imaginative power that continues to invite
exploration. To the extent there was such a turn, the Spanish royal family was
at a unique intersection within that change. Just as the child Jesus was the first
person to be presented as a child, royal children were the first class of children to
be recognized as children, encouraged, when circumstances allowed, to develop
at leisure and closely watched in their education. Contrary to the general theory
that high infant mortality in the pre-modern world limited affection, for the royal
family it focused attention on childhood activities and increased watchfulness
over the health of children. The common desire among families to have children
as well as the natural grief when a child died were magnified for the royal family,
who saw in their children not just the survival of the family but the stability of the
country and the defense of their faith.
The experiences of the children of Philip III and Margarita of Austria are
instructive of the ways in which royal status and understandings of childhood co-
existed. This generation consisted of eight children born within the 10-year span
of 1601 to 1611, five of whom survived to adulthood. From their earliest years, the
children appeared occasionally as subjects of vignettes of court life, portrayed in
ways that evaluated their relationships with each other and with members of court.
Observers depicted their acquisition of the trappings of royalty, commenting on
their physical appearance and their ability to present themselves in public. In these
accounts, the Spanish royal children acted like children, with their rivalries, their
attachments, and even their embarrassments noted.
The lives of royal children appear similar throughout Europe in a structural
sense, that is, in the formation of households, the attention to ceremony, the general
recommendations for education, and the appointment of guardians and tutors, yet
there is great variation in how individuals experienced those structures. Patterns
1
Philippe Ariès, Centuries of Childhood: A Social History of Family Life, trans.
Robert Baldick (New York: Vintage Books, 1962).
124 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Hoffman
of residence, for example, and the attendant opportunities for developing what we
might call family feeling differed a great deal. Louis XIII and his parents saw very
little of each other on a regular basis, while for the half-siblings Mary, Elizabeth,
and Edward Tudor, the appointment of entirely separate households reflected
their differing ages, their different mothers, their separate residences, and their
unequal political status. From his earliest years, the eldest son of James VI/I lived
entirely separately from his parents with the Earls of Mar, who were “hereditary
custodians” of the Scottish heir to the throne. His siblings likewise lived with
designated nobles and did not move into closer proximity to their parents until
James inherited the throne of England.2

In some countries, the practice of educating a child by breaking his will
extended to royal children. Both Louis XIII’s father, Henry IV, and the prince’s
own attendants participated in the apparently frequent disciplinary whippings of
the French heir, while as a child James VI/I was subject to beatings by his tutor,
who appears to have also wished to impress on the young king his own view of
contractual kingship by demonstrating that the person of the king was not above
reprimand. James, in turn, “boxed the ears” of the future Charles I and brought him
to tears by yelling at him on at least a few occasions.3
The children of Philip III and Queen Margarita, by contrast, spent considerable
time together and with their parents and there is no available record to suggest
that they experienced physical discipline in their studies or otherwise, although
if the Infanta Ana’s mothering reflected her own experience, they may have been
sent to their rooms for misbehaving.4 A few household officials served particular
children individually, but for most of their childhood, the royal children shared
servants and had overlapping and fluid households.5 The number of children and
their closeness in age meant that the Spanish royal court in this generation was
2
Ethel Carleton Williams, Anne of Denmark, Wife of James VI of Scotland, James I
of England (London: Longman, 1970), 55, 60, 66.
3
Elizabeth Wirth Marvick, Louis XIII: The Making of a King (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 1986), 30; Caroline Bingham, The Making of a King: The Early Years of
James VI and I (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1969), 84, 91; Williams, Anne of Denmark,
173.
4
John B. Wolf, Louis XIV (New York: Norton, 1968), 26.
5
In the less formal Central European courts, such as the one in which Margarita grew
up, separate households were also less common, although there was a custom of sending
children to be raised at the court of grandparents or other relatives. Margarita’s mother,
María of Bavaria, did this with her eldest son, and indeed the presence of Austrian and
Savoyard cousins at the Spanish court can also be seen as an extension of such patterns.
Williams, Anne of Denmark, 2–5; Johann Franzl, Ferdinand II: Kaiser im Zwiespalt
der Zeit (Graz: Verlag Styria, 1978), 25–31. See Ariès, Centuries of Childhood, 365–9,
and Mark Motley, Becoming a French Aristocrat: The Education of the Court Nobility,
1580–1715 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990) on these exchanges as a kind of
apprenticeship across all social classes.
Childhood and Royalty at the Court of Philip III 125
much more focused on the needs and activities of children than it had been or
would be in the surrounding decades and reigns.6
Court observers saw the royal children primarily through the lens of royalty
and secondarily through that of childhood. They attached qualities to members of
the royal family that they assumed inherent in royalty, such as intelligence, piety,
liberality, and physical strength and beauty. Recurring themes of royal biography,
which among the Habsburgs increasingly emphasized a devout personal life,
obedience to parents and rulers, and a sense of political service as a kind of divine
duty, reflected a comforting sense of continuity in royal qualities. Assigning such
personal qualities to the royal family reinforced stability within a system that
relied on personal rule by suggesting that the king and his family were both known
and extraordinary entities.
Children, on the other hand, were seen as emotional and undisciplined. Philip
IV himself described children as given to pleasure and mischief, and royal children
in particular were very difficult to instruct, “since the teachers never dare, nor are
they even allowed, to use great rigor in the instruction of such persons.”7 Across the
generations, writers expressed some of their anxiety about the nature of childhood
and the nature of royalty by describing the adult actions of the royal children,
commenting on the divine nature of Prince Juan, heir of Isabel and Fernando,
assigning the qualities of a king to Charles V while he was still in the womb, and
noting that when the empress Isabel died, the young prince Philip II ruled “with
judgment and divine zeal superior to his days.”8 The children of Philip III and
Margarita were likewise described as entertaining the king and queen, amazing
their parents and the court with wit and cleverness beyond their years.9 These
assertions about intelligence and capability suggest the utility of positing a special
quality of royalty, a quality inherent in their blood and lineage that allowed them to
fulfill their function as a keystone in political, cultural, and social order, no matter
the age of individuals.
Yet the lens of royalty also gave observers an entrance into childhood itself,
encouraging them to pay careful attention to these individuals as they grew and
developed. Raising a royal child was a delicate task, not to be achieved by violence,
noted one writer in discussing the duties of the prince’s guardian. The emphasis
6
Martha K. Hoffman, Raised to Rule: Educating Royalty at the Court of the Spanish
Habsburgs, 1601–1634 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press), esp. ch. 2.
7
Philip IV, “Epílogo Breve,” in Francisco de Guicciardini, Historia de Italia, trans.
Philip IV, king of Spain (Madrid: Viuda de Hernando, 1889–1890), vii–viii.
8
Antonio Feros, Kingship and Favoritism in the Spain of Philip III, 1598–1621
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 73. Cabrera de Córdoba, Luis. Felipe
Segundo, rey de España. 4 vols. (Madrid: Aribau, 1876–77), 1: 5.
9
Luis Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones de las Cosas Sucedidas en la Corte de España
(Madrid: Martín Alegria, 1857), 266, 339, 354, 411, 457, 460.
should be on discovering a prince’s nature, not forming it, wrote another.10 Royalty
was perceived as a special quality inherent in their nature but it also needed to be
nurtured and protected, just as we generally present children today as possessing
unlimited potential. Indeed royal children may have been the first class of children
to receive the kind of attention that we today see all children as deserving.
Royals as Children
Age is one obvious mark of childhood but for the Spanish court age was a flexible
measure of maturity that was taken into account but interacted with other demands
of royal formation. The royal children were assigned their adult roles at what we
would consider an early age: Ana was contracted to marry at age 11; Fernando was
made a cardinal of the Church and archbishop of Toledo at age 10; Philip became
king when he was 16. For both Ana and Fernando, however, age was recognized
as an obstacle to their taking on these roles, and their introduction to their duties
was perceived to take place over the course of years and even decades. For Prince
Philip, the ideal was a long apprenticeship, but the concept of royalty covered up
the inconvenience of his becoming king at such a young age. María, on the other
hand, was in her twenties by the time she married while Carlos never took up
his adult role and remained a child within the structure of the court well into his
twenties, thus suggesting that royal children became adults not when they reached
a certain age but when they took on their adult roles.
But just because they were expected to take on adult roles does not mean
the children were not seen as children. Various activities and attributes marked
childhood at the Spanish royal court. The presentation of emotions, for example,
was associated with youth for the Spanish court. As a small child, Prince Philip
on more than one occasion disrupted ceremonies with his tears. When he was
nine, while participating in a theatrical production, the over-excited prince even
vomited in front of the ladies of the court, which gave rise to some discussion of
whether it was beneath his dignity to participate in plays—in this case however,
his youth was a deciding factor in rendering his activity appropriate and, further,
because it distracted him when he had been distraught over the death of the dwarf
Bonami, of whom he had been very fond. We can also see touches of sibling
rivalry, as when the Infanta Ana was reported to have questioned her ladies closely
concerning where her brother had been before he was born and to have warned
her servants not to associate with those of her brother. Or when the eight-year-old
prince and his six-year-old brother in 1613 went through a period in which they
picked fights with each other.11 The chronicler reporting this last story suggested
some anxiety over these circumstances, but reported that the boys’ aya made no
attempt to stop them, suggesting that this was seen as a normal boyish behavior.
10
Documentos para el oficio de Ayo del Príncipe, BN Mss 10857, fol. 101; Tratado
del Príncipe Instruido, Biblioteca del Palacio Real II-587, fol. 3v.
11
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 574, 241, 512.
Our visual image of the royal children is shaped by a large number of portraits.
While portraits of adults almost always depicted a single individual (with the
occasional inclusion of a child, dwarf, or animal as a sort of prop), the standard
child’s portrait in this generation consisted of two or three of the royal children
gazing seriously but with a hint of a smile at the viewer. It is a standard assertion in
the history of childhood that children were depicted as “miniature adults,” but the
children of Philip and Margarita were depicted realistically as children, dressed in
courtly clothing, yes, but round-faced with downy hair and child-like proportions.
The clothing signified rank and occasion as much as age. Queen Margarita wore
her first dress suitable to formal court only as a 14-year-old, on her journey to meet
her future husband and become queen of Spain.12 Philip III, as prince, apparently
continued to be dressed in children’s undergarments up until the death of his father,
when he himself was 20.13 Despite his status and the instruction he was receiving
in his future responsibilities, this was a sign of his inferior position, indicating that
he was still a child within the structure of the court.
Ariès describes boys in the early seventeenth century wearing a type of robe
until approximately age seven, supplemented by breeches at about age four.14 A
charming painting from approximately 1580 of Prince Diego and Infante Philip
(later Philip III) by Sánchez Coello indicates that this style was also in use in
Spain, although a painting of Prince Philip IV and Infanta Ana, executed in 1607
by Juan Pantoja de la Cruz, shows the prince not in a robe, but instead a dark
doublet, cape, ruff, and lace cuffs. The prince is seated in a throne-like wheeled
carriage, the early modern equivalent of a stroller. The six-year-old infanta is
garbed in a brocaded, embroidered, and jeweled white and gold dress, as elaborate
as any court lady, but with only a simple band of pearls holding back her hair.
This and other portraits that depict the children of Philip III and Margarita in
full courtly dress were neither ideal portraits nor “everyday” intended to depict the
child as he or she always was but instead commemorations of particular events,
such as a portrait of Infanta Ana by Pantoja de la Cruz, executed in El Escorial on
September 8, 1606, the day the infanta served as godmother for her sister María,
or the group portrait by Bartolomé González of the three youngest children,
Fernando, Margarita, and Alonso, dressed in high courtly fashion as they appeared
on the day of the signing of Ana’s marriage contract.15 Once one begins to think of
these portraits as a sort of snapshot, one can indeed trace a good number of them
12
Relación de los casamientos de la Reina Doña Margarita de Austria e Infanta Doña
Isabel Clara Eugenia y recibimientos que se hicieron en Ferrara y de todo lo demás que allí
pasó (Granada, 1599).
13
Feros, Kingship and Favoritism, 73.
14
Ariès, Centuries of Childhood, 50–52.
15
F.J. Sánchez Cantón, “Noventa y siete retratos de la familia de Felipe III por
Bartolomé González,” transcribed by J. Moreno Villa, Archivo Español de Arte y Arqueolgía
13 (1937): 139; Maria Kusche, Juan Pantoja de la Cruz (Madrid, 1964), 237–8.
to particular occasions. Clearly in these cases the intent was not just to show the
children as they were but also to show the children as royal.
The royal parents as well as the court and to some extent the larger public
monitored the health of the royal children. Philip and Margarita, like modern
parents, consulted with doctors and kept watch at sickbeds. The doctors not only
prescribed notoriously detrimental treatments such as bleeding but also consulted
on diet, exercise, and the healthiness of places the royal family visited. The
chronicler Cabrera de Cordoba felt it worth the public record to note that when
her siblings all fell ill in the autumn of 1609, the Infanta Ana lived for close to
two months in the madrileño convent of the Descalzas Reales with her father’s
aunt, the nun Margarita de la Cruz, to avoid exposure. The following year, she and
María also spent a significant amount of time there while their brothers suffered
fevers at the royal palace. When the prince was too ill during Corpus Christi in
1613 to join the rest of the family at San Lorenzo, he was entertained in Madrid by
the president of the council of Castile, who brought him to his house and set him
at a window to watch the procession, suggesting the desire of various members of
the court to attend to the heir to the throne.16
One particularly well-documented illness of the prince indicates the level of
concern surrounding such episodes and the ways the personal lives of the children
affected the court. When the royal family set out for Lerma in the spring of 1610,
Prince Philip temporarily remained behind in Madrid to recover from an unspecified
illness. A few weeks later, he was on his way to join his family in Lerma, when
his worsening condition forced him to stop in Aranda del Duero. Lacking suitable
housing in Aranda, the king and queen moved to nearby Ventosilla to facilitate
frequent visits, while the infantas remained in Lerma, along with several of the
queen’s ladies and the queen’s mayordomo mayor, the Marquis de la Laguna. As
the prince’s illness persisted, his parents moved to cramped quarters in the city and
the queen herself spent several critical days constantly at the prince’s side. Once
he was out of immediate danger, she moved back and forth visiting her children,
including a daughter born only weeks prior. When the prince’s condition improved
somewhat, his parents left him to convalesce under the supervision of the Marquis
de la Laguna and went to Burgos in fulfillment of a vow they had made for his
health. Stopping in Lerma to visit María, who had in the meantime also fallen ill,
they traveled on to San Lorenzo and Madrid, leaving the Countess of Altamira and
the queen’s mayordomo, the Count of Castelmellor, to care for her. The Infantas
Ana and Margarita traveled separately to San Lorenzo with ladies of the queen’s
household. The towns of Aranda and Lerma lent money to support the queen’s
household during this extended period.17
16
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 254, 259, 342, 299, 520; Diego de Guzmán,
Memorias, Real Academia de la Historia (RAH) Mss 9/476, fols 85–100.
17
Accounts of Francisco Guillamas Velazquez, 1610–1611, Archivo General de
Simancas (AGS) Tesoro Inv.24 leg.578; Memorial of the count of Castelmellor, mayordomo
Court and community responded to the prince’s illnesses in 1609 and 1610
with processions of images and relics, as well as orders to various monasteries
and convents to pray for his health. Illness continued to inform activities after
recovery, as in 1613, when the king, prince, and eldest infanta again traveled to
Burgos to fulfill a vow the king had made during an illness of the prince. After her
marriage was arranged, Ana’s health also became a concern for French residents
at the court of Spain, who monitored the course of her smallpox and reported with
relief her lack of facial scars.18
Other milestones of the royal children’s lives echo a larger understanding of
when children were capable of rational and moral thought. Seven was widely
seen as the age to begin a few key aspects of formation, including both the rite
of confession and formal study. Indeed the future Philip IV’s first confessor and
first tutor were appointed within a few days of his seventh birthday. His siblings
likewise began to confess at that age but began their studies at various ages. The
Infanta Ana was eight years and four months old in January of 1610 when she
began her formal education (although she had had some informal instruction within
her household prior to that). When her sister María joined her in the classroom for
the first time on February 9, 1611, she was less than five years old.19 Carlos and
Fernando likewise began their studies together, despite nearly two years difference
in their ages. Decisions concerning when each began his or her studies thus were
shaped by an understanding that there was a proper age at which children were
ready but also responded to matters of convenience and circumstance. As a girl,
Ana’s education lacked the urgency and public import of the prince’s, and so she
continued in the casual learning environment of the household longer than her
younger siblings did but once the educational structure was in place, younger
siblings were introduced into it at earlier developmental stages.
Ana and her sisters do not seem to have had a rigorous or regular schedule of
study. The standard lesson lasted for about an hour and was easily superseded by
other activities. For a while, the girls had lessons in the morning every day and then
would switch to afternoon lessons for several weeks. Occasionally, students and
teacher did not meet until late at night. When one of the girls was ill, lessons would
cease for both for several days. Once their teacher, the Jesuit Diego de Guzmán,
noted that he did not give lessons because the girls had gone with their parents to
a bullfight. Mostly, lessons took place in the children’s chambers but sometimes
in the royal apartments of the Descalzas Reales or at the Duke of Lerma’s Las
Huertas home, and at least once in the library of El Escorial. Another time the
teacher started lessons in the gallery of the palace of El Escorial, only to have
of the queen, for expenses incurred in 1610, January 8, 1619, APR Sec. Hist. Caja 81;
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 406, 413–14, 416.
18
Guzmán, Memorias, RAH Mss 9/476, fols 85, 86v; Mss 9/477, fols 20v, 24–24v;
Duke of Lerma to the council, Burgos, September 28, 1613, AGS CJH leg. 522; Ruth
Kleinman, Anne of Austria (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1985), 7–8.
19
Guzmán, Memorias, RAH Mss 9/477, fol. 75.
the king and queen pass through and casually take the children with them. His
duties as chaplain often took him away from his teaching duties, as in the autumn
of 1610, when he took a month-long pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.20
Apparently no one undertook to instruct the infantas during his absence.
Of course, the infantas were still young during this period. But years later,
when the Infante Fernando was almost 14, he too studied only an hour or so a day,
and even that not every day. The president of the Council of Castile, Fernando de
Contreras, recommended Fernando spend at least three hours a day at his studies,
dividing the time between learning new lessons and reviewing and exercises.
Contreras presented the damage to Fernando’s education as an urgent matter and

noted that if the infante became too accustomed to the habits of chivalry and secular
nobility, it would be very difficult to introduce the style of an ecclesiastic prince.
He urged Philip IV to encourage his brother to study. “No one,” he commented,
“other than your Majesty has the authority to take this matter in hand.”21
Cabrera de Córdoba provides us with an example of how a confessor might
take advantage of daily interaction to instruct a child. He described the prince’s (or
possibly the king’s) confessor explaining to the future Philip IV the meaning of the
Order of the Golden Fleece. Not quite eight years old, the prince received the Tusón
(toison), the symbol of membership in the Burgundian pseudo-chivalric order,
on the festival of the three kings, 1613. The chronicler reported: “His Highness
was so pleased that he went to show the Fleece to the meninos, and asked his
father if he had any obligation to wear it; and when he said no, the confessor, who
happened to be present, told him that that lamb meant Our Lord, and thus he had
the obligation to be a very great Christian.”22 Although the confessor’s impromptu
lesson suggests a misunderstanding of the symbolism of the fleece, and at the very
least simplification of its relation to service, the king expressed satisfaction with
his message, suggesting that the pedagogical message was more important than
precision.
Teachers likewise made accommodations to the ages of the royal children
and are often described as telling stories rather than lecturing and made use of
grammars in the form of cards and games. One author also posited romances
sung at entertainments as a form of instruction that impressed important matters
on the spirit of the prince without long discourses. This activity supplemented
rather than replaced reading history. The prince’s actual knowledge is presented
as coming from his reading, while the more riveting experience of listening to a
ballad provided the occasion for discussion and reflection.23
Guzmán, Memorias, RAH Mss 9/477, fols 39–50v, 64v, 119, 142, 149v.
20
Apuntamientos del licenziado Don Fer[nan]do de Contreras presidente del Consejo

21
Real de Castilla al Rey D. Philipe 4’o n[uest]ro S[eñ]or sobre la educaçion del Infante d.
Fer[nan]do Card[ena]l y Arzobispo de Toledo. April 22, 1623. Hispanic Society, ms HC
411/209 fol. 178v; fols. 171v–179v.
22
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 506.
23
Príncipe Instruido, fol. 24v. See Hoffman, Raised to Rule, 60, 70–72, 187–8.
The royal children filled their days with a variety of leisure activities. The
children read both for education and pleasure. Prince Philip was particularly drawn
to histories and Ana was encouraged to read biographies of queens, including those
of both her mother and Isabel of Castile, but they also read plays and poetry, and
most likely Amadís of Gaul.24 The boys played with a collection of toy soldiers,
conducted mock tournaments, wore child-sized armor (whether for “dress up” or
in the mock tournaments is not clear), played pelota, and began to hunt at an early
age.25 The girls spent some of their time doing such things as embroidery and other
handwork. They sometimes took walks for exercise, as in the summer of 1623,
when the Infanta María walked in the gardens of the Casa de Campo outside of
Madrid for exercise, as recommended by her doctor.26 The royal family attended
bullfights and tournaments as entertainment, which often offered opportunities for
the public to see the royal family, including the children, such as an occasion in
March 1609 when the king and queen and their two eldest children had dinner in
the panadería on the Plaza Mayor of Madrid and then watched the entertainments
from the windows.27 The royal children were not shielded from the violence of
a bullfight, as in an occasion in 1613, when horses died and several men were
injured in the course of an afternoon, nor the dangers of hunting, as happened in
1618, when the prince and his older cousin, Philiberto of Savoy, were hunting
near Velada, and a misfiring gun cost the unfortunate Philiberto half his beard and
mustache and one of his eyebrows.28
The royal children also spent a portion of their week writing letters. In the
summer of 1613, Ana wrote formal letters to the French queen mother Marie
de Medici and Prince Philip to Princess Isabel, his future wife.29 When Ana
prepared for her journey to France, Philip III encouraged her to correspond with
her aunt, Isabel Clara, governor of the Low Countries, and with her relatives in
Germany, the emperor and empress and other Catholic princes, and her aunts who
were nuns.30 Philip III’s own letters to Ana, written after she moved to France,
24
Hoffman, Raised to Rule, 75–8.
25
Miguel Angel Echevarría Bacigalupe, Alberto Struzzi, Un precursor barroco del
capitalismo liberal (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1995), 17–19; Cartas de Felipe III a
su Hija Ana, Reina de Francia (1616–1618), ed. Ricardo Martorell Téllez-Girón (Madrid:
Imprenta Helénica, 1929), 43–4; María Teresa Ruiz Alcon, “Armaduras Infantiles en el
Palacio de Oriente,” Reales Sitios 3 (1966): 40–48; Gerónimo Gascón de Torquemada,
Gaçeta y Nuevas de la corte de España, ed. Alfonso de Ceballos-Escalera y Gila (Madrid:
Real Academia Matritense de Heráldica y Genealogía, 1991), 51; Philip IV, “Epílogo
Breve,” ix; Guzmán, Memorias, RAH Ms 9/476, fols 243.
26
Gascón de Torquemada, Gaçeta, 156.
27
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 104, 155; Guzmán, Memorias, 9/476, fol. 105v.
28
Countess of Lemos to Francisco de Castro, June 26, 1613, Madrid, Archivo de la
casa de Alba, c. 58 no. 177; Gascón de Torquemada, Gaçeta, 56.
29
Cárdenas to king, August 3, 1613; to the Duke of Lerma, August 4, 9, and 10, 1613,
AGS Estado K leg. 1468.
30
Cartas de Felipe III, 33, 37, 47.
repeatedly express his desire to see her and communicate a palpable sense of loss.
Ana’s siblings also wrote to their sister, both as children and later as adults.31
María as a teenager also wrote to various nuns, some of whom she had perhaps
met in her travels.32
In September 1617, the 12-year-old prince experienced his first extended
absence from his wife, and spent his spare time writing daily letters to her.33 By
the following year, at least, the prince had developed a romantic interest in his
wife—or one could almost say that he was playing at being an adult—expressed in
a poem praising her beauty and accusing her of mistreating him. While the poem
follows a classic courtesy form blaming the beloved for cruelty, the courtier who
preserved it claimed that the princess inspired it by refusing to let the prince kiss
her.34
The royal children danced, often as part of masques or other theatrical
performances, and spent considerable time practicing as a regular part of their
leisure time.35 The Infanta Ana participated in her first theatrical piece, an allegory
of the virtues to celebrate the prince’s birth, at age four and attended her first
court dance as a seven-year-old, at the wedding of the sister of the queen’s
closest friend.36 While some of these events took place in the intimate context
of the household or even the convent of Descalzas Reales, where the children
performed for the king’s aunt Margarita de la Cruz,37 others were presented on
a large scale, as when the nine-year-old prince directed his siblings and several
ladies of the court in an elaborate performance of Lope de Vega’s El Premio de
la hermosura [The Prize of Beauty], complete with numerous theatrical machines
and fantastical set pieces constructed along the banks of the river in Lerma. The
Duke of Lerma, both the king’s favorite and the prince’s ayo, had been providing
Cartas de Felipe III, esp. 18, 21–3; and “Cartas autógrafas de Felipe III,” ed.
31
A. Rodriguez Villa, Revista de Archivos, Bibliotecas, y Museos 1 (1897): 9–18, esp. 12–13.
Juan de Palafox, “Diaro de la jornada que hizo la sereníssima señora Reina de Hungría,” in
Quintín Aldea Vaquero, España y Europea en el siglo XVII (Madrid: 1986), 461; Kleinman,
Anne of Austria, 84–5; Martha Walker Freer, The Married Life of Anne of Austria, Queen of
France, Mother of Louis XIV, 2 vols (London: Tinsley Brothers, 1865), 2: 7.
32
Andres de Almansa y Mendoza, Relacion de la partida del serenissimo príncipe de
Vvalia que fue a nueve de setiembre deste año de 1623 (Madrid: Diego Flamenco, 1623).
33
Cartas de Felipe III, 35–6.
34
Antonio Paz y Meliá, ed., “Correspondencia del conde de Lemos con don Francisco
de Castro … y con el Príncipe de Esquilache (1613–1620),” Bulletin Hispanique 5 (1903):
350.
35
Payments for Alonso Fernández, dancing master of their highnesses, May 22, 1614,
Archivo Histórico Nacional, Cámara de Castilla, leg.4420 n. 73 and July 8, 1618, CJH 556,
p. 11, n. 16.
36
Guzmán, Memorias, RAH Mss 9/476, fol. 31; Teresa Ferrer Valls, Nobleza y
espectaculo teatral (1535–1622): Estudio y documentos (Valencia: Universitat de Valencia,
1993), 235–44.
37
Cartas de Felipe III, 29, 44, 47.
other entertainment during the same week for the court, but played a supporting
role in this production, while the prince acted, directed, and stage-managed. The
spectators marveled at the prince’s cleverness both in organizing the production
and in acting. One observer drew conclusions about the promise of the future king
from the evidence of his abilities on stage. Ana’s beauty and her skill in leading the
final masque were likewise remarked, suggesting a parallel assessment of qualities
appropriate to a queen. The playwright further acknowledged the rank of his actors
by adjusting details of the story on which he based his play, so that the winner of
beauty’s prize, played by the Infanta Ana, was the Empress Aurora, daughter of
Jupiter, rather than the humble Angelica. Most of the actors were women, although
the one man in the cast, Andrés de Alcocer, was noted as the prince’s particular
choice because of his unique wit.38
Children as Royalty
Despite an extensive and somewhat repetitive literature concerning the education

of princes, the royal children, like other classes of children, learned their adult
roles through a kind of apprenticeship and a gradual introduction into the activities
appropriate to their futures lives and careers. They did take on what we would
consider adult roles and responsibilities from an early age, most of which were
intertwined with their status and with the functions of royalty.
Among the earliest of the adult roles assigned to the Infanta Ana was that of
godmother for all of her siblings. A godparent pledged to help in the religious
education of a child and occasionally even undertook the responsibility of raising a
child in the case of the loss of parents. This would have been a serious commitment
for a child to undertake but it helps to explain the royal family’s use of relatives
in this role whenever possible rather than use a noble who would be put in a
position superior to a royal child or could even conceivably claim political power
through godparentage. On the first such occasion, however, the infanta was not yet
four years old and the king solicited opinions from various clergymen concerning
whether she could serve as her brother’s godparent.39 While the responding clergy
expressed concern about having such a young godparent, they allowed it long as
there was a second godparent of competent age. They may indeed have made an
exception for her royal status.
38
Antonio [Hurtado] de Mendoza, Relación de la comedia que en Lerma representaran
la Reina de Francia y sus Hermanos, Biblioteca Nacional (BN) Mss 18656, no. 49;
published in Teresa Ferrer Valls, Nobleza y espectaculo teatral, 245–56. On some of the
details of this event, see Teresa Ferrer Valls, La práctica escénica cortesana: De la época
del emperador a la de Felipe III (London: Tamesis Books, 1991), 180–89; on theater at
the court of Philip III see especially 105–42, and Malveena McKendrick, Theatre in Spain,
1490–1700 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 209–13.
39
BN Mss 2347, fols 268–9.
Prince Philip likewise was godfather to three of his siblings, even though his
serving alongside his sister meant there was no adult godparent. At the baptism
of Infanta María, the Duke of Infantado carried the newborn while the Duke
of Lerma carried her one-and-a-half year-old godfather, Prince Philip. The two
nobles exchanged children at the time of the actual baptism, with both the prince
and the newborn, one observer noted, crying the entire time. For the Infante
Carlos’s christening, the Constable of Castile carried the infante, while Lerma
again carried the prince. The two-and-a-half-year-old godfather once more drew
as much attention as the newborn: dressed in stockings, jacket, cap, and boots, and
wearing a sword and dagger, he charmed the assembled court. But he also cried
and demanded to be taken to his parents, who were seated separately; he had to be
calmed by one of the queen’s ladies before the ceremony could continue. By 1609,
when Ana and Philip served as godparents of the Infante Fernando, the four-year-
old prince was able to muster a more dignified show: he walked by himself and the
royal chaplain gives us the detail that the prince reached up and placed his hand on
the infant during the baptism itself.40
The mix of royal necessity and childhood perspectives can also be seen at
the prince’s juramento, the ceremony in which all the great nobles and prelates
of Castile swore allegiance to him as their future king.41 On the morning of
January 13, 1608, the king, queen, eldest infanta, and not yet three-year-old prince
emerged from the royal apartments at San Jerónimo of Madrid, dressed in radiant
white and abundant jewels. During the mass that preceded the main ceremony,
attendants whisked the prince quietly into the sacristy to be fed, in anticipation of
a lengthy day. The prince was then seated on a small chair slightly in front of his
parents, while the infanta sat next to her mother. The true immediate impact of the
occasion on the prince’s understanding is questionable, given that when he saw
the ceremonial objects by which the cardinal would confirm the two children, he
seemed to think that he was going to be bled and began to cry. In one account, the
people close at hand calmed the prince by explaining the ceremony; in another, the
children’s aya had to pick up the child and comfort him before the service could
continue.42 After the initial ceremony, the prince slept quietly in his brocade chair,
his little hand resting on the arm of the chair, conveniently placed to accept the
kisses of his future subjects.
In some ways, the ceremony might be considered more important for the Infanta
Ana than for the prince, since, being four years older, she actively participated in
and observed it, while he slept through the greater part. Hers was the first name to
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 288, 314, 317, and 372. Guzmán, Memorias,
40
RAH Mss 9/476, fol. 46.

41
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 325–30; Luys Vélez de Guevara, Elogio del
Iuramento del Serenissimo Principe Don Felipe Domingo (Madrid, 1608); “Relación,”
Relaciones Históricas de los siglos XVI y XVII, ed. Francisco R. de Uhagón (Madrid:
Sociedad de Bibliófilos Españoles, 1896), 313–26.
42
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 326; “Relación,” 315.
be called by the booming voice of the rey de armas, placing her above the many
assembled prelates, grandees, knights, gentlemen, and procuradores of the Cortes.
As representative of all of the royal siblings, she was the first to swear the oath
of allegiance, to bow first to the Sacrament, then to her parents and brother, and
finally to take her brother’s hand and kiss it, her eyes full of tears. Although it
was perhaps the excitement of the day that summoned tears, others saw a greater
significance in her display of emotion, conceptualizing her oath not just as swearing
her devotion and that of her siblings, but as recognizing the relinquishing of her
rights as firstborn: “born the heiress, and [now] her rights cease.”43 While her
brother had also cried, his tears were presented as childish ones of fear and lack
of understanding. Hers, on the other hand, were seen as dignified and appropriate,
and contained while still evident.
That same year, Philip and Ana sponsored the wedding of Juan Fernández de
Velasco, constable of Castile, and Juana de Córdoba y Aragon, one of the queen’s
ladies, in the oratory of the queen. The queen and king apparently were not present,
but the prince and infanta embodied the royal blessing on the marriage, the prince
wearing a sword (presumably an appropriately small one) and the infanta hosting
the bride for the traditional dinner.44 As often seemed to happen at such events,
the prince and Ana upstaged the wedding couple in the eyes of many observers.
Ana also participated in ceremonies that tied the royal family closer to the Duke
of Lerma’s family, serving alongside her father as godparent at the baptism of the
Duke of Uceda’s son and as sponsor at the wedding of Uceda’s young daughter to
the Admiral of Castile.45
Philip III’s children began to learn their roles as religious patrons in their
earliest childhood, participating in ceremonies and observing the example of
their parents. The queen herself instructed her children in their first prayers and
devotions. Often one or more of her children attended her daily mass and, on more
formal occasions, the entire family attended public services together, viewing
them from the chancel or from behind a screen or partial curtain. A more common
daily pattern would have one of the royal chaplains saying mass for the children
and attending their meals to offer the benediction. The masses the children heard
alone were generally shorter, as suggested by the principal almoner who described
leaving the service held for the king after the gospel reading, attending mass in
the prince’s chapel from start to finish, and returning to the king’s mass before
the sermon ended. The mass said for the prince may not have included a sermon,
which may account for the significant difference in duration between the two.46
43
Velez de Guevara (1608); “Relación,” 319.
44
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 336.
45
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 440, 502; José Simón Díaz, ed., Relaciones breves
de actos públicos celebrados en Madrid de 1541 a 1650 (Madrid: Instituto de Estudios
Madrileños, 1982), 89–92.
46
Diego de Guzmán, Vida y Muerte de la Reina Doña Margarita de Austria (Madrid:
1617), fol. 197v; Guzmán, Memorias, RAH Mss 9/476, fol. 22. Hilary Dansey Smith,
The royal children can also be glimpsed taking part in liturgical festivals, such
as those for Palm Sunday and Corpus Christi, and accompanying their parents
on visits to convents and monasteries. In 1609, children participated with their
parents in weeklong services and processions devoted to Our Lady of Atocha
in appeal for rain. In 1611, the family together watched autos sacramentales
presented on carts in the street outside the Trinitarian church next to the Duke of
Lerma’s house. When the family made an extended visit to Segovia in 1609, the
king and queen employed almost every day in visiting convents and monasteries,
although evenings saw the occasional play performed in the Alcázar. During many
of these visits, the eight-year-old Infanta Ana accompanied her parents, while the
four-year-old prince went somewhat less regularly.47
From their earliest years, the children performed an act of charity as a central
event of their birthdays, giving gold escudos equal in number to their years.48 The
queen observed the March 25 festival of the Annunciation, or Incarnation, with
a ceremony in which the Infanta Ana began to participate at age nine. On this
occasion, servants placed tables in the outer hall of the queen’s chambers, and
nine poor women, having confessed and taken communion, were brought in for
the queen and her ladies to feed. When the women were seated, Margarita and
her eldest daughter entered from the queen’s chamber. The infanta sat on a chair
placed next to her mother’s, apparently simply watching as her mother served
one of the poor women, while the queen’s ladies served the remaining women the
various dishes of the meal. After the dinner, the queen gave each of the women
items of clothing and a purse of money. The queen and Ana then departed into
the queen’s chamber, followed by the mayordomos and the chaplain.49 After the
queen’s death Ana continued her mother’s practice for at least a few years, as did
María some years later, suggesting that both sisters looked to their mother as a
role model.50
The Transition to Adulthood
While the Infanta Ana’s adult role was determined when her marriage to the king
of France was contracted, this did not mean the Spanish court no longer saw the
10-year-old as a child. Indeed the Spanish focus in diplomacy with France in the
following three years centered on postponing the actual marriage because her
Preaching in the Spanish Golden Age: A Study of Some Preachers of the Reign of Philip
III (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), 42, describes the standard length of a sermon
as between an hour and an hour and a half, but notes (31) that a five- to ten-minute homily
might be given instead.
47
Guzmán, Memorias, RAH Mss 9/476, fols 20, 59–75; 9/477, fols 118v–119.
48
Guzmán, Memorias, RAH Mss 9/476, fols 22, 78v, 84v, 86; Mss 9/477, fol. 151.
49
Guzmán, Memorias, RAH Mss 9/476, fols 20, 139–39v. Ana was also present the
following year, Mss 9/477, fol. 85v.
50
Luis Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 468. Juan de Palafox, 460, 471.
father thought her too young. Negotiations included discussion of when the two
children could begin sexual relations, which the French offered to defer until both
children were 15.
Once negotiations for her marriage were concluded, the 10-year-old infanta had
a formal meeting with the French ambassador. Apparently at that age and in those
conditions, it was acceptable to present the infanta as nervous: when she could not
respond to the ambassador’s greetings, her father made excuses for her, saying the
crowds had overwhelmed her, and answered on her behalf. But in the summer of
the following year, 1612, she presided over the elaborate reception of a special
ambassador, the Duke of Mayenne, who came to express French condolences on

the death of her mother and conclude the formal marriage contract. It is clear that
this was a test of her queenly abilities and an opportunity for her to make a good
impression. The Spanish ambassador advised the king to give all of Mayenne’s
retinue access to the infanta’s chambers. Not only would this please the French, it
would provide all the more witnesses to give positive reports to the French queen
mother, who closely questioned anyone who came from Spain.51
Ana wore black and few jewels in her first meeting with Mayenne, but a few
weeks later, on the day the marriage contract was signed, the king of Spain, his
children, and the court put aside their mourning clothes as an expression of pleasure
in the visit. The French ambassador and much of his entourage likewise expressed
their satisfaction by dressing in the Spanish style. Pressing into the infanta’s
chambers with a disorder much remarked by Spanish observers, they were greeted
by the 11-year-old in the company of her household, without other members of the
royal family present. The French went away impressed and Mayenne was heard
extravagantly praising the infanta as he exited the chambers.52
In late summer 1615, the Infanta Ana made the rounds of the convents of
Madrid, taking leave of the nuns and the sacred images of her home. A few weeks
later, the royal family traveled to Burgos and on October 16 in that city, the king
and his children heard mass at the monastery of San Agustin and Ana renounced her
right to the throne of Spain. That evening fireworks, masques, and dancing filled
the night. Two days later, the betrothal took place, with the Archbishop of Burgos
presiding. Ana and Prince Philip wore white—his marriage was being celebrated
in France, as his wife’s entourage made its way to the exchange—while their father
wore black. Close to 600 people came to glimpse the king, Ana, and Philip eat in
public and, in the evening, there were more festivities. The king prepared a letter
of advice to his daughter, in which, among other things, he urged her to take on
royal habits, to speak little and think carefully, and to hide her emotions as much
as possible, a habit he called “very appropriate to monarchs.” This piece of advice
given at the turning point of her adult life suggests not just the dignity of her rank
but her entry into adulthood. Days later, an elaborate “exchange of princesses”
51
Cárdenas to Sec. Aroztegui, June 12, 1612, AGS Estado K leg. 1467.
52
Cabrera de Córdoba, Relaciones, 467–8, 484–5. Simón Díaz, Relaciones breves,
82–4.
on the banks of the Bidasoa river brought Ana to France and the French princess
to Spain, but the king took leave of his daughter privately outside of the town of
Irun, to avoid public tears, which by then would have been inappropriate for either
of them.53
The appointment of the Infante Fernando as cardinal and archbishop of Toledo
also placed him firmly in an adult role while he was still a child. The decision
was not without controversy. Pope Paul V suggested to Philip III that it would be
better for the care of his people’s souls to find a more clearly qualified person, and
also expressed concerns about granting concessions concerning age or preparation
that had not been granted in Germany or France, thus setting precedents that
might be dangerous in countries faced with a greater threat of heresy. The Spanish
king, however, persisted, citing examples of precocious appointments in earlier
centuries and noting that the education of infantes of Spain had always been
notably religious and above reproach.54 In this case, once again, the ideal qualities
associated with royalty trumped youth in pressing for this selection. The problem
of the infante’s age was nonetheless addressed: while Fernando took on some
public roles related to the archbishopric of Toledo soon after his appointment,
ecclesiastical administrators were to attend to the core issues of government until
he reached the age of 30.
Within a few years, he was signing some of the business papers of the
archbishopric, countersigned by his secretary Pedro Fernández Navarrete.55
Chroniclers described him as being instructed in his duties, and noted that he
wore clerical dress at some public occasions. Still in his early teens, he served as
a major patron of local religious organizations and festivities, co-officiated with
Cardinal Zapata at the baptism of his niece Margarita María Catalina, received
papal legates, and authorized the execution of pontifical acts for the beatification
of Fernando de Borja.56
53
Simón Díaz, Relaciones breves, 99–100; Verdadura Relacion en la qual se da cuenta
de los Real Desposorios que se celebraron en Burgos, dia del Evangelista San Lucas, que
fue a 18 de Otubre deste present año 1615 [n.p.]. Verdadara Relacion, en la qual se da
cuenta del despedimiento del Rey nuestro Señor y su hija la Reyna de Francia, y de las
entregas que se hizieron en Yrum, a 9 de Noviembre deste año 1615 (Valencia; Felipe Mey,
1615); Instrucción que el rey Don Felipe III dió escrita de su mano á su hija la infanta Doña
Ana, cuando fué á ser reina de Francia, in “Cartas autógrafas de Felipe III,” ed. Rodriguez
Villa, 9–18.
54
Las Razones que se pueden representar para que su Sant[ida]d haga gracia de el
arcobispado de Toledo al Ser[enissi]mo Infante dn Fernando. Biblioteca de El Escorial
I-III-31.
55
Nominations of persons for parochial offices, AGS Patronato Eclesiástico leg. 103,
n. 99 and n. 101, both dated May 22, 1621; leg. 105, n. 55 and n. 56, both dated February
22, 1622.
56
Relación del baptismo de la princesa, Sucesos del año 1623, BN Mss 2354, fols
304–10. Sucesos del año 1624, fols 502–3, BN Mss 2355; Sucesos del año 1626, fol. 341v,
BN Mss 2358. José Simón Díaz, “La estancia del Cardenal Legado Francesco Barberini
The prince entered his adult role somewhat abruptly, with the untimely death
of his father. But less than a year prior to that, he entered another aspect of
adulthood, this one signaled both directly and indirectly by public commentators.
In November 1620, Gerónimo Gascón de Torquemada noted in his “Gaçeta”
two significant facts about the 15-year-old prince and his wife, Isabel; first, on
November 21, he described the princess as celebrating her eighteenth birthday
by “putting on chapines,” that is, by beginning to wear the type of shoes worn
by adult women, as opposed to the type worn by girls; four days later, he
reported that the prince and princess had consummated their marriage.57 In a
similar manner, Gonzalo Céspedes y Meneses juxtaposed the consummation on

November 25 and Philip’s introduction to reading consultas of the council of
Castile on December 4.58 Neither observer drew a specific connection between
the two events, but they are clearly linked: the two children had become adults
before their marriage was consummated.
Philip’s full transition into his role can be seen over the following years, as he
established the spirit and priorities of his reign. But he was no longer presented
as the emotional, over-excited child he had been. Indeed, it seemed appropriate
to establish exactly the opposite: he may have tried his hand at writing plays, but
he no longer directed or acted but instead famously watched theater and gave
audiences without so much as turning his head.
Another instructive example of what constituted the end of childhood in this
generation is seen in the careers of the two infantes and their consequent status
at court. Fernando, as we have seen, was made a cardinal and archbishop at a
young age and almost immediately began a slow transition into his assigned adult
role. That transition included a specialized education, a household, and activities
that communicated his status. The elder infante, Carlos, on the other hand, was
not assigned an adult role until his mid-twenties, in part because his brother, the
king, did not yet have healthy children to replace the infante as heir to the throne.
Carlos apparently received official visits, expressed political opinions, and was
characterized by contemporaries as prudent and liberal and a vigilant observer of
royal customs. But during the long period in which he was not being groomed for
a specific career, he remained a child within the structure of his brother’s court,
without a household or significant independent resources, and functioning as a
kind of specialized member of the king’s household.59
Children are often invisible in the historical record but the royal children were
being groomed for leadership in government, culture, society, and religion, and
therefore attention was focused on them from the earliest period of their lives, even
en Madrid el año 1626,” Anales del Instituto de Estudios Madrileños 17 (1966) 159–213.
Guzmán, Memorias, 9/476, 251v, 274, 259.
57
Gascón de Torquemada, Gaçeta, 81.
58
Gascón de Torquemada, Gaçeta, 81; Gonzalo Céspedes y Meneses, Primera Parte
de la Historia de don Felipe IIII. Rey de las Españas (Lisbon, 1631), 58.
59
Hoffman, Raised to Rule, ch. 7, esp. 153–4, 163–6.
before they took on their adult roles. Their future roles created responsibilities
while at the same time allowing them a childhood filled with leisure, education,
and affection. Royal traits and the perception of them also helped to shape an
atmosphere in which their personal qualities were nurtured and indulged.
The assumed inherent quality of royalty projected onto their actions smoothed
transitions to adult roles that a child might be asked to assume at any moment.
In considering the historical development of a definition of childhood, the royal
family differed from others in ways that would seem to preclude a comparison
across classes and makes their experience less applicable to a general history of
childhood. One cannot argue that this generation constitutes some kind of turning
point in that history. Yet the notable contrast with the experiences of other royal
families across Europe and across the generations in Spain suggests that when
circumstances allowed, the conditions were right for the recognition of childhood.
The royal family was in a unique position to set trends in a variety of categories and
give us a glimpse of what parents in the contemporary Western world aspire to give
their children. In some ways, at least in our ideals, our children have all become
royal children: watched, nurtured, coddled, idealized, precious, embodying the
hopes of their parents and even the larger society.
Works Cited
Almansa y Mendoza, Andres de. Relacion de la partida del serenissimo príncipe

de Vvalia que fue a nueve de setiembre deste año de 1623 (Madrid: Diego
Flamenco, 1623).
Ariès, Philippe. Centuries of Childhood: A Social History of Family Life.
Translated by Robert Baldick. New York: Vintage Books, 1962.
Bingham, Caroline. The Making of a King: The Early Years of James VI and I.
Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1969.
Cabrera de Córdoba, Luis. Felipe Segundo, rey de España. 4 vols. Madrid: Aribau,
1876–77.
———. Relaciones de las Cosas Sucedidas en la Corte de España. Madrid:
Martín Alegria, 1857.
Céspedes y Meneses, Gonzalo. Primera Parte de la Historia de don Felipe IIII.
Rey de las Españas. Lisbon, 1631.
Echevarría Bacigalupe, Miguel Angel. Alberto Struzzi, Un precursor barroco del
capitalismo liberal. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1995.
Feros, Antonio. Kingship and Favoritism in the Spain of Philip III, 1598–1621.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.
Ferrer Valls, Teresa. La práctica escénica cortesana: De la época del emperador
a la de Felipe III. London: Tamesis Books, 1991.
———. Nobleza y espectaculo teatral (1535–1622): Estudio y documentos.
Valencia: Universitat de Valencia, 1993.
Franzl, Johann. Ferdinand II: Kaiser im Zwiespalt der Zeit. Graz: Verlag Styria,
1978.
Freer, Martha Walker. The Married Life of Anne of Austria, Queen of France,
Mother of Louis XIV, 2 vols. London: Tinsley Brothers, 1865.
Gardiner, S.R. History of England from the Accession of James I to the Outbreak of
the Civil War, 1603–1642. London, 1883–1884; New York: Ams Press, 1965.
Gascón de Torquemada, Gerónimo. Gaçeta y Nuevas de la corte de España. Edited
by Alfonso de Ceballos-Escalera y Gila. Madrid: Real Academia Matritense de
Heráldica y Genealogía, 1991.
Guzmán, Diego de. Reyna Católica: Vida y Muerte de la reina Doña Margarita de
Austria. Madrid: 1617.
Hoffman, Martha K. Raised to Rule: Educating Royalty at the Court of the Spanish
Habsburgs, 1601–1634. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press.
Kleinman, Ruth. Anne of Austria: Queen of France. Columbus: Ohio State
Kusche, Maria. Juan Pantoja de la Cruz. Madrid, 1964.
Marvick, Elizabeth Wirth. Louis XIII: The Making of a King. New Haven, CT:
Yale University Press, 1986.
McKendrick, Malveena. Theatre in Spain, 1490–1700. Cambridge: Cambridge
Motley, Mark. Becoming a French Aristocrat: The Education of the Court Nobility,
1580–1715. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990.
Palafox, Juan de. “Diaro de la jornada que hizo la sereníssima señora Reina de
Hungría.” In España y Europea en el siglo XVII, edited by Quintín Aldea
Vaquero. Madrid: 1986.
Paz y Meliá, Antonio, ed. “Correspondencia del conde de Lemos con don
Francisco de Castro … y con el Príncipe de Esquilache (1613–1620).” Bulletin
Hispanique 5 (1903): 249–58, 349–58.
Philip III. “Cartas Autógrafas de Felipe III.” Edited by A. Rodriguez Villa, Revista
de Archivos, Bibliotecas y Museos 1 (1897): 9–18.
———. Cartas de Felipe III a su Hija Ana, Reina de Francia (1616–1618). Edited
by Ricardo Martorell Téllez-Girón. Madrid: Imprenta Helénica, 1929.
Philip IV. “Epílogo Breve.” In La Historia de Italia by Francesco Guicciardini.
Translated Philip IV. Madrid: Viuda de Hernando, 1889–1890.
Relación de los casamientos de la Reina Doña Margarita de Austria e Infanta
Doña Isabel Clara Eugenia y recibimientos que se hicieron en Ferrara y de
todo lo demás que allí pasó. Granada, 1599.
Ruiz Alcon, María Teresa. “Armaduras Infantiles en el Palacio de Oriente.” Reales
Sitios 3 (1966): 40–48.
Sánchez Cantón, F.J., ed. “Noventa y siete retratos de la familia de Felipe III
por Bartolomé González.” Documents transcribed by J. Moreno Villa, with
preliminary notes by Sánchez Cantón. Archivo Español de Arte y Arqueolgía
13 (1937): 127–57.
Simón Díaz, José. “La estancia del Cardenal Legado Francesco Barberini en
Madrid el año 1626.” Anales del Instituto de Estudios Madrileños 17 (1966)
159–213.
———, ed. Relaciones breves de actos públicos celebrados en Madrid de 1541 a

1650. Madrid: Instituto de Estudios Madrileños, 1982.
Smith, Hilary Dansey. Preaching in the Spanish Golden Age: A Study of Some
Preachers of the Reign of Philip III. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978.
Uhagón, Francisco R. de, ed. Relaciones Historicas de los siglos XVI y XVII.
Madrid: Sociedad de Bibliófilos Españoles, 1896.
Velez de Guevara, Luys. Elogio del Iuramento del Serenissimo Principe Don
Felipe Domingo. Madrid: 1608.
Verdadara Relacion, en la qual se da cuenta del despedimiento del Rey nuestro
Señor y su hija la Reyna de Francia, y de las entregas que se hizieron en Yrum,

a 9 de Noviembre deste año 1615. Valencia: Felipe Mey, 1615.
Verdadura Relacion en la qual se da cuenta de los Real Desposorios que se
celebraron en Burgos, dia del Evangelista San Lucas, que fue a 18 de Otubre
deste present año 1615 [n.p.].
Williams, Ethel Carleton. Anne of Denmark, Wife of James VI of Scotland, James
I of England. London: Longman, 1970.
Wolf, John B. Louis XIV. New York: Norton, 1968.
Chapter 6
The Education of an Heir to the Throne:
Isabel of Borbón and Her Influence
on Prince Baltasar Carlos
Alejandra Franganillo
Hail to thee, mirror that

reflects your Mother’s beauty,
only Heaven could provide us
with such an Angel.1
The birth of a son to Queen Isabel of Borbón and King Philip IV on October 17,
1629 was greeted with jubilation throughout the territories of the Spanish Crown,
promising a return to the mythical splendor that the monarchy had once possessed.
In the forward to his translation of Disputa política que consta de seis oraciones
[A Political Disputation in Six Meditations] Juan de Quiñónes explained the
symbolism of the prince’s chosen names. Baltasar, he declared, signified the
guardian of hidden treasures, an apt name for a future king: “It suits Your Highness
well, as you will forever be storing treasures of wit and wisdom in your memory.”
His second name, Carlos, derived from the word Carol “which means powerful
in the language of Armenia, as Guido Fabricio advised in a letter to Philip II,
Your Highness’s great-grandfather, and it is a name for Emperors.” According to
the author it was the guarantee of a successful future for the son of Philip IV and
Isabel of Borbón.2
Baltasar Carlos’s birth and status as the new heir to the throne placed him
at the center of a royal propaganda campaign designed to foster a belief among
the king’s subjects that he would grow into a ruler who would bring about a
return to the glorious days of his great-grandfather, Philip II. As he grew older,
1
Salve espejo, que repites / la hermosura de tu Madre, / que sólo quien fuera Cielo /
Pudiera darnos un Ángel. Luys Grignano, Epístola que refiere las fiestas que al dichoso
nacimiento del Príncipe de España hizo el excelentísimo conde de Monterrey y de Fuentes,
al conde de Siruela Don Gabriel de Corral (Rome, 1629). All translations are my own
unless otherwise indicated.
2
“quádrale bien a Vuestra Alteza pues siempre está atesorando riquezas de ingenio y
las guarda en su memoria”; “que en lengua de Armenia significa poderoso, como advierte
Guido Fabricio en una carta que escribió al rey Felipe II, bisabuelo de Vuestra Alteza y es
nombre de Emperador.” Juan de Quiñones, Disputa política que consta de seis oraciones
en que se trata como se ha de hazer la guerra felizmente (Madrid, 1644).
144 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Franganillo
the young prince received an exquisite humanist education designed to prepare

him for his royal future. Baltasar Carlos’s mother, Queen Isabel of Borbón,
played a fundamental part in his upbringing and education, and in turn, was able
to consolidate her own power and position at court through her new position as
mother of the heir to the throne. The queen was well prepared to advise her son,
having herself received a refined education at the French court. Her behavior
presented a model the future king would need to imitate, and Isabel guided her son
carefully through the intricacies of court ceremonies. The queen encouraged her
son to acquire her taste in music and theatre, which the heir attended from a young
age in the company of his mother or alone. The works performed for the young
prince provided him with additional lessons in political history. According to the
few accounts that remain, Isabel adored her son, both for his intellectual gifts and
also for what he represented. As mother to the heir to the throne, her position at
court was now assured. Furthermore, many of the prince’s servants came from the
queen’s household, enabling her to exercise control and restrict the influence that
the first minister, Gaspar de Guzmán, Count-Duke of Olivares, and his wife, Inés
de Zúñiga y Velasco, Countess of Monterrey, exercised over the heir.
***
Prince Baltasar Carlos was slightly premature, if we believe the verses of Lope de
Vega: “Beautiful child of the Habsburgs, you have come to Spain, having spent
less than nine months at the inn.”3 His birth followed several miscarriages and
six daughters, all of whom died shortly after birth. Margarita María was born on
August 15, 1621, but died two days later and Margarita María Catalina, born in
November 1623, survived only a month.4 In 1625 another daughter was born,
María Eugenia, who lived for 20 months; and following a miscarriage in 1626,
the queen had another infant daughter, Isabel María Teresa, who survived only 24
hours.5 These tragedies meant that Queen Isabel was 26 years old when she gave
birth to Baltasar Carlos, quite an advanced age for the times, following years of
residence at the court in Madrid where she had lived since she was 12.6 As was
3
“Sin pagar nueve meses de posada / salís a España, hermoso niño Austria.”
Luis Cortés Echanove, Nacimiento y crianza de personas reales en la corte de España
(1566–1886) (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1958), 63–4.
4
Enrique Flórez, Memorias de las Reynas Catholicas de España: historia
genealogica de la casa real de Castilla y de Leon, todos los infantes, trages de las reynas
en estampas y nuevo aspecto de la historia de España, vol. II (Valladolid: Junta de Castilla
y León, Consejería de Educación y Cultura, 2002), 926.
5
María de los Angeles Pérez Samper, “Las reinas,” in Isabel Morant, M. Ortega,
A. Lavrin, and Pilar Pérez Cantó (eds), Historia de las mujeres en España y América Latina,
vol. II (Madrid: Cátedra, 2005), 412.
6
For Isabel’s youth and travel to the Spanish court, see Laura Oliván Santaliestra,
“Isabel of Borbón’s Sartorial Politics: From French Princess to Habsburg Regent,” in Anne
J. Cruz and Maria Galli Stampino, eds., Early Modern Habsburg Women: Transnational
The Education of an Heir to the Throne 145
customary, the happy birth of the prince was celebrated with a Te Deum, followed
by masques, lightshows, fireworks, and jousting in various royal cities. The birth
of a king’s son, especially an heir to the throne, clearly represented an unrivalled
cause for royal celebration.7 It also provided a perfect occasion for the nobility
who wanted to show off their power and social standing, as well as an opportunity
for those who aspired to royal favor to make an impression, especially if they
normally lived far from the Court.8 One example is the preparation involved at
the festivals held in Lima to celebrate the event, where the city guilds decorated
the main square with a mythological forest, complete with figures from classical
antiquity and the glorious history of the Habsburgs, commemorating the victories
of Charles V. Such political references served as a reminder of the link between
the Spanish Habsburgs and Philip IV and his heir. The same occurred with the
laudatory epistle composed for the prince’s birth on the orders of the Count of
Monterrey de Fuentes, Spanish ambassador to Rome.9
One of the finest examples of the many festivities in Madrid was the famous
masquerade put on by the Duke of Medina de las Torres, which we know about
from the printed accounts of the games held in the Constable’s Palace. The most
famous courtiers of the time all took part. These included the host, the Constable
of Castile; the Counts of Coruña, Barajas, Benavente, and Puñoenrostro; the
Dukes of Medinaceli, Híjar, and Sessa; the Marquis of Carpio—partner in the
games to Prince Don Carlos, the king’s brother—and even Philip IV himself
together with the Count-Duke of Olivares. Isabel of Borbón, recovered from the
birth, watched the splendid procession, together with Princess María, as it made
its way through the streets of the capital from the Monastery of the Encarnación
toward the plaza of the Alcázar. The masquerade finished at 10 at night and was
followed by more festivities and rejoicing. The celebrations included theatrical
performances, notably Calderón de la Barca’s La Dama duende [The Phantom
Lady], which would have formed part of the entertainment organized at court to
celebrate the prince’s baptism.10
Contexts, Cultural Conflicts, Dynastic Continuities (Farnham, UK and Burlington, VT:

Ashgate, 2013), 224–42.
7
Carmen Sanz Ayán, “Presentación,” Studia Historica. Historia Moderna 31 (2009):
13–17. For more information on early modern festivities, see in the same volume Santiago
Martínez Hernández, “Cultura festiva y poder en la monarquía hispánica y su mundo:
convergencias historiográficas y perspectivas de análisis,” 127–52.
8
For the specific case of Spanish viceroyalty in America, see Rafael Ramos Sosa,
Arte festivo en Lima virreinal (siglos XVI–XVII) (Seville: Junta de Andalucía, Consejería
de cultura y medio ambiente, 1992) and Angel López Cantos, Juegos, fiestas y diversiones
en la América Española (Madrid: Mapfre, 1992).
9
Gabriel de Corral, Epístola que refiere las fiestas que al dichoso nacimiento del
Príncipe de España hizo el Excelentísimo Conde de Monterrey, y de Fuentes (Rome, 1629).
Corral was in the service of the count at Rome.
10
Carmen Sanz Ayán, “Baltasar Carlos de Austria,” in Diccionario Biográfico
Español, vol. VI (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 2011), 99–101.
This event took place on Sunday, November 4, 1629, at the Church of San Juan,
and the organization was paid for by the city of Madrid. The church was decorated
with the shields of the monarch’s various kingdoms and territories, which, it was
hoped, would all one day belong to the newborn heir. The procession, made up of
the royal councilors followed by all the knights of the court in their finest dress
robes, set off at 3:30 in the afternoon from the Alcázar, watched by masses of people
lining the route. The prince traveled in the arms of the Countess of Olivares, chief
lady in waiting to the queen and the royal heir’s governess. The countess, Inés de
Zúñiga y Velasco (1584–1647), who was daughter to the 5th Count of Monterrey,
Gaspar de Zúñiga y Acevedo, Viceroy of Perú, and Inés de Velasco y Aragón, had
married her cousin Gaspar de Guzmán en 1607. According to John H. Elliott, this
alliance was made to reinforce the minor branches of the houses of Guzmán and
Zúñiga. Inés “was a reserved woman, devout and quite severe described by her
confessor as having ‘a masculine aspect, who controlled her house with a firm
hand. She showed unwavering loyalty to her husband … making her a trusted
partner and confidante.’”11 At the baptism, her husband, the Count-Duke, was on
her left, followed by the godparents, Princess María and Prince Don Carlos. The
Mass was conducted by Cardinal Zapata, assisted by the Papal Nuncio and other
senior prelates. The Count-Duke took the prince from the arms of the Countess
of Olivares and carried him to the baptismal font. After the royal ceremony, they
made their way back to the palace and the fireworks and lightshows began.12
The Education of the Future Spanish King
Baltasar Carlos was provided with an exquisite humanist education designed to

prepare him to ascend the throne and his subjects to revere him as their future
king. All the preserved testimonies of his tutors and contemporaries highlight
the intelligence and swift learning of the royal pupil. The Venetian ambassador
Contarini reported that already by age 13 “he was a very capable student,
understanding and speaking many languages.”13 Since the early Renaissance, the
education of princes had become very important. In the medieval period, learning
had been limited to a study of Latin, Romance languages, and theology , with
military training taking precedence. However, the predominance of the warrior
king over the humanist scholar had changed since the publication of Erasmus’s
Institutio Princips Christiani [Education of a Christian Prince] (1516), dedicated
to Charles V, in which wisdom was exalted as one of the sovereign’s primary
virtues. From then on a wider educational program was established beginning
John H. Elliott, El Conde-duque de Olivares (Barcelona: Crítica, 2010), 48–51.

11
Bernardo de Quirós, Relación verdadera de las grandiosas fiestas que se hizieron en

12
Madrid al bautismo del Príncipe Nuestro Señor (Madrid: Casa de Bernardino de Guzmán,
1629), fols 61–2.
13
“era muy capaz para el estudio, entendiendo muchas lenguas y hablándolas.” Sanz
Ayán, “Baltasar Carlos,” 100.
at an early age. The Catholic Monarchs introduced pedagogical methods from

Italian humanism in the upbringing of their young children.14 There are numerous
references to education in early modern literature, including well-known texts
by Niccolò Machiavelli, Antonio de Guevara, Pedro de Ribadeneira, Francisco
de Quevedo, and Diego de Saavedra Fajardo, among others. The tutoring of a
successful ruler was a complex task, requiring an understanding of political doctrine
founded on a sound knowledge of history, according to the recommendations of
Machiavelli. Both Saavedra Fajardo and Baltasar Gracián cited Ferdinand the
Catholic as a shining example to be followed by seventeenth-century monarchs,
including Prince Baltasar.15

As was typical, the prince’s first years of education were dominated by the
women responsible for his care. Foremost among them was his governess, Inés
de Zúñiga y Velasco, the Count-Duke of Olivares’ wife and chief lady in waiting
to the queen. On September 1, 1623 she was named governess for the child
then expected by the queen—who turned out to be a daughter, María Catalina.
On October 7, 1627, she was promoted to Isabel’s chief lady in waiting, largely
through the influence of her husband who hoped to have control over the queen as
his predecessor, the Duke of Lerma, had done.16 It was Inés who was responsible
for managing the finances of the prince’s household, from the annual funds
granted to the queen for “her pleasure.” Although Baltasar did not yet have his
own royal household, the level of responsibility given to the Countess of Olivares
is an indication that she must have enjoyed considerable influence at court. The
funding for expenses came from the money assigned to the queen by the monarch
“into her Royal hands for various expenses of her choice,” amounting to 4,500,000
maravedís annually.17 Together with Inés, and with the help of the other nursemaids,
Baltasar would have learned to read, make certain pronouncements, and behave
appropriately at the public events he was required to attend.18 Also assisting in the
upbringing of the prince was the Countess of Salavatierra, who had been maid of
honor and guardian to Isabel of Borbón.19 Baltasar’s breastfeeding period ended in
1632, when he was four years old. The various nursemaids lived in the servants’
14
Carmen Sanz Ayán, “Los reyes y la cultura en la Edad Moderna,” in José Antonio
Escudero, ed., El Rey: Historia de la Monarquía, vol. III (Madrid: Planeta, 2008), 265–6.
15
Quintín Aldea Vaquero, El Cardenal Infante Don Fernando o la formación de un
príncipe de España (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1997), 11–15.
16
Archivo General de Palacio (AGP), Expedientes Personales, caja 754, exp. 30.
17
“en sus reales manos para algunos gastos de su gusto.” Archivo General de Simancas
(AGS), Contaduría Mayor de Cuentas (CMC), 3ª época, leg. 2909, no. 21.
18
Sanz Ayán, “Los reyes,” 266.
19
Antonio Hurtado de Mendoza, Convocación de las Cortes de Castilla y juramento
del príncipe Nuestro Señor, Don Baltasar Carlos, Primero de este nombre (Madrid: 1632),
10.
quarters of the queen’s household, and received favors from the king, in addition
to the salaries they enjoyed for their services.20
In an effort to maintain control of the prince’s entourage and surroundings,
the Count-Duke of Olivares opposed the prince’s being given his own residence
when he reached the required age. This ensured that the queen’s household
servants continued to be the same as those of Baltasar. Isabel was also influential
and would have taught her son, through her example, important matters such as
correct behavior at court. The writer Quevedo alludes to the model set by Isabel
for Baltasar in the poem that describes the prince’s swearing-in in 1632, as she
herself is identified as a teacher of suns, the symbol of the Habsburgs:
On four wheels of blue fleur-de-lis she came,

the Queen whom France gave to Spain,
whose light the impoverished daylight studies,
and from whom the suns learn to shine;
in order to know how to greet the day,
Aurora beseeched her rosy cheeks for colors,
and in the evening Fernando [the Cardinal-Infante] became the morn
whose cardinal red sovereignly went before.21
The adorable little boy immortalized by Velázquez in the Salón de Reinos

[Hall of Kingdoms in the Retiro Palace], was the hope of not just the monarchy
as a whole, but also of his mother, who did her best to protect him from the
excessive influence of the king’s favorite and his wife.22 It is no coincidence that
the prince was finally given his own residence by royal decree dated June 12,
1643, following the Count-Duke of Olivares’s fall from grace: “Having resolved
to provide residence for my son who has now come of age, to remove him from
the women’s quarters, I have seen fit to thus advise you, and by these orders the
servants of the queen shall now serve him, and so it shall be done.”23
Cortés Echanove, Nacimiento y crianza, 65–8.

20
En cuatro ruedas lirio azul venía, / reina que Francia dio a los españoles, / de quien
21
estudia luz mendigo el día, / en quien aprenden resplandor los soles; / para saber amanecer
pedía / Aurora a sus mejillas arreboles / y a la tarde Fernando fue mañana / que en púrpura
precede soberana. Ignacio Arellano y Victoriano Roncero, “El poema ‘Jura de el Serenísimo
Príncipe Baltasar Carlos,’ de Quevedo,” La Perinola, 5 (2001), 39–67.
22
There are some interpretations about the role of the “Salón de Reinosˮ: J.H. Eliott
and Jonathan Brown, Un palacio para el rey: El Buen Retiro y la corte de Felipe IV
(Madrid: Alianza, 1981); Richard Kagan, “Imágenes y política en la corte de Felipe IV
de España. Nuevas perspectivas sobre el Salón de Reinos,” in Joan Lluís Palos and Diana
Carrió-Invernizzi (eds), La historia imaginada. Construcciones visuales del pasado en la
Edad Moderna (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Europa Hispánica, 2008), 101–20; Fernando
Marías Franco, Pinturas de Historia, imágenes políticas. Repensando el Salón de Reinos
(Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 2012).
23
“Habiendo resuelto poner casa al príncipe mi hijo por hallarse en hedad para
apartarle del quarto de las mugeres, me ha parecido avisároslo para que en conformidad de
The financial management of Baltasar’s new household stayed with the queen’s
personal officers, showing that she continued to have effective control over the
prince’s servants. In Isabel of Borbón’s treasury accounts we find a distinction in
the datta, or cost breakdown, between the sums in silver and copper/silver alloy
coins spent in his service. For example, in 1642 the sum reached 111,139,955
maravedís, of which 3,626,860 were in silver and 107,513,095 in copper/silver
alloy. Of these totals, less than one percent (or 444,000 maravedís in silver
and 1,122,130 maravedís in alloy), represented Baltasar’s personal expenses.24
Within the heir’s new household, Juan de Isasi continued as royal tutor while the
Dominican friar Juan Martínez had been appointed confessor on October 25 of

the previous year. The office of Sumiller de Corps or chamberlain (a vital position
close to the prince, which Olivares had held with Philip IV), now went to Fernando
de Borja. Among the gentlemen of the chamber we find various individuals who
had played a major role at his baptism and the commemorative festivities, and
also his swearing-in ceremony as Prince of Asturias. These included the Marquis
of Miravel, the Counts of Coruña and Alba, and the Marquis of Flores de Ávila,
among others. García Gallo de Escalada, who had previously served the prince as
assistant to the chamber, was made secretary and was joined by Juan Gómez de
Ávila. Luis de Haro, who years later would replace the Count-Duke Olivares as
first minister, initially succeeded him as the prince’s master of the horse, cementing
his influence among the monarch’s courtly entourage.
During the early modern period, political doctrine held that kings were
appointed by God to rule over the destiny of their subjects. Their role was to protect
the safety of the realm and—in the case of the Spanish monarchy—to uphold the
Catholic faith. As a result, the king’s apprentice also had a duty to behave as was
expected of him and project the image of royal majesty at all public appearances.25
From a young age, Baltasar Carlos would take part in court ceremonies, some of
them essentially political, in which he was the main protagonist—for example the
acts of swearing-in throughout the various kingdoms—as well as events including
religious festivals and other festivities and entertainments where he attended as
member of the royal family and future sovereign. His mother played a part in
teaching him his duty, based on her own experience acquired within the Parisian
court, and subsequently in Madrid as Princess of Asturias and later Queen of Spain
since 1621.
lo que se estuvo con muger siendo primero destas órdenes que combinieren para que los
criados de la reina le sirvan, y así se executará.” AGP, Reinados, Fernando VII, caja 141,
exp. 42.
24
AGS, CMC, 3ª época, leg. 3022, no. 20.
25
See José Antonio Maravall, La cultura del Barroco: análisis de una estructura
histórica (Barcelona: Ariel, 1980); Carmelo Lisón Tolosana, La imagen del rey: Monarquía,
realeza y poder ritual en la Casa de los Austrias (Madrid: Espasa Calpe, 1991); Hilario
Bonet, “La fiesta Barroca como práctica del Poder,” Diwan 5 (1979): 53–85.
At Baltasar’s first politically significant public appearance, the queen played

a key role. On March 7, 1632, when he was just two years, four months, and 19
days old, Baltasar Carlos was sworn in by the Parliament of Castile and Leon as
Prince of Asturias at the Convent of San Jerónimo. The ceremony took place in
the traditional form; the prince, accompanied by the Countess of Olivares, entered
the church where he was sworn in as heir before the Spanish Parliament that had
been called by the king on February 21, 1632. The church was adorned with silk,
gold, and silver tapestries telling the stories of the Patriarch Noah and King Cyrus,
together with the tales of the Apocalypse. On the stage was a curtain marking the
area set aside for the king, with the two infantes, Fernando and Carlos at his side.
As mother to the heir, Isabel was at the forefront during the ceremony. Dressed in
a crimson satin gown, she stood next to the king (one step behind him), with her
hand on the shoulder of the Count of Galve, her menino or page boy.
At the numerous ceremonies he was required to attend, the prince always
appeared together with his mother. A good example would be the various
pilgrimages to the convent of the Virgin of Atocha, whether to celebrate the Feast
of Corpus Christi or to simply give thanks to God for Spanish military victories
or the discovery of the Americas. These ritualized journeys were designed to
promote the message of the continued ties between the Habsburgs and the Catholic
faith.26 During the reign of Philip IV, the number of religious ceremonies held in
the capital reached an all-time high. In 1639 the prince journeyed in public with
his father for the first time at the procession to celebrate the consecration of the
Royal Chapel.
The Jesuit Juan Eusebio de Nieremberg wrote about the role Isabel played in
the education of her son in his Corona virtuosa y virtud coronada… [Virtuous
Crown and the Crowning of Virtue], dedicated to Prince Baltasar Carlos.27 He
composed a discourse on the virtues a prince should cultivate, following the
example of all the Holy Roman emperors and monarchs of Castile, from Rudolf
I to Philip III. In a forward to the work’s dedication, the author refers to Queen
Isabel of Borbón, comparing her to Queen Blanca of Castile, mother of Louis
of France. Both women were praised for transmitting their advice and teachings
through an organic metaphor: “her child was weaned on Christian counsel and the
holy fear of God together with his milk.”28 Even if this allusion is more rhetorical
than fact, it conveys the author’s message that the queen was right to intervene
in the child’s education and that virtue and perfection were best taught by close
26
María José del Río Barredo, Madrid, Urbs Regia: La capital ceremonial de la
Monarquía Católica (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2000), 173–204.
27
Juan Eusebio Nieremberg, Corona virtuosa y virtud coronada: en que se proponen
los frutos de la virtud de un príncipe, juntamente con los heroicos exemplos de virtudes
de los emperadores de la Casa de Austria, y reyes de España (Madrid: Francisco Maroto,
1643).
28
“cuyos cristianos consejos y santo temor de Dios mamó su hijo juntamente con la
leche.” Nieremberg, Corona virtuosa, 2.
proximity: “I know not what special grace the heavens have placed in the mothers
of the Princes’, to stamp them so fortunately with virtue.”29
In addition to guiding him through political ceremonies, the queen exposed
Baltasar Carlos to court theater, which carried important political messages. In
October 1635 the six-year-old Baltasar Carlos, together with his mother, made
his first visit to the Imperial College of the Jesuits to celebrate the beatification of
Francisco de Borja. This was both a religious and politically motivated event as
it was in honor of an ancestor of the Duke of Lerma, now growing in favor at the
expense of Olivares whose authority was beginning to be questioned within court
circles. The prince presented a one-act play or loa composed by Martín de Arce and
gave a “most charming” speech. It seems that Baltasar enjoyed the performance
so much that he returned there a month later to see a comedy.30 These college
festivals, as well as the theatrical performances performed by the Jesuits were
seen as “educational instruments in the service of a philosophy of pedagogy.”31
Carmen Sanz Ayán has shown that the palace theater was also used to advance the
difficult education of the boy-king Carlos II.32 During the years of the regency of
Mariana of Austria, many voices argued both in favor and against the educational
value of the theater.33 The works of Calderón, and the conscious ambiguity he
seems to express, provoked various interpretations which served to support either
the Regent herself or Juan José of Austria, according to opposing points of view.34
Although Baltasar did not have the same learning difficulties as the boy later
destined to be the final Habsburg king, theatrical performances were still used
as a way of reinforcing political lessons through examples taken from history.
During the reign of Philip IV the palace theater became the monarchs’ favorite
source of entertainment. Both Philip and Isabel were big enthusiasts; the king also
attended public theaters incognito to see performances of the works of Calderón,
Lope de Vega, Tirso de Molina, Rojas Zorrilla, and Ruiz de Alarcón among others.
Since childhood he had taken part in palace performances: in 1614 he played
Cupid in Lope de Vega’s El premio de la hermosura [Beauty’s Prize].35 Isabel
shared his taste from inside the palace: between October 5, 1622 and February 8,
29
“no sé qué particular gracia ha puesto el cielo en las Madres de los Príncipes, para
imprimirles dichosamente la virtud.” Nieremberg, Corona virtuosa, 2.
30
José Simón Díaz, “Fiesta y literatura en el Colegio Imperial de Madrid,” Cuadernos
de Filología Hispánica 6 (1987), 533–4.
31
“instrumentos pedagógicos al servicio de una concepción de la enseñanza.” Simón
Díaz, “Fiesta y literatura,” 537.
32
Carmen Sanz Ayán, Pedagogía de reyes: en el teatro palaciego en el reinado de
Carlos II (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 2006), 33–6. For more on the education
and childhood of Carlos II, see Silvia Mitchell, “Growing Up Carlos II: Political Childhood
in the Court of the Spanish Habsburgs,” in this volume.
33
Francisco Ramos del Manzano, Reynados de menor edad y de grandes reyes:
apuntamientos de historia (Madrid: Imprenta del Reyno, 1659), VII.
34
Sanz Ayán, Pedagogía de reyes, 47–53.
35
Sanz Ayán, “Los reyes,” 275.
1623 the queen is known to have attended 40 plays in her apartments. She herself
appeared in the Count of Villamediana’s La Gloria de Niquea [Niquea’s Glory] as
the Queen of Beauty during the festivities held in Aranjuez to commemorate the
king’s seventeenth birthday.36 Palace performances also had an important political
function, namely to transmit the celebration of the monarchy, legitimizing the
role of the sovereign.37 The swearing-in of Prince Baltasar Carlos provided the
theme for various works, including the auto sacramental La jura del Príncipe [The
Prince’s Swearing-in] composed by the playwright Antonio Mira de Amescua,
which was performed at the Feast of Corpus Christi in June 1632. In this work
Mira de Amescua managed to exalt the figure of the future king in a manner that
had clear propaganda overtones.38 The comedies of Calderón de la Barca, Casa de
dos puertas mala es de guardar [The House with Two Doors] and La banda y la
flor [The Sash and the Flower] also allude to his birth.
Between the age of five and six a new stage in a prince’s education began, now
dominated exclusively by private tutors who would have organized his curriculum
according to instructions from the monarchs.
Education may be understood as a combination of different stages of learning,

over the course of generally consecutive periods of time […] beginning at four
or five years of age with basic reading skills, understanding of the alphabet,
capitals and small letters, syllables and the formation of words; as well as the
most basic rules of grammar.39
The program included the teaching of reading and writing based on both vernacular
literature and the catechism, beginning with texts used to educate Philip II:
Cartilla y doctrina en romance para enseñar niños a leer [A First Reader and
Doctrine in Vernacular Language for Teaching Children to Read] by Hernando de
Talavera (1496) and Arte para aprender a leer y escribir [Art for Learning to Read
and Write] (1532) by Bernabé del Busto. Once past the initial stage, the prince
would have worked on developing his Spanish language skills, writing letters or
reading books, particularly religious texts. His tutors would have continued with
36
Carmen Sanz Ayán, “Felipe IV y el teatro,” in José Alcalá-Zamora and Queipo de
Llano (eds), Felipe IV: El hombre y el Reinado (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia y
Centro de Estudios Europe Hispánica, 2005), 269, 278–80.
37
Sanz Ayán, “los reyes,” 277.
38
Jean-Louis Flecniakoska, “‘La Jura del Príncipe, Auto sacramental de Mira de
Amescua,’ et l’histoire contemporaine,” Bulletin Hispanique 51 (1949): 39–44.
39
“La educación se entiende como un conjunto de diferentes fases de aprendizaje,
a lo largo de períodos de tiempo habitualmente consecutivos […] que se inicia a partir de
los cuatro o cinco años con los modelos más elementales de la adquisición de la lectura,
el reconocimiento del alfabeto, con las dos categorías de mayúsculas y minúsculas, de las
sílabas y de la formación de las palabras; así como de las nociones más elementales de las
reglas de la gramática.” Víctor Infantes, “La educación impresa,” Cuadernos de Historia
Moderna, Appendix III (2004): 232.
the learning of Latin grammar and, to a lesser degree, Greek. The most popular
humanist works on a royal booklist would have included Il Libro del Cortegiano
[The Book of the Courtier] by Balthasar Castiglione and Erasmus’s Institutio
Pricipis Christiani [The Education of a Christian Prince].
The study of classical authors provided many examples of virtuous men chosen
to inspire princes to follow in their wake. With the passage of time the teaching
of Latin had become more important among the Habsburg monarchs, and by
the seventeenth-century royal pupils would have been expected to compose and
translate texts. Princes were also required to learn the major Romance languages.
Philip IV had intensive tutoring in French and Italian, and Baltasar Carlos was also
reported to be an outstanding pupil. Together with these subjects, the curriculum
also included ancient and medieval history, geography, mathematics, architecture,
astronomy, philosophy, natural science, and theology. The so-called mechanical
arts, namely drawing, painting, and music, were also taught. In Baltasar’s case,
these would have been given particular attention owing to his father’s artistic and
musical tastes, a fact that would explain the appointment of the painter Juan Bautista
del Mazo as his drawing professor.40 In addition to this post, Mazo was made usher
of the prince’s chamber, a title he received in dowry following his marriage to
Diego Velázquez’s daughter in 1634.41 As was usual among sovereigns of the time,
the prince also received instruction in dance—a skill at which his grandfather Philip
III and his father Philip IV had both excelled—and of course, music. Included in his
chamber expenses for 1636 there are two entries relating to the guitarist Pablo de
Herrera and the violinist Manuel de Vega, for pieces they had composed especially
for the prince, which were paid from the queen’s household budget.42
It seems likely that during Baltasar’s education, Olivares would have drawn
on his earlier experience in supervision of the Cardinal-Infante Don Fernando,
following the death of Philip III.43 Although Don Fernando received ecclesiastical
instruction, as he was destined to be appointed a cardinal, the rest of his curriculum
was noticeably similar to that of Baltasar, comprising arts and letters, classical and
modern languages, as well as theology and canon law.44 Baltasar’s education was
entrusted to his private tutors: Juan de Isasi Idiáquez, first Count of Pie Concha,
who taught him arts and languages; Alonso Martínez de Espinosa, who instructed
him in hunting (and dedicated the book Arte de Ballestería y Montería [The Art of
Hunting and the Crossbow] to him); and Gregorio de Tapia y Salcedo, his riding
master.
40
Sanz Ayán, “Los reyes,” 267–72.
41
AGP, Expedientes Personales, Caja 657, exp. 39.
42
AGS, CMC, 3ª época, leg. 2909, no. 21.
43
Don Fernando, the future Cardinal-Infante, was the youngest living son of Margarita
de Austria and Philip III. Fernando was born in1609, two years later his mother died and he
was educated by the duke of Lerma’s sisters, the Countess of Lemos Catalina de Sandoval,
and Countess of Altamira. Aldea Vaquero, El Cardenal Infante, 19–23.
44
Aldea Vaquero, El Cardenal Infante, 51–2, 60.
Juan de Isasi Idiáquez was appointed Maestro or personal tutor to the prince
in 1634:
so that you may hold the title of the said office, by virtue of which authority
you shall enjoy all the honors, good will, favor, liberality, liberties, exemptions,
preference, prerogatives, and immunities that shall be reserved for you as befits
the Maestro of my son His Most Serene Highness the Prince, as they have been
reserved for all who have been tutors to the Princes of Castile.45
He wrote in a notebook how proud he was of the prodigious advances made

by his young pupil during a lesson given before Philip IV. In the Count’s letters
to Olivares and other courtiers he described the prince—then aged 11—as a
keen reader of books.46 In this he resembled his father, showing great interest
in the king’s personal collection stored in the High Tower of Alcázar.47 In a
small manual dedicated to the Count-Duke of Olivares, Baltasar’s tutor tells
how on August 17, 1641, while the prince was in a Latin class (a subject in
which he was well advanced), the king appeared accompanied by the Countess
of Salvatierra, Isabel’s maid of honor, together with Luis de Haro, the Count of
Orgaz, and Antonio de Mendoza, as Baltasar proceeded to translate half a page
of the historian Justino, without any help.48 Afterwards, Luis de Haro pointed to
a chapter in Castiglione’s The Courtier and the prince translated it into Spanish.49
Days later the king attended one of his son’s lessons. The demonstration was a
success, according to Juan de Isasi’s own account, particularly as it happened to
coincide with a Spanish military victory:
This was, it is said, on August 20, 1641, the day of glorious San Bernardo, on
which His Highness triumphed in his studies, at the same time as his Majesty’s
Navy triumphed over the French in the seas of Tarragona…50
“… para que tengáis por titulo del dicho oficio por virtud del qual mando gozeis
45
y se os guarden todas las honras, gracias, mercedes, franquezas, libertades, exempçiones,

preminencias, prerrogativas y inmunidades y todas las dichas cosas que por raçón de
Maestro del dicho sereníssimo príncipe mi hijo deber hazer y gozar y os an de ser guardadas
según se han guardado y debido guardar a los maestros que han sido de los Príncipes de
Castilla todo bien y cumplidamente.” AGS, EMC, Quitaciones de Corte, leg. 27, fol. 374.
46
Fernando Bouza Alvarez, Corre manuscrito: una historia cultural del Siglo de
Orgo (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2001), 294–303.
47
Fernando Bouza Álvarez, El libro y el cetro (Salamanca: Instituto de Historia
del Libro y de la Lectura, 2005), 29–43. About Philip IV’s library, see Fernando Bouza
Álvarez,“Semblanza y aficiones del monarca. Música, astros, libros y bufones,” in Felipe
IV. El hombre y el Reinado, edited by José Alcalá-Zamora y Queipo de Llano, (Madrid:
Real Academia de la Historia y Centro de Estudios Europa Hispánica, 2005), 29–43.
48
Bouza Álvarez, Corre manuscrito, 297, 300.
49
Bouza Álvarez, Corre manuscrito, 303.
50
“Esto fue (según se ha dicho) a 20 de agosto de 1641, día del glorioso San
Bernardo, en que triunfó su Alteza por sus Estudios, y a la misma hora las armas navales
These accounts help us to get a clearer picture of Juan de Isasi’s teaching methods
with the prince. In languages, he was taught Latin (Baltasar recited Martial in
the morning and the historian Justinian in the evening, to everyone’s admiration);
Italian and French, into which he translated a chapter from The Courtier written
in Latin, and Greek, whose alphabet was recited by the prince together with the
rules of Greek spelling and grammar. Although we have no formal record, it is
very possible that his command of French and Italian was largely due to Queen
Isabel, whose first language was French and whose own mother, Marie de’ Medici,
was Italian. Lessons also included history and geography; the seasons of the year;
the Earth and the planets; physical geography and the measurement of distances.
However, we do not know the exact program specified by Philip IV for his heir’s
education, as the record of Juan de Isasi’s appointment is not specific regarding
details:
it is my will and pleasure to welcome you (as I do in this document) as Maestro

to His Serene Highness Don Baltasar Carlos my dear and beloved son, and in the
exercise of your title, to follow the Instruction you will be given.51
If a humanist education was essential for a Spanish royal prince, so was his
instruction in the military arts. In this department his tutor was Gregorio de Tapia
y Salcedo, Knight of the Order of Santiago, Member of the Parliaments of the
city of Madrid and Commissary of the Kingdoms of Castile and Leon in the
Junta of Administration of the Royal Services of Millions. The first edition of
Ejercicios de la Gineta [Exercises with the Jineta Sword],52 a brief collection of
previous writings, was dedicated to him. This edition contained some lovely color
illustrations including a portrait of the 14-year-old prince by Eugenio de Beer.
Such skills, together with hunting and jousting, formed part of Spanish military
training.53
de su Magestad de las de Francia en los mares de Tarragona …” Juan de Isasi Idiáquez,

Copia de la abundancia de la alicion q hizo de sus estudios el sereníssimo señor Príncipe
Nuestro Señor Don Baltasar Carlos delante de la Magestad del rey Nuestro Señor Felipe
III el Grande (Madrid, 1641).
51
“… es mi merced y voluntad de recibiros (como por la presente os recibo) por
Maestro del Sereníssimo Príncipe Don Baltasar Carlos mi muy caro y muy amado hixo, y
que en su exercicio guardareis la Instrucción que se os entregará.” AGS, EMC, Quitaciones
de Corte, leg. 27, fol. 374.
52
Gregorio de Tapia y Salcedo, Exercicios de la gineta al Príncipe Nuestro Señor
Baltasar Carlos (Madrid, 1643).
53
One of these classes has been immortalized in a canvas by Velázquez, The Riding
Lesson of Prince Baltasar Carlos, painted in the 1630s. Jesús María González de Zárate
has written a political interpretation of the symbolism of this painting, in which Isabel of
Borbón and Philip IV appear together watching their son’s progress from a window. Jesús
María González de Zárate, “El retrato en el barroco y la Emblemática: Velázquez y La
lección de equitación del príncipe Baltasar Carlos,” Boletín del Museo e Instituto Camón
Aznar XXVII (1981), 27–38.
Political Treatises Dedicated to Prince Baltasar Carlos: History as

“Magistra Vitae”
An indication of the contemporary importance attached to Prince Baltasar Carlos’s

education as future king is provided by the numerous works dedicated to him by
the major political theorists of the period, some of which included female role
models.54 One of these was Diego de Saavedra Fajardo55 who in 1640 wrote the
Idea de un príncipe político christiano representada en cien empresas [Concept
of a Christian Political Prince represented in a hundred examples], in which he
proposed a solution to the situation of the Spanish monarchy through a series of
emblems representing the ideal education for a young royal.56 In his dedication to
Baltasar Carlos he explained the purpose of his book:
I propose to Your Highness the concept of a Christian political prince, rendered

by the engraver’s chisel and the pen […] To this end, history makes liberal
reference to past events, so that virtues remain to be imitated, and vices
suppressed through fear of infamy’s remembrance. To the same end I point out
the histories of Your Highness’s forefathers, so some will illuminate you through
glorious emulation, and others cover your face in copious shame, imitating the
former and fleeing from the latter.57
If this work presents a general idea of the education suitable for a future king,
others were focused on military training, making specific reference to the war in
Cataluña, currently the most immediate concern for the Spanish monarchy. Such is
the case with the work of Juan de Quiñónes, which concludes with contemporary
examples of the advice given throughout the book as to when it is legitimate to
wage war, clearly justifying the political decisions of Philip IV. The first three
orations maintain that war is just when its objective is long-term peace and it
is waged under God’s protection. The author also stresses the kindness that the
government should show to the rebels.58 The king may also have taken note of the
final oration, which stresses the need to limit war to one enemy at a time, rather
than several:
Sanz Ayán, “Baltasar Carlos,” 99–100.

54
Francisco Javier Díez de Revenga (ed.), Diego de Saavedra Fajardo: Empresas,

55
políticas (Barcelona: Planeta, 1988).

56
Antonio Bernart Vistarini and John T. Cull, Enciclopedia de emblemas españoles
ilustrados (Madrid: Akal, 1999), 15–17.
57
“Propongo a Vuestra Alteza la Idea de un Príncipe Político-Cristiano, representada
con el buril y con la pluma […] Con este fin refiere la historia libremente los hechos
pasados, para que las virtudes queden por exemplo, y se repriman los vicios con el temor de
la memoria de la infamia. Con el mismo fin señalo la de los progenitores de Vuestra Alteza,
para que unas le enciendan en gloriosa emulación, y otras le cubran el rostro de generosa
vergüenza, imitando aquéllas y huyendo déstas …” Díez de Revenga, Diego de Saavedra
Fajardo, 5.
58
Quiñones, Disputa política, fol. 208.
And having determined that the war in Cataluña and recovery of that province is
more important to the Crown, it was decided to first take that offensive, as in the
event of two inevitable evils it is sensible to choose the lesser.59
The lessons of history provided ample evidence of both the examples

to be followed as well as the errors to be avoided. Joseph Micheli y Márquez
drew heavily on historical references in his El consejero más oportuno para
restauración de Monarquías [The Most Propitious Counselor for the Restoration
of Monarchies] together with Cristóbal de Benavente y Benavides, who also
dedicated his Advertencias para reyes, príncipes y embaxadores [Warnings for
Kings, Princes, and Ambassadors] to the prince. The first of these was designed
to encourage soldiers fighting on the front against the Catalan rebels, and is a
story whose leading character is the hero Hannibal. It was intended to serve as an
example of good government:
This story although brief, in imitation of the rest, is humbly presented at the
feet of Your Illustrious Lordship. It teaches how a war is made, how an army
proceeds, how it encamps, how it should march […] may your Lordship accept
it, and dedicated to your immortal glory and grandeur, may it enjoy the protection
it is due, and the Author the just reward for his work.60
The second work offers guidelines for being a good ambassador; based on
past examples, as well as the criteria the prince should take into account when
assigning such an important position.61
Most significant are the suggestions offered to the prince on the role female
royalty might play in support of the ruler’s political responsibilities. In chapter 7,
“On whether Ambassadors should be elected or named by chance, and on those
who have served as Ambassadors, and on the women who have departed with
Embassies,”62 the author lists moments in the course of history where women
have successfully acted as negotiators, particularly those related to the monarch:
“Among princes joined in blood, no person is better suited to confirm their wishes,
59
“Y aviéndose examinado ser más importante la guerra de Cataluña para la Corona y
recuperación de esta provincia, se tomó resolución de hacerse primero contra ella la guerra
ofensiva, porque en el modo que de dos males inevitables, es resolución cuerda elegir el
menor.” Quiñones, Disputa política, fol. 188.
60
“Esta historia aunque pequeña, imitando a las demás, humilde se presenta a los pies
de V.S.I. Ella leciona cómo se haze una guerra, cómo se procede un exército, cómo se aloxa,
y ha de marchar […] se sirva recibirla, pues consagrada a su inmortal gloria y grandeza
goze el amparo que espera, y el Autor la corona de su zelo.” Joseph Micheli y Márquez,
El consejero más oportuno para restauración de Monarquías (Madrid, 1645).
61
Cristóbal de Benavente y Benavides, Advertencias para reyes, principes, y
embaxadores (Madid, 1643).
62
“Si los embaxadores se escogerán por elección o por suerte, I de diversas personas
que lo an sido, i de mugeres que an ido con embaxadas.” Benavente y Benavides,
Advertencia para reyes, 109–28.
and even more so if they are mothers, daughters or sisters.”63 He provides numerous
examples: the wife of Romulus, Hersilia, who asked her husband to spare the life
of the parents of the Sabine women and receive them into the City of Rome thus
ensuring peace; Mucia and Julia, mother and wife of Pompey, respectively, who
convinced him to sign a truce with Octavius Caesar and Mark Antony; the Celts
who admitted women into their councils of war and government once they had
shown they could restore the peace following a heated dispute; the Roman matrons
who were sent to Constantine to plead for the return of the banished Liberian pope;
Saint Catherine of Siena who travelled to Avignon with the embassies of Florence
for an audience with Pope Gregory XI, obtaining his pardon for the Republic; and
King Edward of England who sent a woman ambassador to his brother Clarence
to deceive the duke, thus achieving Edward’s restoration to the throne.64 He
ends his argument with the example of the mediation of women in the Peace of
Cambrai: “In our own times three queens came together, almost as ambassadors,
to discuss and seal the peace between the Emperor and the kings of Spain and
France.”65 The most immediate reference for the young prince would have been
the role of his own mother, who, since her arrival in Madrid, and after Isabel of
Valois, was considered the second “Isabel of Peace,” her marriage to Philip having
consolidated the treaty between France and Spain at Vervins in 1598.
Women also participated in military conflicts, in spite of the fact that such
activity was traditionally reserved for men. This is the theme of chapter 11,“On the
family and display of an Ambassador, and whether he should be married, and take
his wife with him,”66 as “many women have existed and still exist who are very
capable of keeping secrets and manly wisdom.”67 To exemplify this idea Cristóbal
de Benavente turns to the great mythical female heroines from the Bible. Among
others Deborah stands out, leading the army of Israel to fight for freedom against
the oppression of the King of Canaan, after their commander Barak refused to
take the field of battle without her—despite her warning that he would not then
take the glory.68 Deborah appears in the funerary honors of Isabel of Borbón, with
whom she was identified.69 It has been suggested that over the first four years of
“Entre príncipes conjuntos en sangre ninguna persona es más a propósito que ellas
63
para confirmar voluntades, i más si son madres, hijas i hermanas.” Benavente y Benavides,
Advertencia para reyes, 109–28.
64
Benavente y Benavides, Advertencias para reyes, 123–4.
65
Benavente y Benavides, Advertencias para reyes, 128.
66
“De la familia, i ostentación que debe tener el Embaxador, i si convendrá que sea
casado i lleve su muger a la embaxada.” Benavente y Benavides, Advertencias de reyes,
224.
67
“Muchas mugeres a avido o ai mui capaces de secretos i de prudencia varonil.”
68
69
Panegírico sagrado en las exequias funerales que celebró la muy insigne ciudad
de Salamanca hizo a la memoria de la serenísisma Reyna doña Isabel de Borbón en 19 de
diciembre de 1644.
the 1640s, during the absence of Philip IV, it was Queen Isabel—together with the
Count of Castrillo—who assumed the lead in financial negotiations.70
The queen’s death occurred at the time that the monarchy was at war with
France, Cataluña, and Portugal. During the last four years of her life (1640–1644),
Isabel held the role of queen regent while her husband was away at the Aragon
front, making her identification with Deborah all the more apt. Coincidentally, two
other Spanish women monarchs with the same name had also been associated with
this biblical figure: the Catholic monarch, Isabel of Castile, and the Infanta Isabel
Clara Eugenia,71 godmother to Isabel of Borbón.
Isabel of Borbón briefly took over the government of Spanish territories in

1626 and 1632, when her husband held parliament in Barcelona, and from 1640
on, when Philip IV was in Navarre. The queen was occupying this role at the time
of her death, as her husband was away at the front.72 In this way, Baltasar’s mother,
Isabel of Borbón, provided the ideal model of the feminine prototype during the
prince’s formative years.
Conclusion
On May 11, 1645 Prince Baltasar Carlos left Madrid to accompany the king at the
Catalan front. On route he was sworn in as heir at Zaragoza, repeating the same
ritual in Valencia.73 On his return to Zaragoza, the prince fell ill and died a few
days later, on October 9, 1646, ending all the hopes that had been placed on him
for the recovery of the monarchy’s prestige. Isabel of Borbón had died in 1644
just one year earlier, and both deaths left Philip IV in a deep state of melancholy,
blaming his irreparable loss on his own sins. The early death of his only heir
persuaded him to marry Mariana of Austria, with whom he was to have a surviving
son, Carlos II, the last of the Spanish Habsburg dynasty.
To a great degree, the virtues attributed to Baltasar Carlos represented those
of the royal propaganda campaign that surrounded his birth and education.
Despite this, it seems clear that the young prince was an excellent pupil, taking
full advantage of his extensive humanist education, and had many qualities,
70
Carmen Sanz Ayán, Los banqueros y la crisis de la Monarquía Hispánica de 1640.
(Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2013), 146.
71
Alicia Esteban Estríngana, “«Quelle princesse, ô bon Dieu!»: herencia y legado de
la infanta Isabel,” in Cordula Van Wyhe (ed.), Isabel Clara Eugenia: soberanía femenina
entre las Cortes de Madrid y Bruselas (Madrid: CEEH and Paul Holberton Publishing,
2011), 430–35.
72
R.A. Stradling, Felipe IV y el gobierno de España (1621–1665) (Madrid: Cátedra,
1989), 274; Elliott, El conde-duque de Olivares, 603–4.
73
Oración fúnebre, llanto de la muerte, aprecio de la vida de la reyna nuestra señora
Isabel de Borbón (Madrid, 1644); and Relación del juramento de los Fueros de Aragón que
hizo el Sereníssimo Príncipe don Baltasar Carlos, en la iglesia metropolitana de la ciudad
de Zaragoza, en 20 de agosto de 1645 (Zaragoza, 1645).
emphasized by all who knew him. His mother, Isabel of Borbón, was herself
highly educated and played a crucial part in his upbringing and education. The
prince’s servants came from her household, enabling her to exercise control and
restrict the Count-Duke of Olivares’s influence. She taught her son the intricacies
of court ceremony, introduced him to music and theater, guided him in the political
lessons of the works performed. Her example provided a strong role model for
the young heir, whose death would no doubt hold dire consequences for the most
powerful monarchy of early modern Europe.
Works Cited
Primary Sources
Archivo General de Palacio (AGP)

Expedientes Personales, caja 141, 526, 657, 754.
Archivo General de Simancas (AGS)

Contaduría Mayor de Cuentas (CMC), 3ª época, legajos 2909, 3022.
Escribanía Mayor de Cuentas (EMC), Quitaciones de Corte, legajo 27.
Biblioteca Nacional de España (BNE)

Relación de la Iornada, y casamientos y entregas de España y Francia, Ms.
2348.
Printed Primary Sources
Benavente y Benavides, Cristóbal de. Advertencias para Reyes, Príncipes y

Embaxadores. Madrid, 1643.
Epístola que refiere las fiestas que al dichoso nacimiento del Príncipe de España
hizo el excelentísimo conde de Monterrey y de Fuentes, al conde de Siruela
Don Gabriel de Corral. Rome: Luys Grignano, 1629.
Hurtado de Mendoza, Antonio. Convocación de las Cortes de Castilla y juramento
del príncipe Nuestro Señor, Don Baltasar Carlos, Primero de este nombre.
Madrid, 1632.
Issasi Idiáquez, Juan de. Copia de la abundancia de la alicion q hizo de sus estudios
el sereníssimo señor Príncipe Nuestro Señor Don Baltasar Carlos delante de la
Magestad del rey Nuestro Señor Felipe III el Grande. Madrid, 1641.
Micheli y Márquez, Joseph. El consejero más oportuno para restauración de
Monarquías. Madrid, 1645.
Nieremberg, Juan Eusebio. Corona virtuosa y virtud coronada: en que se proponen
los frutos de la virtud de un príncipe, juntamente con los heroicos exemplos de
virtudes de los emperadores de la Casa de Austria, y reyes de España. Madrid:
Francisco Maroto, 1643.
Oración fúnebre, llanto de la muerte, aprecio de la vida de la reyna nuestra señora

Isabel de Borbón. Madrid, 1644.
Panegírico sagrado en las exequias funerales que celebró la muy insigne ciudad
de Salamanca hizo a la memoria de la serenísisma Reyna doña Isabel de
Borbón en 19 de diciembre de 1644. 1644.
Quiñónes, Juan de. Disputa política que consta de seis oracione en que se trata
como se ha de hazer la guerra felizmente. Madrid, 1644.
Quirós, Bernardo de. Relación verdadera de las grandiosas fiestas que se hizieron
en Madrid al bautismo del Príncipe Nuestro Señor. Madrid: la casa de
Bernardino de Guzmán, 1629.

Ramos del Manzano, Francisco. Reynados de menor edad y de grandes reyes:
apuntamientos de historia… Madrid: Imprenta del Reyno, 1659.
Relación de la famosa máscara que hizo el señor Duque de Medina de las Torres
en alegría del nacimiento del Príncipe de España Baltasar Carlos Domingo.
Madrid: Casa de Bernardino de Guzmán, 1629.
Relación del juramento de los Fueros de Aragón que hizo el Sereníssimo Príncipe
don Baltasar Carlos, en la iglesia metropolitana de la ciudad de Zaragoza, en
20 de agosto de 1645. Madrid: Alonso de Parades, s.a.
Tapia y Salcedo, Gregorio de. Exercicios de la gineta al Príncipe Nuestro Señor
Baltasar Carlos. Madrid, 1643.
Secondary Sources
Aldea Vaquero, Quintín. El Cardenal Infante Don Fernando o la formación de un

príncipe de España. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1997.
Arellano, Ignacio and Roncero, Victoriano. “El poema ‘Jura de el Serenísimo
Príncipe Baltasar Carlos’ de Quevedo.” La Perinola 5 (2001): 39–67.
Bernart Vistarini, Antonio and John T. Cull. Enciclopedia de emblemas españoles
ilustrados. Madrid: Akal, 1999.
Bonet, Hilario. “La fiesta Barroca como práctica del Poder.” Diwan 5 (1979):
53–85.
Bouza Álvarez, Fernando. Corre manuscrito: una historia cultural del Siglo de
Oro. Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2001.
———. El libro y el cetro. Salamanca: Instituto de Historia del Libro y de la
Lectura, 2005.
———. “Semblanza y aficiones del monarca. Música, astros, libros y bufones.”
In Felipe IV. El hombre y el Reinado, edited by Alcalá-Zamora y Queipo
de Llano, José. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia y Centro de Estudios
Europa Hispánica, 2005.
Cortés Echanove, Luis. Nacimiento y crianza de personas reales en la corte de
España (1566–1886). Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas,
1958.
Díez de Revenga, Francisco Javier, ed. Diego de Saavedra Fajardo. Empresas
políticas. Barcelona: Planeta, 1988.
Elliott, John, H. El conde-duque de Olivares. Barcelona: Crítica, 2010.

Elliott, John, H., and Jonathan Brown. “El Salón de Reinos.” In Un palacio para el
rey. El Buen Retiro y la corte de Felipe IV. Madrid: Alianza, 1981.
Esteban Estríngana, Alicia. “‘Quelle princesse, ô bon Dieu!’: herencia y legado
de la infanta Isabel.” In Isabel Clara Eugenia: soberanía femenina entre las
Cortes de Madrid y Bruselas, edited by Cordula Van Wyhe. Madrid: CEEH y
Paul Holberton Publishing, 2011.
Flecniakoska, Jean-Louis. “La Jura del Príncipe, Auto sacramental de Mira de
Amescu et l’histoire contemporaine.” Bulletin Hispanique 51 (1949): 39–44.
Flórez, Enrique. Memorias de las Reynas Catholicas de España: historia

genealogica de la casa real de Castilla y de Leon, todos los infantes, trages de
las reynas en estampas y nuevo aspecto de la historia de España. Volume II.
Valladolid: Junta de Castilla y León, Consejería de Educación y Cultura, 2002.
González de Zárate, Jesús María. “El retrato en el barroco y la Emblemática:
Velázquez y La lección de equitación del príncipe Baltasar Carlos.” In Boletín
del Museo e Instituto Camón Aznar XXVII (1981): 27–38.
Infantes, Víctor. “La educación impresa.” Cuadernos de historia Moderna. Anejo
III (2004): 227–51.
Kagan, Richard, L. “Imágenes y política en la corte de Felipe IV de España.
Nuevas perspectivas sobre el Salón de Reinos.” In La historia imaginada.
Construcciones visuales del pasado en la Edad Moderna, edited by Joan
Lluís Palos and Diana Carrió-Invernizzi. Madrid: Centro de Estudios Europa
Hispánica, 2008.
Lisón Tolosana, Carmelo. La imagen el rey. Monarquía, realeza y poder ritual en
la Casa de los Austrias. Madrid: Espasa Calpe, 1991.
López Cantos, Ángel. Juegos, fiestas y diversiones en la América Española.
Madrid: Mapfre, 1992.
Maravall, José Antonio. La cultura del Barroco: análisis de una estructura
histórica. Barcelona: Ariel, 1980.
Marías Franco, Fernando. Pinturas de Historia, imágenes políticas. Repensando
el Salón de Reinos. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 2012.
Martínez Hernández, Santiago. “Cultura festiva y poder en la monarquía hispánica
y su mundo: convergencias historiográficas y perspectivas de análisis.”
Historia Moderna, monograph dedicated to Fiesta y poder en los siglos XVI y
XVII. 31 (2009): 127–52.
Pérez Samper, María de los Ángeles. “Las reinas.” In Historia de las mujeres
en España y América Latina, vol. II, edited by Isabel Morant, M. Ortega, A.
Lavrin, and Pilar Pérez Cantó. Madrid: Cátedra, 2005.
Ramos Sosa, Rafael. Arte festivo en Lima virreinal (siglos XVI–XVII). Sevilla:
Junta de Andalucía, Consejería de cultura y medio ambiente, 1992.
Río Barredo, María José del. Madrid, Urbs Regia. La capital ceremonial de la
Monarquía Católica. Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2000.
Sanz Ayán, Carmen.“Baltasar Carlos de Austria.” Diccionario Biográfico Español,
v. VI. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 2011.
—–—. “Felipe IV y el teatro.” In Felipe IV. El hombre y el Reinado, edited by José

Alcalá-Zamora and Queipo de Llano. Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia y
Centro de Estudios Europa Hispánica, 2005.
—–—. Los banqueros y la crisis de la Monarquía Hispánica de 1640. Madrid:
Marcial Pons, 2013.
—–—. “Los reyes y la cultura en la Edad Moderna.” In El Rey. Historia de la
Monarquía, vol. III, edited by José Antonio Escudero. Madrid: Planeta, 2008.
—–—. Pedagogía de reyes: en el teatro palaciego en el reinado de Carlos II.
Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 2006.
—–—. “Presentación.” In Studia Historica. Historia Moderna, monograph

dedicated to Fiesta y poder en los siglos XVI y XVII. 31 (2009): 13–17.
Simón Díaz, José. “Fiesta y literatura en el Colegio Imperial de Madrid.”
Cuadernos de Filología Hispánica 6 (1987): 525–37.
Stradling, R.A. Felipe IV y el gobierno de España (1621–1665). Madrid: Cátedra,
1989.

Chapter 7
“My sister is growing up very healthy
and beautiful, she loves me”:
The Childhood of the Infantas María Teresa
and Margarita María at Court1
Laura Oliván Santaliestra
The Infantas María Teresa (1638–1683) and Margarita María (1651–1673),

daughters of Philip IV, are well known for the portraits Velázquez painted of
them, although María Teresa’s image is certainly not as famous as that of her
younger sister, the adorable little infanta in Las Meninas. However, despite the
fact that both sisters (especially Margarita) were portrayed on several occasions by
Velázquez, very little has been written on their infancy and education during the
period when the paintings were made, in the 1640s and 1650s.
Separated by an age gap of 13 years and the daughters of different mothers,
the two princesses grew up in “different” courts. The Infanta María Teresa lived
in the shadow of Baltasar Carlos, her brother and the heir to the throne. She lost
her mother, Isabel of Borbón, at the age of seven and her brother only two years
later; she also suffered from her father’s continued absences from court during
the Catalonian war. In contrast, the Infanta Margarita María was born into a
court that had been renewed by the arrival of Philip IV’s new wife, Mariana of
Austria. The 1650s saw a king who laughed more than in the mourning period of
the 1640s and who was daring enough to make impromptu visits. These different
situations affected their childhoods. María Teresa was reared under the guidance
of her mother, in a public role that imposed greater solemnity and restraint.
Margarita María, under the guidance of her father, was allowed a more private
role that enabled her to develop a spontaneous and lively character. While both
infantas were recognized as children who needed time to mature, the different
circumstances of their lives affected their childhood development.
1
Research for this chapter was supported by the project coordinated by María
Victoria López-Cordón Cortezo entitled: El nacimiento de la esfera pública: bases socio-
profesionales y pautas culturales en la monarquía española. FFI2008–02276/FISO and by
the project coordinated by Miguel Luis López-Guadalupe entitled: El hecho cotidiano en
la monarquía española de la edad moderna: lo doméstico, entre lo privado y lo público.
Historia comparada entre el interior y la periferia. HAR2011-26435-C03-03. Both financed
by Spain’s Ministerio de Ciencia e Innovación.
166 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Oliván Santaliestra
The education of princes, princesses, infantes, and infantas in the Spanish

monarchy has received scant attention, with the exception of Martha K. Hoffman-
Strock’s thesis, the first full study of the court training received by Philip III’s
and Margarita of Austria’s children.2 The trail blazed by Hoffman has been
followed by María José del Río in her essay on Ana of Austria’s education3 and,
more recently, by Santiago Martínez’s chapter on Isabel Clara Eugenia’s Castilian
education.4 Other works include an essay by Fernando Bouza on the education of
Prince Baltasar Carlos5 and Mercedes Llorente’s article linking childhood portraits
to education treatises, and focusing on the Infanta Margarita and on Carlos II as
children.6
Aspects such as birth, upbringing, and the treatment of the infantes’s and
infantas’s bodies have not attracted the attention of specialists. It is true that Spain
has fewer sources of information than France, where the extensive diary written
by medical practitioner Héroard and edited by Madeleine Foisil enabled a detailed
reconstruction to be made of the bodily care given to Louis XIII from his birth
until puberty.7 Even so, in the 1950s, Luis Cortés Echanove devoted an entire
monograph to the royal family’s wet nurses8 and more recent work by María Cruz
de Carlos Varona on giving birth and initial infant care9 provides a good basis for
future research. Another study worth mentioning, and featured in this volume, is
Silvia Mitchell’s chapter on the childhood of Carlos II, younger brother of the
Infanta Margarita, which complements this chapter.
2
Martha Hoffman-Strock, “‘Carved on Rings and Painted in Pictures’: The Education
and Formation of the Spanish Royal Family 1601–1634” (PhD diss., Yale University, 1996).
3
María Jose Del Río Barredo, “Enfance et éducation d’Anne d’Autriche à la cour
d’Espagne (1601–1615),” in Anne d’Autriche. Infante d’Espagne et reine de France, ed.
Chantal Grell (Paris: CEEH-Perrin, 2009), 11–39.
4
Santiago Martínez Hernández, “Reyna esclarecida, Cynthtia clara, hermosa luna:
el aprendizaje político y cortesano de la infanta Isabel Clara Eugenia,” in Isabel Clara
Eugenia. Soberanía femenina en las cortes de Madrid y Bruselas, ed. Cordula Van Wyhe,
(Madrid: CEEH- Paul Holberton Publishing, 2011): 21–59.
5
Fernando Bouza Alvarez, “La herencia portuguesa de Baltasar Carlos de Austria:
El Directorio de fray Antonio Brandao para la educación del heredero de la monarquía
católica,” Cuadernos de Historia Moderna 9 (1998): 47–61.
6
Mercedes Llorente, “Portraits of Children at the Spanish Court in the Seventeenth
Century: The Infanta Margarita and the Young King Carlos II,” Bulletin for Spanish and
Portuguese Historical Studies 35 (2010): 30–47.
7
Madeleine Foisil, ed., Journal de Jean Héroard. Médecin de Louis XIII (Paris:
Fayard, 1989).
8
Luis Cortés Echanove, Nacimiento y crianza de personas reales en la corte de
España 1566–1886 (Madrid: CSIC, 1958).
9
María Cruz de Carlos Varona, “Entre el riesgo y la necesidad: embarazo,
alumbramiento y culto a la Virgen en los espacios femeninos del Alcázar de Madrid (siglo
XVII),” Arenal 13 (2006): 263–90.
“My sister is growing up very healthy and beautiful, she loves me” 167
In view of the above, my essay sets out to study the infancy and childhood of the
Infantas María Teresa and Margarita María. Despite the 13 year age gap between
them, they always treated each other as sisters. We have a rich and varied set of
sources available for analyzing the early years of the infantas’ lives, including
correspondence, education treatises, memorials, instructions, theatre plays, and all
kinds of accounts. They all allow us to learn more about the infancy and childhood
of two infantas who up until 1657, when their brother Felipe Próspero was born,
did not share an heir to the throne or a brother.
The Infante María Teresa (1638–1651)
In September 1638, after bearing seven children, six of whom died within two
years of birth, Isabel of Borbón gave birth to a girl who was named María Teresa in
honor of Saint Teresa of Ávila. Curiously, Louis XIV, who was destined to be her
husband, was born that same month and year in France. Unaware of the new-born
child’s future, the king and queen had her christened on October 5 in the palace
chapel; the ceremony was attended by the infanta’s elder brother, Prince Baltasar
Carlos, who was then nine years old and heir to the throne. In her early infancy,
María Teresa lived in her brother’s shadow, which explains why there are very
few portraits of her as a young child. We know that the infanta had several wet
nurses and that two of them were Ana María de la Sierra and Micaela Álvarez.10
Doña Inés de Zúñiga y Velasco, wife of court favorite the Count-Duke of Olivares,
was chosen as governess (aya). Doña Inés was also first lady of the bedchamber
[camarera mayor] to Queen Isabel, and she was certainly the person who spent the
greatest amount of time with the infanta in her early years.
Unfortunately, no correspondence has survived describing the little girl’s care
and upbringing. We must then rely on other sources to reconstruct María Teresa’s
infancy, such as letters from Jesuit priests that occasionally refer to the infanta’s
court training. When only a few months old, she began taking part in religious
rituals, including the queen’s washing of the hands of 12 women during Easter
Week. The infanta attended in the arms of her governess, who handed the water to
the queen on her behalf.11 For reasons of decorum and protection, her first four or
five years were spent in the private apartments at the Alcázar under the supervision
of Doña Inés and the queen. For the infanta, these were happy and peaceful years,
in which games with dwarves and entertainment in the palace gardens would have
been the norm.
Her transition to girlhood was more eventful and would mark her for life.
According to Quintilian, the passage from infancy to childhood took place at the
age of four, unlike Aristotle, who believed it to be at age seven, when children
10
Cortés Echanove, Nacimiento, 68.
11
Pascual Gayangos, ed., “Carta 26 de abril de 1639,” in Cartas de algunos Padres de
la Compañía de Jesús, vol. III (Madrid: Imprenta Nacional, 1862), 233.
acquired the ability to reason.12 Luis Vives, one of the most influential early modern
Spanish humanists, did not set a specific age, stating that it was up to educators
to fix the appropriate time.13 In the Madrid court, the age of childhood was set at
around five years, and María Teresa’s fifth birthday in September 1643 took place
during a time of great upheaval at court. It all started in the spring of 1642, when
King Philip IV and the Count-Duke of Olivares set out for the Catalan front in
the war against France. Isabel of Borbón remained in Madrid as regent, assisted
by Cardinal Borja, the President of the Council of Castile, Diego de Castejón y
Fonseca, and Cristóbal de Benavente.14 Their mother’s regency and the absence
of their father must have made a deep impression on the infanta and her brother.
Toward the end of 1642, the king returned from the campaign to spend the winter
in Madrid. Everything appeared to have returned to normal when in January, the
Count-Duke fell out of favor and was exiled to Loeches. This event was to affect
María Teresa, as his wife was her governess. Under normal circumstances, Doña
Inés would have had to follow her husband and leave the court immediately,
but this did not happen. Philip IV allowed the countess to remain at the palace,
probably to maintain some sort of stability around his daughter María Teresa, who
at four, was at a vulnerable age.
Although, inevitably, and despite efforts made by Philip IV to prevent them,
the court favorite’s fall caused changes in the infanta’s life. With the count-
duke absent from court, Queen Isabel, who had been his main rival, began to
dominate, along with her confidante, the Countess of Paredes de Nava.15 The
countess became one of the infanta’s greatest role models and in February 1643
encouraged the monarchs, the prince, and the infanta to visit the Jesuit school in
Madrid. According to a Jesuit’s eyewitness account, this was the infanta’s first
public appearance. María Teresa wore a long skirt [vaquerillo] denoting her young
age; she behaved very well and sweetly, saying to one of the priests: “may God
keep you.” To the surprise of the Jesuit priests, who had expected her fall from
grace along with her husband, Doña Inés de Zúñiga also accompanied the king and
queen on the visit organized by the Countess of Paredes.16
Over the coming months it would become obvious that Doña Inés de Zúñiga
was unable to fulfill her role, especially since the king left Madrid for the second
time in 1643 for the war against France. Once again, Philip left the queen in charge
12
Llorente, “Portraits of Children,” 32.
13
Llorente, “Portraits of Children,” 32.
14
Pascual Gayangos, ed., “Carta 29 de abril de 1642,” in Cartas de algunos Padres de
la Compañía de Jesús, vol. IV (Madrid: Imprenta Nacional, 1862), 345.
15
Joaquín Pérez Villanueva, Felipe IV escritor de cartas. Un epistolario inédito
(Salamanca: Caja de Ahorros y Monte de Piedad, 1986), 38.
16
Pascual Gayangos, ed., “Carta de Francisco Negrete al padre Pereyra, 17 de febrero
de 1643,” Cartas de algunos Padres de la Compañía de Jesús, vol. V (Madrid: Imprenta
Nacional, 1863), 46–7.
of the government, this time wielding more power.17 The Countess of Paredes
de Nava, a close friend of the queen, was by then emerging as one of the most
influential figures at court. She soon became the person most trusted by Queen
Isabel to take charge of her daughter’s care, which had been neglected ever since
Doña Inés began to combine her duties as governess with taking care of her exiled
husband. The infanta could not have been oblivious to the insults that the court
ladies aimed against the Countess of Olivares, and the fact that she was disliked
by her godmother, the Princess of Carignan, María of Bourbon,18 who lived in
the palace. It is highly likely, therefore, that the Countess of Paredes actually
undertook the role of governess (and not Doña Inés, the official incumbent) during
the spring and summer of 1643.
In September the infanta turned five, the date probably commemorated
with a lovely portrait of the infanta by Juan Bautista Martínez del Mazo.19 The
infanta appears for the first time in a black gown with an enormous farthingale
[guardainfante], and a red bonnet. The portrait denotes her new status as a young
girl who had now entered the age of reason, learning, and of total control over
body and soul. The farthingale symbolized this rite of passage,20 which in María
Teresa’s case takes on new meaning, as it was highly unusual for a girl to wear
the garment. When worn by the queen, the farthingale symbolized majesty and
virtuosity; on the young infanta, it denoted maturity and femininity, as this was an
exclusively female item of clothing, unlike the vaquerillo worn by both boys and
girls at court up to the age of five or six. With the farthingale, the infanta was on
an equal footing with her mother.
For the last months of 1643 and the first few months of 1644, we have valuable
eyewitness accounts by Antonio de Sotomayor, Philip’s royal confessor. Due to the
priest’s advanced age, he could not accompany the king to Aragon, so he remained
in Madrid with the queen. Fray Antonio relates anecdotes about the prince and
the infanta in his correspondence with the king, telling that the infanta “missed
her father very much,”21 which was appropriate behavior at court, as sadness for a
loved one’s absence was deemed to be the mark of a good courtier. He also relates
that the two siblings often went to the gardens of El Retiro to “eat sweets.”22 The
17
Pilar Pérez Cantó, Esperanza Mó Romero, and Laura Oliván, Rainhas de Portugal
e Espanha. Margarida de Àustria. Isabel de Bourbon (Lisboa: Circulo de Leitores, 2012),
302–19.
18
Pascual Gayangos, ed., “Madrid, 2 de abril de 1643,” Cartas de los padres jesuitas,
vol. V (Madrid: Imprenta Nacional, 1863), 67. María was a daughter of the Count of
Soissons, Charles of Bourbon, and wife of the Duke of Savoy.
19
Juan Bautista Martínez del Mazo, María Teresa Infanta of Spain, oil on canvas,
148 × 102.9 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art New York. 43101.
20
Llorente, “Portraits of Children,” 39–40.
21
José Espinosa Rodríguez, ed., Fray Antonio de Sotomayor y su correspondencia
con Felipe IV (1643–1644) (Vigo: M. Roel, 1944), 49, 53, ss, 64.
22
Espinosa Rodríguez, ed., “Madrid, 6 de octubre de 1643,” Fray Antonio de
Sotomayor y su correspondencia con Felipe IV, 84.
infanta was also very amusing, and in November 1643, Sotomayor tells how she
had started to imitate everyone, including the way her father the king “twirled his
moustache,”23 a lovely piece of first-hand gossip, revealing that the king would
smooth out his moustache, that his daughter had noticed his habit, and that she
imitated it to make people laugh.
The same month in which the infanta entertained herself and others by
mimicking her absent father, the Countess of Olivares left court, saying tearful
farewells to her charge.24 We know nothing about María Teresa’s reaction to the
departure of her official governess, or if she missed her as she missed her father,
although missing someone would have been frowned on. Sotomayor says nothing
about the infanta’s feelings on her governess’ dismissal. However, he comments
on María Teresa’s cheerful character, saying that she was “like a star”25 and that
she kept asking for “something for her mouth,”26 meaning the sweets she was so
fond of. Fray Antonio, in his eagerness to inculcate devotion in the child, gave her
a rosary made of alcorça, a sweet white dough often scented with amber or musk.
The rosary was a toy as well as a sweet treat; when it was given to her, the infanta
said it would “be a double treat for her mouth, as she could eat the beads and recite
them as well.”27 For her, the devotional exercise was a game, a sweet and a learning
experience all rolled into one. The incident shows that the child knew how to recite
the rosary (both the queen and the Countess of Paredes de Nava had taught her)
and that she was probably ready for confession and communion, having reached
the age at which she could distinguish good from bad. It is possible that Fray
Antonio was the infanta’s confessor, and that the gift of the sweetmeat rosary was
part of his role. However, her teachers in questions of piety were undoubtedly the
queen and the Countess of Paredes de Nava. Queen Isabel, despite suffering from
a bad leg, always knelt to pray in the hot and stuffy palace chapel; she began every
day with two masses and ended with readings from the day’s saint given by the
Countess of Paredes.28 The year 1644 was marked by the queen’s efforts to govern
well in times of war.
In September 1644, the infanta turned seven, while her brother was already 14
and had come of age. It was at this time that the prince and María Teresa suffered
Espinosa Rodríguez, ed., Fray Antonio de Sotomayor y su correspondencia con

23
Felipe IV, 107–8.

24
Espinosa Rodríguez, ed., “Madrid, 4 de noviembre de 1643,” Fray Antonio de
Sotomayor y su correspondencia con Felipe IV, 114.
25
Felipe IV, 135.
26
Felipe IV, 135.
27
Felipe IV, 136.
28
AGP. Sec. Histórica, Caja 56, fols 17v–19, cited by Dalmiro De la Válgoma, Norma
y ceremonia de las reinas de la casa de Austria (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia,
1958), 129.
the greatest blow in their young lives, as their mother died suddenly in October.
Isabel of Borbón said goodbye to her children on her deathbed. Philip IV found
out by letter, as he was still at the front in Aragon;29 he returned immediately to
the court in Madrid. The queen’s death left María Teresa unprotected, for she had
been without an official governess since November 1643, when the Countess of
Olivares left the court. Since the king had to return to war and would take Prince
Baltasar Carlos with him, a household had to be found urgently for the infanta. The
king issued an order naming the Countess of Paredes de Nava as governess and the
Countess of Medellín as first lady of the bedchamber.30
These two women had a huge influence on María Teresa, who lived in full
mourning between the ages of 6 and 10 and in the almost complete absence of
her father. The Countess of Paredes and the Countess of Medellín were her role
models. Their companionship became even more important for her when her
brother died in 1646 in Zaragoza. Philip IV was devastated by the death of his heir
and his only wish when he reached Madrid was to be with his daughter: “it will
be a great relief to see my daughter and be with familiar faces and old servants”
he wrote from Zaragoza on October 18, 1646.31 With the death of young Baltasar
Carlos, the court was plunged into mourning yet again. The Infanta María Teresa
was 8 at the time. One of the measures adopted was to forbid any plays from
being performed in the city and court of Madrid,32 although this was not strictly
observed, as eyewitness accounts tell of performances being held in the infanta’s
apartments. Perhaps Philip IV, an avid theater enthusiast, decided to alleviate his
daughter’s despair and sadness—very unhealthy feelings for her age—with plays
performed in the palace rooms. According to Catalina del Viso, a palace jester, in
one of her supposed letters to the palace servant Joaquín de los Cobos, probably
dated around 1647: “at carnival time there were various celebrations, dances and
plays in the presence of the infanta María Teresa.”33 One of the plays performed
was Entre bobos anda el juego [It’s a Fool’s Game] by Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla.
The following year, 1648, when the infanta was 10 years old, the Countess
of Paredes de Nava became a nun under the name Luisa Magdalena de Jesús
29
Antonio Moreno Garrido and Miguel Ánagel Gamoral Torres, eds, “Velázquez y la
familia real a través de un epistolario de Felipe IV,” in Cuadernos de Historia del Arte de la
Fundación Universitaria (1988), 14.
30
AHN. Consejos Suprimidos 51436, nº 3. I would like to thank Professor Fernando
Bouza for this reference.
31
Duque de Almazán (transcriptions, 1933), Correspondencia de la condesa de
Salvatierra, Not published. Private Archive. Philip IV to the Countess of Salvatierra,
October 18, 1644.
32
María Luisa Lobato, “Entre luces y sombras: las gentes de teatro en tiempos de
Felipe IV (1644–1649),” in El Autor en el Siglo de Oro. Su estatus intelectual y social, ed.
Manfred Tietz and Marcella Trambaioli (Vigo: Academia del Hispanismo, 2011), 201–15.
33
Fernando Bouza, Corre manuscrito. Una historia cultural del Siglo de Oro (Madrid:
Marcial Pons, 2002), 196–8.
and withdrew to the Discalced Carmelite convent in Malagón.34 The infanta

and the countess embarked on a correspondence that would last until the former
governess’s death. A total of 27 letters dated between 1648 and 1660 have been
preserved.35 In her second letter to the Countess of Paredes de Nava, dated March
17, 1648, the Infanta María Teresa writes: “at this very moment, Juana de Auñón
and I are writing to you after lessons from the window recess in the tower.”36
The letter was not written in the infanta’s own hand, as she had probably not as
yet mastered the skill of writing; the dwarf Juana de Auñón was most likely her
scribe. María Teresa had chosen an original place to write a personal letter to her
former governess: the window recess was a lighter and much more pleasant spot
for dictating a letter to her friendly scribe than the solemn tower study where she
spent hours reading, writing, and praying under the watchful eye of her teacher,
Antonio Calderón, professor of theology at the University of Salamanca and a
staunch defender of the Immaculate Conception.37 Don Antonio was her first
teacher and Fray Juan de Palma her confessor, who died in 1647.38 His substitute
was Diego Quiroga, former confessor to the Empress Margarita, who returned to
the Madrid court as part of the entourage accompanying Philip’s second wife and
niece, Mariana of Austria. The king, who also maintained correspondence with
the countess, told her of his decision in June 1648: “Regarding my daughter’s
confessor, I have appointed Fr. Diego Quiroga, who is a good man and with no
current employment. I think it is a good choice, at least to me it seems so. He will
come with my niece.”39
Mariana of Austria would not reach Madrid until October 1649. Up to that time,
María Teresa, with her title of infante, remained as the king’s firstborn with her
rights to succession intact. As a result, any health problem caused consternation,
and in August 1648, María Teresa was stricken with smallpox. The Countess of
Paredes sent her “amita” (as she affectionately called María Teresa) some relics
of Saint Teresa, which the Countess of Salvatierra hung from the sick infanta’s
bed post.40 The pustules on her face healed quickly, unlike those on her body. The
doctors bled her on several occasions and applied cupping. She also had weeping
Pérez de Villanueva, Felipe IV y escritor de cartas, 42.

34
Carmen de Travesedo and Evaristo Martín de Sandoval, eds, “Cartas de la infanta

35
doña María Teresa, hija de Felipe IV y reina de Francia a la condesa de Paredes de Nava
(1648–1660),” in Homenaje a Emilio Gómez Orbaneja, ed. Jorge Guillén (Madrid: Moneda
y Crédito, 1977).
36
Carmen de Travesedo, “Cartas de la infanta doña María Teresa,” 425. María Teresa
to the Countess of Paredes de Nava, Madrid, March 17, 1648.
37
Francisco Elías De Tejada and Gabriela Pércopo, El reino de Galicia hasta 1700
(Vigo: Galaxia, 1966), 238.
38
AGP. Reinados Felipe IV, leg. 5, nos. 3 and 4.
39
Pérez Villanueva, Felipe IV y escritor de cartas, 76. Fray Diego Quiroga died that
year and was succeeded by Fray Alejandro de Valencia.
40
to the countess of Paredes de Nava, August 31, 1648.
eyes, which made her very depressed. The infanta begged the Countess of Paredes
to commend her to God from the convent in Malagón. Fortunately, María Teresa
recovered from her illness and was once again able to enjoy one of her passions,
the plays performed by Juan Rana, a famous comedic actor, known for his hilarious
roles. Laughter was as important for the infanta’s life and health as the rigid
etiquette governing all her actions. She surrounded herself with court dwarves and
jesters, especially Bañules, in whose company she felt: “very happy.”41
In October 1649, another event would make an impression on María Teresa’s
life: the arrival at court of Queen Mariana of Austria. The court came alive once
more with parties and theater after the timid and sporadic performances of previous
years. Before the smiling queen, Juan Rana became the new king of comedy. María
Teresa wanted to welcome her cousin with full honors, so she prepared a play
to celebrate her birthday in December. Preparations for the play, titled The New
Olympus, kept María Teresa fully occupied, as her letters to the countess testify:
“on Sunday I was very busy with rehearsals for the play and masque that I am
preparing for my cousin’s birthday.”42 María Teresa played the role of Jupiter, god
of Olympus, in keeping with her status as infante, sole firstborn and possible heir.43
The play was performed in front of an attentive Mariana, whose responsibility was
to produce the longed-for male heir. Despite her title of infante, María Teresa had
not been sworn in as heir, for a very simple reason: the new queen was expected to
give the king male offspring. Any suggestion of swearing in María Teresa would
have been seen as an insult to Mariana, who did not give birth to her first child for
some time, as she had not yet begun to menstruate.
Far from being mistrustful of each other, as they might well have been,
Mariana and María Teresa actually became close friends and confidantes; there
was only a four-year age gap between them, their youth meant they were fond of
fun and revelry, and together they enjoyed many leisure pursuits such as hunting.
The queen was a good shot with a musket and killed wild boar, while María Teresa
was afraid of the weapon and preferred to kill rabbits with a club.44 At carnival
time, María Teresa had great fun throwing eggs, particularly at Soplo, another of
the palace dwarves who made the two girls laugh.45
At last, toward the end of 1650, Mariana of Austria became pregnant. In her
letters, María Teresa tells how a room was being prepared for the new baby in the
41
Pilar Vilela Gállego, “Felipe IV a la condesa de Paredes, 18 abril 1649.” In Felipe
IV y la condesa de Paredes (Seville: Consejería de Cultura, 2005), 47.
42
to the Countess of Paredes de Nava, December 1, 1649.
43
Gabriel Bocángel y Unzueta, El Nuevo Olimpo (1649).
44
to the Countess of Paredes de Nava, February 15, 1650.
45
to the Countess of Paredes de Nava, Madrid, October 11, 1650.
wing once occupied by the Count-Duke of Olivares.46 Construction was underway

to build a stairway up to Doña Juana’s attic room.47 María Teresa wanted the child
to be a boy “to please my father.”48 At 13 years old, she had few ambitions to
inherit the throne. On July 12, 1651 and after nine years with no siblings, her
younger sister was born in the palace, the little girl painted by Velázquez in his
most famous work, Las Meninas.
The Infanta Margarita: From the Cradle to Las Meninas

The Infanta Margarita was born on July 12, 1651 after a very difficult labor that
left Queen Mariana of Austria confined to bed for more than two weeks. The
infanta was given the names of her two grandmothers, Margarita of Austria and
María Ana of Spain;49 her first wet nurse (she had 11 in all) was Manuela de
Laso.50 As governess [aya], the king chose the Countess of Salvatierra, Leonor
de Luna y Sarmiento. She had served the royal family for many years, so she
was quite elderly when she took on this new position in the court. Her status as
governess made her the closest person to the Infanta Margarita.51 The letters sent
by the Countess of Salvatierra to the king and queen during their absences from
Madrid are priceless accounts of Margarita’s infancy and childhood. Leonor, who
remained at the Alcázar with the infanta, wrote to the king every day, as Philip
wished to supervise the child’s development closely.
The first few months of the Infanta Margarita’s life were spent in the apartments
of her sister María Teresa, as her rooms was not yet ready.52 It was vital that the
infanta’s new rooms, in the north wing beside the Priora garden, be warm enough
and protected from drafts, which the Countess of Salvatierra dreaded,53 and it
was not long before the infanta caught her first cold. The governess administered
the usual remedies, giving the infanta sweet almond oil with sugar.54 She called
On Olivares’s palace wing, see José María Barbeito, El Alcázar de Madrid (Madrid:
46
Colegio Oficial de Arquitectos, 1992), 142–3.

47
Carmen de Travesedo, “Cartas de la infanta doña María Teresa,” 427–8. María
Teresa to the Countess of Paredes de Nava, Madrid, March 6, 1651. “Doña Juana” has not
been identified.
48
to the Countess of Paredes de Nava, Madrid, June 12, 1651.
49
Pilar Vilela Gállego, “Felipe a la Condesa de Paredes de Nava, Madrid, 25 julio,
1651,” in Felipe IV y la condesa de Paredes de Nava, 129.
50
51
The Countess of Salvatierra is also portrayed in Las Meninas.
52
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra. Private Archive. Countess of
Salvatierra to Philip IV, October 17, 1651.
53
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, October 29, 1651.
54
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, Countess of Salvatierra to Philip IV,
October 18, 1651.
the doctors, who, according to protocol, were required to issue a report that the
steward then sent to the king. After her first cold, on October 26 at three in the
afternoon, the doctors decided to move the infanta to her new room; days earlier
they had ordered the curtains to be drawn to prevent disease-carrying drafts. The
king’s physicians had designed the room themselves with one aim in mind, that
of keeping the infanta healthy. That day, the countess wrote the king that the new
room was very warm and that the infanta had slept for four hours as soon as she
had moved in, a good sign that the chamber “was a good one.”55
A fundamental part of curing minor ailments and preventing diseases was the
happy and good-humored way in which the infanta used to entertain herself with
the play-acting and jokes of the court dwarves.56 During one of her first colds,
Margarita was visited by Bañules, whose face-pulling made her laugh heartily.57
Dwarves and physicians alike looked after the infanta’s health, as did Don Luis
de Haro, the king’s favorite [valido], who was permitted to enter the infanta’s
chamber in the king’s absence. On one occasion, Don Luis went in while the
infanta was asleep and was able to confirm to the king that the child had not lost
weight: “she had shed little” were his words.58 He gave her a rosary and some
relics as tokens to keep healthy and ward off evil spirits.
During her first few months, the infanta did not leave her apartments. At
her young age, she received few visitors during her first year; only occasional
appearances were permitted by Don Luis de Haro and by the Duke of Terranova
and the Marquis of Liche, whose position as gentlemen of the chamber at court
gave them access to the child’s room.59 Another frequent caller was Margherita of
Savoy-Gonzaga, former vicereine of Portugal exiled in Madrid since 1640.60 Philip
IV was very aware, however, that children were more at home with “domestic
life,”61 which included the court jester Catalina del Viso, the dwarves Bañules and
Soplo, and the singer Mari Bera, who enchanted the little girl with her songs.62
In April 1652, when the child could walk with a baby walker, her father ordered
the Countess of Salvatierra to take Margarita out of her apartments from time to
55
October 16 and 25, 1651.
56
For the relationship between laughter and health in the court of Madrid, see:
Fernando Bouza, Locos, enanos y hombres de placer (Madrid: Temas de Hoy, 1996), 90–91.
57
October 21, 1651.
58
59
60
See Blythe Alice Raviola, “The Three Lives of Margherita of Savoy-Gonzaga,
Duchess of Mantua and Vicereine of Portugal,” in Early Modern Habsburg Women:
Transnational Contexts, Cultural Conflicts, Dynastic Continuities, Anne J. Cruz and Maria
Galli Stampino, eds. (Farnham, UK and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2013), 58–76.
61
AHN Consejos Suprimidos, leg. 51436, nº 3.
62
October 31, 1651.
time. The infanta visited the queen’s room, well wrapped up against the drafts
blowing under the palace doors and passageways. On May 1, 1652, the infanta
celebrated Saint Philip’s feast day by visiting the king’s room for the first time.
There, according to the countess, the child “gazed attentively at the paintings.”
The little infanta was in the king’s chamber “until six in the evening,” her normal
bedtime, when she returned to her room to sleep. By November 1652, the infanta
could walk almost unaided. In January 1653, she spoke her first words and at about
that time she also learned to dance with Soplo the zarambeque, a lively dance. She
took her first meal, a soup, in early 1653, while still being breastfed. The infanta
could now move around the palace easier and broaden her horizons beyond the
king and queen’s rooms and the oratory. In a letter dated January 29, 1653, the
Countess of Salvatierra gives an account of the infanta’s visit to a studio: “she
went around the studio making a thousand curtseys.” Could this be Velázquez’s
studio? If so, the infanta may have accompanied her father on his visits to see
Velázquez paint.
The countess reveals the infanta’s first fears during the second year of her life;
the child was terrified of riding a donkey63 and of being carried on a litter.64 Philip
IV thought that his daughter would also be frightened of the nuns at the convent
of the Encarnación convent, but this was not the case:65 on her first visit, she was
very happy with her half-sister, the nun Ana Margarita de Austria, the king’s
illegitimate daughter. The infanta’s calm life was shattered in March 1653, when
a terrible cold confined her to bed for over two months. As the illness progressed,
the governess reported regularly with news of the infanta’s continued ailments
to an extremely concerned Philip IV, who saw his daughter whenever he could.
On May 3 the Countess wrote him: “She wanted to walk and could not, it made
me cry to see her.” Don Luis de Haro began to attend the physicians’ council; as
the king’s favorite, he needed to be well informed about the infanta’s ill health.
Although bedridden, the infanta showed some improvement; the countess tells us
that in April, Soplo did not move from the foot of her bed and when he danced
the zarambeque for her, she followed his rhythm and did the movements from her
bed.66
On seeing she was not getting well, the physicians decided to change the wet
nurse, since they believed that new milk had the power to change the course of the
disease. After over three hours of discussion on April 25, the woman chosen was
an apothecary’s wife who had given birth six months earlier. Realizing that the
new wet nurse was not her usual one, the infanta refused to see her; she ordered
the windows to be closed and the curtains drawn, and only then, in the dark, did
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, January 29, 1653.

63
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, Countess to Philip IV, May 10,

64
1653.
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, Countess to Philip IV, October 30,
65
1653.
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, April 19, 1653.
66
she agree to nurse.67 The new milk had the desired effect, and in early May she
began to walk with difficulty (her sister María Teresa sent some crutches from El
Retiro).68 On the fifth day she reached a major milestone, walking from the tower
to the king’s study. In view of the improvement in her health, the doctors gave her
permission to go to the Buen Retiro palace with her parents and sister.69 This was
her first journey.
Very few of the countess’s letters from 1654 have survived, so it is difficult to
follow the infanta’s progress throughout that year. We know that she was weaned
in November70 and that she had a good appetite. It was, however, an important year
for the succession issue, for Mariana had not conceived. The possibility of calling
Parliament was discussed in August and again in October to appoint María Teresa
crown princess, but Felipe IV refused, as he did not wish to upset his wife, who
might yet produce male heirs.71
In 1655, when the infanta was between three and four years old, she began to
receive more visitors and gifts. Although Margarita treated all this attention like
a game, these occasions served as training for future receptions, audiences, and
presentations that she would soon have to attend. Among the nobles who visited
the young infanta were the Marquis de Liche, the Duke of Medina, the Count of
Ayala, and Don Luis de Haro, who always brought a box of sweets that the child
would give out to her servants;72 this was a good way to learn to distribute favors.
But, undoubtedly, the greatest gifts of all were the children of noblewomen who
visited the infanta with their mothers. The Countess of Lamberg,73 the Duchess of
Alba and the Princess of Astillano,74 and the Duchess of Nájera were just some
of those who visited often with their offspring. The presence of children from
outside her world of dwarves and maids in waiting, with whom she played “at
ladies,”75 allowed the infanta to socialize with the “other” world of the nobility.
The Marquise of Camarasa’s son, according to the governess, was “extremely
67
68
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, María Teresa to the Countess of
Salvatierra, Aranjuez, May 6, 1653, 162.
69
May 10, 1653, 168.
70
71
Jerónimo de Barrionuevo, Avisos (1654–1658), Biblioteca de Autores Españoles,
vol. 221 (Madrid: Atlas, 1968), 43. Cited in Jonathan Brown, “Las Meninas como obra
maestra con la colaboración de Elliott y Carmen Garrido,” in Escritos completos sobre
Velázquez, ed. Jonathan Brown (Madrid: CEEH, 2008), 175.
72
April 16, 1655.
73
74
75
January 21, 1655.
naughty,” just like the infanta.76 The old governess was having more and more
trouble keeping the four-year-old infanta in her room,77 so she was frequently
allowed to go down to the Priora and Emperadores gardens for some exercise.
Margarita loved to eat cakes, chocolate, and sugared nuts, which her governess
tried to keep from her because they gave her stomach aches.78 Her greediness
made it even more pressing to make sure she exercised often, “which gave her
life” as the Countess wrote.79
The infanta’s entertainment also involved listening to harp music and playing
the Galician bagpipes,80 which her maids-in-waiting put up with stoically. She
loved music and a number of eye-witness accounts state that the infanta would
dance privately in her room with her maids in waiting: “she is delightful and has
been dancing all afternoon,” the Countess wrote.81 Her governess tells a lovely
story about how she enjoyed dressing up. In a letter dated April 20, 1655, the
Countess of Salvatierra wrote to the king: “she has been keeping herself very
amused with a farthingale [guardainfante] that she tried on, and you would love
to see how she walks around in it and the funny things she says.” Although one of
the first times that she wore a farthingale for fun, it was good preparation. For a
young girl, the farthingale was difficult to wear, as she had to learn to control her
movements, her body, and her gestures, measuring distances so as not to trip, and
learning to move gracefully. Before appearing more frequently in public wearing
a farthingale, the young infanta would practice in her room with her servants
and under the watchful eye of the old governess, who looked on proudly and
indulgently.
Controlling her body went beyond using the cumbersome farthingale. On Saint
Philip’s day, she marked the date by using the “little chair,” or toilet. The countess
was pleased because the event had taken place on an auspicious day, the king’s
saint’s day. Philip IV, also very pleased, wrote: “my little girl had a great feast day
in my name as she did her best to be clean; I pray to God she does not repent and
return to her bad habits.” Using the toilet meant more than being clean in the literal
sense of the word, as it also showed that the child was able to control her body,
which was seen as a sign of her virtue and cleanliness of soul. The next day, the
infanta used the little chair twice and asked the Countess de Salvatierra to write
and tell her father about it.
In early 1656, the year Margarita turned five and entered her childhood, she
aptly received visitors with great composure and solemnity. On April 24 the
governess wrote to the king: “Today the Duke of Infantado came for an audience
76
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, May 2, 1655.
77
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, Countess of Salvatierra, April 14,
1655.
78
79
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, May 7, 1655.
80
81
and she received him in the gallery; she was as dignified as her mother, and he was
amazed at how she responded to him; the Duke of Alba, the Count of Fuensalida,
and the Marquis of Camarasa also came and she gave all of them her hand to kiss.”
The infanta received the noblemen in the queen’s gallery. This was a clear sign of
the maturity that would culminate in being portrayed in Las Meninas by Velázquez
in December that year. Her sister María Teresa wrote about the audience: “I am so
happy that my sister was so dignified during today’s reception and so womanly.”82
The infanta knew how to be the center of attention; her maturity enabled her
to behave appropriately in public, dance with confidence and grace, control her
passions, and cultivate her spirit. However, she was not making the same progress
with her lessons, as she could not read well; nevertheless she had started to send
her first letters. The infanta began to learn the art of writing by playing with a
quill in 1653;83 that same year she sent a note to her sister84 and in April 1656 she
sent her first letter to Philip IV,85 not written in her own hand but by a secretary,
probably Soplo, who wrote what the child dictated. All through April, the infanta
continued to “write” to the king, the queen, and her sister María Teresa. When
Mariana of Austria replied to her daughter, the child tried to read her mother’s
letters “in parts, saying what she could remember, and they were very funny
things” wrote the Countess on April 25.
In May, she did not wish her father a happy saint’s day by writing in her own
hand; what she did was to “dress up,” perhaps in a farthingale? We know only
she said: “If my father saw me, he would be very pleased.”86 Philip IV would
probably have preferred to receive news that his daughter’s reading had improved.
In October, the king “replied” to his daughter through the Countess of Salvatierra:
“Tell her that if she wants me to write to her she must learn to read, and then I shall
write to her every day.”87 The governess replied “I do not know if she will.” And,
in fact, the infanta took little notice and continued to use Soplo as scribe. She did,
however, comply with her devotions by visiting the convent of the Encarnación
and called to pray the rosary with the little bell in the palace oratory: “she will
make saints of us all” wrote the Countess of Salvatierra that day.88
82
Salvatierra, April 25, 1656.
83
April 17, 1653.
84
Salvatierra, San Lorenzo, October 20, 1653 and October 24, 1653.
85
Salvatierra, April 23, 1656.
86
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvaterria, Countess of Salvatierra to Philip IV,
May 1, 1656.
87
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, Philip IV to the Countess of
Salvatierra, October 26, 1656.
88
October 1656.
We do not know if in December 1656, when Velázquez painted Las Meninas,

the Infanta Margarita could read and write well; what is certain is that she was five
years old and at that age, as she passed into childhood, she knew how to behave
at court. She appears to prove this in the portrait: the king and queen make their
entrance into Velázquez’s studio “suddenly” (as was the habit of Philip IV on his
private visits89) and on seeing her parents, the infanta immediately adopts a serious
pose. Dressed “very smartly” in a farthingale that symbolizes her maturity, she
attempts to show her parents that she has progressed in the education of her body
and soul.
It is common knowledge that Velázquez painted Las Meninas with the intention
of showing the liberal and noble nature of the art of painting, a stance that was
firmly supported by Philip IV and confirmed by including the king’s reflection in
the painter’s masterpiece.90 The king often visited the studio to watch Velázquez
paint; he also took painting classes, and on more than one occasion, he declared
he was convinced of the noble nature of art.91 However, this does not explain
why Velázquez chose the infanta plus her dwarves and servants to portray the
liberal nature of the art of painting. The 1666 inventory, compiled 10 years after
the painting was made, gives its title as: La señora emperatriz con sus damas y una
enana [Her Royal Empress with Her Ladies and a Dwarf].
To answer this question we need to analyze the relationship between Velázquez
and Margarita, together with the connection between the infanta and her father,
Philip IV. The painter had been appointed palace chamberlain [aposentador de
palacio] in 1652,92 only a few months after the Infanta Margarita’s birth. This
status brought with it a number of privileges, such as the right to live in the palace
and gain access to the king’s chambers.93 His duties consisted in maintaining the
palace furnishings and supervising the cleaning, supplying firewood in the winter
(the Countess of Salvatierra once asked Velázquez to light the fire so she could
take hot coals for the infanta’s brazier94), and preparing lodgings for servants in the
royal household. This enabled him to be an exceptional eye-witness of the Infanta
Margarita’s early years, as her youth meant she was the only member of the royal
family not to leave the Alcázar on journeys.
Velázquez must have been very fond of Margarita, whom he painted many
times at the request of PhilipIV. He must also have been aware of the love professed
89
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, El Pardo, Philip IV to the Countess
of Salvatierra, January 22, 1652.
90
Brown, “Sobre el significado de Las Meninas,” 54.
91
92
93
94
January 10, 1655.
by the king for his daughter, whom he affectionately called “little mulatta,”95
“bufona,” and “little clown.” Margarita was the apple of the king’s eye, after years
of mourning the death of his first wife and of his heir Baltasar Carlos. Velázquez
knew that Philip IV was devoted to his daughter and that it was he, rather than the
queen (who was very young and suffered always from headaches), who supervised
her health and education, as we learn in the Countess of Salvatierra’s letters. The
young infanta resembled her father both physically and emotionally. The Duke
of Terranova commented in 1651 that the child was very much like the king as a
boy,96 and the Countess of Salvatierra always repeated that the infanta took after
the king in her love of music and art; she once wrote to Philip IV saying that the
child was “Your Majesty’s daughter because she has such good taste.”97 Already,
in 1653, on her first visit to her father’s room, Margarita admired the paintings.98
She therefore seemed a worthy successor to her father’s and Velázquez’s ideas on
the subject of painting as a noble art.
There was, therefore, a very special relationship between the king and the
infanta, similar to the great friendship between Velázquez and Philip IV. All three,
Philip, Velázquez, and the infanta, are connected across generations by the noble
nature of painting. This is evident in the painting of Las Meninas, where she
is presented as the mirror image of her father (and where she resembles him).
Margarita had learned her lesson well: she would be her father’s successor on the
concept of painting as a liberal art. As well as learning how to wear a farthingale,
Margarita “learned” from her father and from Velázquez, who had been living
in the palace for as many years as she had, that painting was a liberal art. After
all, she had grown up with the diatribes vented by the nobility against the art of
painting ringing in her ears.
The painting of Las Meninas was hung in a very private part of the palace.99
The infanta’s life was then also a very private affair, unlike that of her sister, who
at the time was on the verge of being sworn in as heir to the monarchy, in view of
the fact that Mariana de Austria had not produced any male children. In a letter to
the Marquis of La Fuente in December 1656, Philip IV mentions the possibility of
marrying María Teresa to Archduke Leopold, the emperor’s son, who would come
to Madrid following the infanta’s swearing in as crown princess. According to
the king, this marriage would make it “less upsetting to watch my daughter being
95
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, Balsaín, Philip IV to the Countess
of Salvatierra, October 16, 1651.
96
October 20, 1651.
97
October 31, 1651.
98
May 1, 1652.
99
Fernando María, “El género de Las Meninas: los servicios de la familia,” in Otras
Meninas, ed. Fernando Marías (Madrid: Siruela, 1995), 250.
sworn in as crown princess of these kingdoms, which has been delayed for longer
than is usual, so as not to sadden the queen by showing that we are not confident
of having male children.”100
While her sister’s future was being decided, Margarita, oblivious of political
diatribes, enjoyed another of her father’s great passions: theater. Theater was an
educational tool as well as a weapon against children’s madness, at least that was
what Erasmus of Rotterdam believed in his treatise, A Handbook on Manners for
Children (1530).101 In early 1657, the Infanta Margarita passed the time, according
to an account by the Countess of Salvatierra: “with a play she composed herself,
which is what all girls do, complete with verse and coplas.”102 The infanta said that
her comedy was better than the Spanish operetta [zarzuela], El golfo de las sirenas
[The Gulf of the Sirens] by Pedro de Calderón and promoted by the Marquis of
Liche in January that year. She staged her show in private in the Buen Retiro
palace in the king’s presence, who must have been greatly amused and entertained
by his daughter’s imaginative performance. It was not until a few months later, on
the occasion of her father’s birthday and the queen’s long-awaited pregnancy, that
Margarita would dance in public for the first time at a masque held at the Buen
Retiro.103 María Teresa also danced at that party in front of her father, who, filled
with hope for the possible birth of a son, had abandoned plans to appoint her as
heir. At that public masque, Margarita showed she was ready for public life.
November 1657 was a key date for the two sisters, as their brother Felipe
Próspero was born that month. At last the king had his longed-for male heir.
Margarita, at 7 years old, began to take trips with her parents and her sister María
Teresa. As mischievous as always, the infanta wrote to the Countess of Salvatierra,
who was now looking after the baby infante, still through “secretaries” for her
correspondence, either her sister María Teresa or one of the dwarves. In one of
her letters from Aranjuez she wrote to her former governess: “My heart is filled
with joy because my sister and I are going to sleep in the same room. And you
should know that the secretary and I bumped our heads writing this letter, because
it is very hard work, and thank goodness we do not do something else that smells
bad.”104 This uninhibited and happy child was the same little girl of Las Meninas,
where she appears as a potential defender of the liberal arts.
AGS, Estado leg. 2953, cited in Brown “Las Meninas como obra maestra,” 177.
100
Erasmus of Rotterdam, De civilitate morum puerilium (Valencia: Universidad de

101
Valencia, 1996), 25.

102
January 17, 1657.
103
María Luisa Lobato, “Fiestas teatrales al infante Felipe Próspero (1657–1661) y
edición del baile ‘Los Juan Ranas’ (XI-1658),” Scriptura 17 (2009): 227.
104
Correspondencia de la condesa de Salvatierra, Margarita to the Countess of
Salvatierra, May 15, 1658, 366.
Conclusion
This essay describes the childhoods of the Infantas María Teresa and Margarita
María. According to Marta Hoffman, children of royal households were the first
to be recognized as such in societies under the old regime,105 which traditionally
did not view childhood as being any different from adulthood.106 María Teresa
and Margarita were treated like children at the Madrid court: their infancy lasted
until they were five years old and their girlhood up to the age of 14. These
developmental years were crucial and vital for their future marriages with Louis
XIV and Leopold I, respectively.
Both royal children were girls, and as such, they received the attention that was
appropriate for their gender. In principle, their destiny was marriage to a foreign
prince, although they might stand to inherit the monarchy in the absence of any
brothers. In fact, the issue of succession was a huge worry for Philip IV between
1646 and 1657. The king could have opted over those 11 years to swear in María
Teresa as heir to the throne, but he did not, arguing that it would have upset his
young wife, who might still provide a male heir. Twice (in 1654 and 1656) he
came under pressure from the State Council and from Vienna to take the oath from
María Teresa. At last, with the birth of Felipe Próspero, his firstborn daughter’s
future was fully clarified.
As a result, the education received by the infantas was not always focused
on the succession of the monarchy but rather on a future marriage distant from
Madrid. This can be seen clearly in the documentation provided. The infantas’
education was aimed at corporal training, civility, and cultivating the soul. To
this purpose, dancing, wearing a farthingale, performing plays, exercising,
hunting, visiting monasteries, and worshipping the Holy Sacrament became the
main activities that the infantas were required to perform. By contrast, studying
was not given the same priority. At the age of 10, María Teresa could read and
write sufficiently well,107 according to Philip IV, while at 7, Margarita was still
using secretaries to write her letters. Her lazy approach to reading and writing
was obvious, despite her father’s friendly attempts to encourage her to improve
these two skills. Philip IV himself had not received the strictest education, as he
admitted in his translation of Giuicciardini’s work The History of Italy, saying
that “it was very difficult to instruct [princes] since the teachers never dare, nor
can they even use great rigor in the instruction of such persons, which was what
alone aides in that age to pursue clear ends. An example of what I mean was seen
105
Hoffman-Strock, “Carved on Rings,” 22.
106
Philippe Ariès, Centuries of Childhood: a Social History of Family Life (New York:
Vintage Books, 1962).
107
Pérez Villanueva, Felipe IV escritor de cartas, 221. Philip IV to the Countess of
Paredes de Nava, Madrid, February 17, 1654.
in me.”108 It is possible that with Baltasar Carlos, who died in 1646 and had grown
up by him, the king might have rectified his “error” of lack of rigor. This was
not the case with his daughters; either because they were girls whom he did not
intend to appoint as heirs to the throne, or because he was following the norms
that had governed his own childhood, the king did not seem to mind that María
Teresa and Margarita might not be receiving the same good humanistic education
as the sixteenth-century infantas. He did, however, go to great lengths to ensure
they learned how to behave at court, appreciate art, and defend the Catholic faith.
The differences in the two sisters’ education were determined by their different
political, court, and family backgrounds. From different mothers, they were
separated by an age gap of 13 years. María Teresa lived her childhood in the 1640s
and Margarita in the 1650s, two decades with very different moods. The first eight
years of the Infanta María Teresa’s life were less peaceful than those of her sister.
She lived in the shadow of Baltasar Carlos, she had to adjust to having a new
governess after the departure of Olivares, she lost her mother at age 7, her brother
the crown prince died two years later, and she suffered from her father’s continued
absence from the court. She also had to adapt to changes in court etiquette between
1647 and 1651.
The 1650s were much happier years. With the arrival of the new queen, Mariana
of Austria, court ceremony was relaxed and plays returned with greater vigor to
the stages of both the city and the court. Margarita was born into this atmosphere
of celebration. Philip IV and his wife did not leave Madrid and the surrounding
area, despite the continuing wars with France and Portugal. The 1650s saw a
rejuvenated king together with his wife and daughters, a king who laughed more
than in the mourning period of the 1640s and who was daring enough to make
impromptu visits, breaking with his reputation for being bound by ceremony as the
most etiquette-conscious of monarchs. Philip’s constant presence at court and at
its adjacent locations favored Margarita’s spontaneous and lively character.
The infantas’ main role models varied according to circumstances. María
Teresa looked to her mother, Isabel of Borbón, rather than to her father. Until 1643
she was educated by the Countess of Olivares and from 1644 by the Countess of
Paredes de Nava, with whom she continued to correspond until the latter’s death
the same year in which María Teresa was married. In Margarita’s case, her father
had the greatest influence on her, more so than her mother, who was very young and
obsessed with producing offspring. Queen Mariana received less information than
Philip IV on her daughter’s progress. Her governess, the Countess of Salvatierra,
was Margarita’s rock, as was her sister María Teresa, with whom she kept up
frequent correspondence until she could accompany her on trips.
This chapter cannot ignore a well-worn question that dates back to the
nineteenth century: why does María Teresa not appear in the painting Las
Meninas? We can only reply with another question: why would she be included
108
Philip IV, “Epílogo breve,” in Francisco de Giucciardini, Historia de Italia (Madrid:
Viuda de Hernando, 1889–1890); cited by Hoffman-Strock, “Carved on Rings,” 23.
in such a private work of art, when her life toward the end of 1656 was so public?
María Teresa never had the same relationship that Margarita had with Velázquez
and with her father. Velázquez had “grown up” as a courtesan at the same time that
Margarita was reared as an infanta between 1652 and 1656. María Teresa had not
accompanied her sister and the painter in their life at the palace, and yet she had
achieved a great deal. When the great master was painting his picture, she was
on the brink of being appointed heir to the throne. Margarita would also stand to
inherit her father’s love for the most noble of the liberal arts, painting. So alike but
so different at the same time, both sisters suffered the same fate, as both entered
political marriages that by the end of the century would unleash the bloody war
of succession.
Works Cited
Primary Sources
Archivo General de Palacio (AGP)

Reinados Felipe IV. legajo 5. nos. 3 and 4.
Archivo Histórico Nacional (AHN)

Consejos Suprimidos. legajo 51436. no. 3.
Correspondence Countess of Salvatierra.

Transcription: Duke of Almazán (1930). Private collection.
Barrionuevo, Jerónimo de. Avisos (1654–1658). Biblioteca de Autores Españoles,

Vol. 221. Madrid: Atlas, 1986.
Bocángel y Unzueta, Gabriel. El Nuevo Olimpo. Madrid: 1649.
Espinosa Rodríguez, José, ed. Fray Antonio de Sotomayor y su correspondencia
con Felipe IV (1643–1644). Vigo: M. Roel, 1944.
Foisil, Madeleine, ed. Journal de Jean Héroard. Médecin de Louis XIII. Paris:
Fayard, 1989.
Gayangos, Pascual, ed. Cartas de algunos Padres de la Compañía de Jesús, vols.
III–V. Madrid: Imprenta Nacional, 1862; 1863.
Moreno Garrido, Antonio and Gamoral Torres, Miguel Ángel, ed. “Velázquez y la
familia real a través de un epistolario de Felipe IV.” Cuadernos de Arte de la
Fundación Universitaria 12 (1988): 3–24.
Pérez de Villanueva, Joaquín, ed. Felipe IV y Luisa Enríquez Manrique de Lara,
condesa de Paredes de Nava: un epistolario inédito. Salamanca: Caja de
Ahorros y Monte de Piedad de Salamanca, 1986.
Philip IV. “Epílogo breve.” In La historia de Italia by Francisco de Giucciardini.
Madrid: Viuda de Hernando, 1889; 1890.
Travesedo, Carmen de, and Evaristo Martín De Sandoval, eds. “Cartas de la

infanta doña María Teresa, hija de Felipe IV y reina de Francia a la condesa
de Paredes de Nava (1648–1660).” In Homenaje a Emilio Gómez Orbaneja,
edited by Jorge Guillén, 417–37. Madrid: Moneda y Crédito, 1977.
Vilela Gállego, Pilar., ed. Felipe IV y la condesa de Paredes de Nava. Una
colección epistolar del rey en el Archivo General de Andalucía. Sevilla: Junta
de Andalucía, 2005.
Secondary Sources
Ariès, Philippe. Centuries of Childhood: A Social History of Family Life. New

York: Vintage Books, 1962.
Barbeito, José María. El Alcázar de Madrid. Madrid: Colegio Oficial de
Arquitectos, 1992.
Bouza, Fernando Jesús. Corre manuscrito. Una historia cultural del Siglo de Oro.
Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2002.
———. “La herencia portuguesa de Baltasar Carlos de Austria: El Directorio de
fray Antonio Brandao para la educación del heredero de la monarquía católica,”
Cuadernos de Historia Moderna 9 (1998): 47–61.
———. Locos, enanos y hombres de placer. Madrid: Temas de Hoy, 1996.
Brown, Jonathan. “Las Meninas como obra maestra con la colaboración de Elliott
y Carmen Garrido.” In Escritos completos sobre Velázquez, edited by Jonathan
Brown, 165–86. Madrid: CEEH, 2008.
———. “Sobre el significado de Las Meninas 1978.” In Escritos completos sobre
Velázquez, edited by Jonathan Brown, 47–75. Madrid: CEEH, 2008.
Carlos Varona, María Cruz de. “Entre el riesgo y la necesidad: embarazo,
alumbramiento y culto a la Virgen en los espacios femeninos del Alcázar de
Madrid (siglo XVII),” Arenal 13 (2006): 263–90.
Cortés Echanove, Luis. Nacimiento y crianza de personas reales en la corte de
España 1566–1886. Madrid: CSIC, 1958.
Del Río Barredo, María José. “Enfance et éducation d’Anne d’Autriche à la cour
d’Espagne (1601–1615).” In Anne d’Autriche. Infante d’Espagne et reine de
France, edited by Chantal Grell, 11–39. Paris: CEEH-Perrin, 2009.
Hoffman-Strock, Martha. “‘Carved on Rings and Painted in Pictures’: The
Education and Formation of the Spanish Royal Family, 1601–1634.” PhD
diss., Yale University, 1996.
Llorente, Mercedes. “Portraits of Children at the Spanish Court in the Seventeenth
Century: The Infanta Margarita and the Young King Carlos II.” Bulletin for
Spanish and Portuguese Historical Studies 35 (2010): 30–47.
Lobato, María Luisa. “Entre luces y sombras: las gentes de teatro en tiempos de
Felipe IV (1644–1649).” In El Autor en el Siglo de Oro. Su estatus intelectual
y social, edited by Manfred Tietz and Marcella Trambaioli, 201–15. Vigo:
Academia del Hispanismo, 2011.
———. “Fiestas teatrales al infante Felipe Próspero (1657–1661) y edición del

baile ‘Los Juan Ranas’ (XI-1658).” Scriptura 17 (2009): 227–61.
Marías, Fernando. “El género de las Meninas: los servicios de la familia.” In Otras
Meninas, edited by Fernando Marías, 247–78. Madrid: Siruela, 1995.
Martínez Hernández, Santiago. “‘Reyna esclarecida, Cynthtia clara, hermosa
luna’: el aprendizaje político y cortesano de la infanta Isabel Clara Eugenia.”
In Isabel Clara Eugenia. Soberanía femenina en las cortes de Madrid y
Bruselas, edited by Cordula Van Wyhe, 21–59. Madrid: CEEH- Paul Holberton
Publishing, 2011.
Pérez Cantó, Pilar, Mó Romero, Esperanza, and Oliván, Laura. Rainhas de

Portugal e Espanha. Margarida de Àustria. Isabel de Bourbon. Lisboa:
Circulo de Leitores, 2012.
Raviola, Blythe Alice. “The Three Lives of Margherita of Savoy-Gonzaga,
Duchess of Mantua and Vicereine of Portugal.” In Early Modern Habsburg
Women: Transnational Contexts, Cultural Conflicts, Dynastic Continuities,
edited by Anne J. Cruz and Maria Galli Stampino, 58–76. Farnham, UK and
Redondo, Antonio, ed. La formation de l’enfant en Espagne aux XVIe et XVIIe
siècles. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1996.
Rotterdam, Erasmo De. De civilitate morum puerilium. Valencia: Universidad de
Valencia, 1996.
Tejada, Francisco Elías de, and Pércopo, Gabriela. El reino de Galicia hasta 1700.
Vigo: Galaxia, 1966.
Válgoma, Dalmiro de la. Norma y ceremonia de las reinas de la casa de Austria.
Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1958.
Vilela Gállego, Pilar. Felipe IV y la condesa de Paredes. Seville: Consejería de
Cultura, 2005.

Chapter 8
Growing Up Carlos II:
Political Childhood in the Court
of the Spanish Habsburgs
Silvia Z. Mitchell
On the afternoon of September 18, 1665 “we went up to kiss the hand of our new
king, who has not yet reached his fourth birthday,” the president of the Council of
Aragon, Christobal Crespí de Valdaura, recalled in his diary. “When we reached
the royal chamber,” he noted, “we could not enter because the king began to cry;
the [attendants] took him inside to console him, but he did not come out until much
later. After that, the ministers entered the chamber quickly without waiting for the
previous person to leave.”1 This event, which took place at the commencement of
the reign of Carlos II (1661–1700), presented the first of many practical difficulties
the Spanish Habsburg court faced when the ceremonies associated with kingship
rested on a young child’s shoulders, or, more accurately in this case, depended on
his stomach. The traditional hand-kissing ritual had been interrupted because the
three-year-old king was hungry. Although courtiers were inconvenienced for only
one hour and the young king resumed his duties after he was fed, this charming
anecdote suggests the unease the court felt as it confronted the daunting task of
adapting its rituals and customary functions to the whims and needs of childhood.
Unlike his predecessors, Carlos II spent most of his childhood as king of Spain.
His case, therefore, offers a unique opportunity to study the experiences of a child-
king and, simultaneously, deepens our understanding of the Spanish Habsburg
court. Most importantly, a study of Carlos II’s childhood helps dismantle some
myths that have shrouded his image. The king’s demise in 1700 without descendants
marked, without a doubt, a major historical event. It brought a new ruling dynasty
to Spain and triggered the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–1714), giving
way to a new order in the European and global arenas. As a result, Carlos II’s death
became the central event of his life. Even though he lived for close to 40 years,
1
“A la tarde nos juntamos en la pieza del cons[ejo] en Palacio como solemos en las
Pasquas de donde subimos a besar la m[ano] al nuevo Rey n[uest]ro S[eño]r que aun no
ha cumplido quatro años … y luego llegamos a la puerta donde nos detubimos p[or] que
comenco a llorar y le entraron a callarle y tardo harto poco en bolver a salir … Vinieron
de uno en uno los ministros sin esperar a q[ue] volviese el primero p[a]ra salir el segundo
aunque me dijo la de los Velez que ya havia merendado y que con eso ya se le havian pasado
las lagrimas …” BNE mss 5742 fol. 363v.
190 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Mitchell
biographical studies present death as his looming and inevitable destiny, the result
of the Habsburg dynasty’s well-known preference for endogamy, a practice that
led to generations of interbreeding.2 Add to this the fact that his reign coincided
with Spain’s loss of hegemony in the European stage and it is easy to understand
how Carlos II became the ideal metaphor to represent an empire and a dynasty in
the very last stages of decay and degeneration. Based on what is written about the
king, one could argue that Carlos II is the very embodiment of Spanish decline.
“Wretched,” “a dying pathological entity,” “enfeebled,” “deformed,” “retarded,”
“impotent” are some of the adjectives that have been used to describe him.3
Although superseding concepts, such as recovery and resilience, now form part
of the overall picture of his reign,4 and the figure of the king, too, is undergoing
revision,5 misunderstandings about Carlos II persist.
Recent studies on royal childhood that have focused on the court as the context
in which Habsburg children were “apprenticed” and “raised to rule,”6 suggest
that Carlos II’s own childhood would also benefit from such a structural analysis.
Childhood deeply transformed the practice of kingship and, conversely, kingship
shaped Carlos II’s experiences as a child. It is imperative, therefore, to take these
basic premises into account when investigating the figure of the king. Although
Carlos II adapted to his kingly role at a remarkably young age, his youth continued
to present great difficulties for the court. This can be observed particularly well
at the beginning of his rule, but even more so when he reached his majority and
attempted, unsuccessfully, to assert political independence from his mother,
2
Jaime Contreras, Carlos II el Hechizado: poder y melancolía en la corte del último
Austria (Madrid: Temas de Hoy, 2003); John Langdon-Davies, Carlos, The King Who
Would Not Die (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1963); Ludwig Pfandl, Karl II; das
ende der spanischen machtstellung in Europa (Munich: G.D.W. Callwey, 1940).
3
See, for an example, the review of Langdon-Davies’s book in Hispania 47 (May
1964): 427–8; John Lynch, Spain under the Habsburgs. Volume Two: Spain and America,
1598–1700, 2nd edn (New York and London: New York University, 1981), 258; John H.
Elliott in his classic Imperial Spain, 1469–1716 (London and New York: Penguin Books,
2002), 361, to name just a few.
4
The most recent works include Luis Ribot, “Carlos II: El centenario olvidado,”
Studia histórica. Historia moderna 20 (1999): 19–44; Luis Ribot, El arte de gobernar:
Estudios sobre la España de los Austrias (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2006); and Christopher
Storrs, The Resilience of the Spanish Monarchy, 1665–1700 (Oxford: Oxford University,
2006). For an earlier revisionist view of the period see Henry Kamen, Spain in the Later
Seventeenth-Century, 1665–1700 (London and New York: Longman, 1980).
5
See Luis Ribot, “El rey ante el espejo. Historia y memoria de Carlos II,” in Luis
Ribot, ed. Carlos II: El rey y su entorno cortesano (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Europa
Hispánica, 2009), 13–52.
6
Martha Hoffman, Raised to Rule: Educating Royalty and the Court of the Spanish
Habsburgs, 1601–1634 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University, 2011); Joseph F.
Patrouch, Queen’s Apprentice: Archduchess Elizabeth, Empress María, the Habsburgs, and
the Holy Roman Empire, 1554–1569 (Leiden: Brill, 2010).
Growing Up Carlos II 191
Queen Mariana of Austria (1634–1696), who had served as regent during his
minority. Carlos II’s inability to make a decisive shift into maturity provoked a
political watershed that almost resulted in civil war. An examination of Carlos II’s
trajectory at this critical stage sheds significant light on the court’s predicament
as it adjusted to a child-king and as that child-king made his transition to political
adulthood. Once the king’s actions and the court’s reactions are placed in their
proper analytic framework—one that takes into account structural issues as well
as the personalities of the people involved—a new picture of Carlos II and his
court emerges.
The Politics of Carlos II’s Childhood
Carlos II’s life became inextricably linked to European and even global concerns
from the very moment he inherited the throne. The Venetian ambassador reported
on the death of Philip IV and the succession of his minor heir which had, he
opined, thrown Europe into a “state of emergency.”7 The situation was especially
grave because of the scope of the Spanish empire and the existing international
configuration. Philip IV exacerbated the situation by decisively favoring the
succession of his Austrian Habsburg relatives to the Spanish throne over the
French if his son died prematurely. He named the descendants of his younger sister,
Empress Maria of Austria, after his own children in his testament.8 He cemented
his objective with the marriage of his younger daughter, the Infanta Margarita of
Austria (1651–1673), who was second in line of succession, to Emperor Leopold
I, who was third.9 To protect Habsburg interests further, Philip IV denied Louis
XIV claims to the Spanish crown by excluding the Infanta Maria Teresa of
Austria (1638–1683), Philip IV’s oldest daughter and Louis XIV’s wife.10 Queen
Mariana continued a strong pro-Habsburg policy and, in one of the earliest acts
7
“Trascorso politico sopra l’emergence di Stato che puó suscitare in Europa la morte
del Ré Catolico Filippo Quarto.” BNE mss. 2392, fol. 248. The clauses that established the
lines of succession were of enormous interest in Europe. There is abundant documentation
that copies were printed (many are housed in the Biblioteca Nacional de España), distributed
in Madrid, and sent to foreign courts. For the reception of the testament in the Viennese
court, see Alfred Francis Pribram and Moriz Landwehr von Pragenau, eds. Privatebriefe
Kaiser Leopold I an den Grafen F. E. Pötting, 1662–1673, 2 vols. (Wien, 1903), I: 166–7.
The wife of the English ambassador, Lady Anne Fanshawe, discusses the testament in her
diary with great familiarity. John Clyde Loftis, ed., The Memoirs of Anne, Lady Halkett and
Ann, Lady Fanshawe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979), 176.
8
Testamento de Felipe IV. Edicion facsímil, Antonio Domínguez Ortíz, ed. (Madrid:
Editora Nacional, 1982), Clauses 12, 13, and 21–37. The Spanish Infanta Maria was Philip
IV’s younger sister. She married Emperor Ferdinand III and gave birth to Leopold I and
Mariana of Austria (Carlos II’s own mother).
9
Leopold I was the son of Empress Maria and thus had a place in the succession
through his own blood.
10
Testamento de Felipe IV, Clause 15, 23–37.
of her regency, confirmed the marriage of her daughter Margarita to Leopold I

thus causing tensions to escalate significantly.11 Louis XIV viewed the alliance as
directly threatening his own interests in Europe. Leopold I also faced a dilemma
even though the succession had been tilted decisively in his favor: it remained to be
seen if the emperor would be able to enforce his wife’s (and his own) rights to the
Spanish crown while simultaneously dealing with threats from the Ottoman Turks
in the east.12 Once Margarita left Spain to marry the emperor just six months into
Carlos II’s reign, the politics of the Spanish succession acquired an international
dimension. Carlos II’s childhood, therefore, became extremely politicized. His
death now had the potential to completely alter the European status quo.13
Not surprisingly, Carlos II’s health became a major diplomatic concern and
any illness, no matter how slight, caused international turmoil. In this unstable
environment, exaggerations, rumors, and even outright false reports were used
for political gain. The Spanish ambassador to the French court, the Marquis de la
Fuente, often expressed his frustration about the many reports of Carlos II’s death
that were disseminated in France and then sent to foreign courts.14 The Imperial
ambassador to Spain, the Count of Pötting, noted in his diary that the queen regent
occasionally sent extraordinary couriers to Vienna so that the “fabricated voices
about Carlos II’s most recent illness would not give the Imperial Majesties a
disturbing fright” (my italics).15 Nonetheless, false reports continued to circulate
and ultimately shaped diplomatic outcomes. In 1668, Louis XIV used rumors
about Carlos II’s declining health to lure Leopold I into signing a partition treaty
whereby they agreed to split the Spanish monarchy in case of the king’s death.16
The Regency Council confirmed the marriage during their first meeting on
11
September 18, 1665. BNE mss. 5742 fol. 364r-v.

12
For Leopold I’s attitude over the succession in Spain see Linda Frey and Marsha
Frey, A Question of Empire: Leopold I and the War of Spanish Succession, 1701–1705
(Boulder: East European Monographs, 1983).
13
Ambassadors in Madrid received detailed and lengthy instructions on how to
proceed in the case of the child-king’s death. See Miguel Nieto Nuño, ed., Diario del
Conde de Pötting, embajador del Sacro Imperio en Madrid (1664–1674), 2 vols (Madrid:
Biblioteca Diplomatica Española, 1993), II: 142, fn. 180.
14
AHN Estado Libros 129, 130, and 139. Gabriel Maura, Carlos II y su corte: ensayo
de reconstrucción biográfica, 2 vols (Madrid: Revista de archivos, bibliotecas y museos,
1911 and 1915), I: 210 and I: 237.
15
“Hable a la Reyna … proponiendo a Su Magestad [que] conbendria despachar un
estraordinario a Alemania para librar a sus Magestades Cesareas de qualquier siniestro
susto, que les prodria ocasional la voç adulterada de esta enfermedad de Su Magestad, lo
qual la Reyna aprovó, y que lo dispondria quanto antes.” May 24, 1670. Nieto Nuño, Diario
del Conde de Pötting, II: 117. The same situation was repeated on other occasions.
16
See Laura Oliván Santaliestra, “Mariana de Austria en la encrucijada política del
siglo XVII” (PhD diss., Universidad Complutense de Madrid, 2006), 177. Leopold did not
ratify the treaty, but its existence was made public in 1668. See John P. Spielman, Leopold
I of Austria (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1977), 56.
This and other events suggest that French diplomats had a clear political strategy in
presenting a sovereign at the verge of dying.17 Pötting commented in his diary with
an obvious hint of sarcasm that the French envoy’s demonstrations of happiness
over Carlos II’s convalescence after a short illness were “utterly contrary to the
man’s true inner sentiments.”18 Although Carlos II experienced illnesses that could
have terminated his life, as was the case with other children in the early modern
period, the anxiety caused by insecurities about the Spanish succession contributed
to an overly negative image of the little king.
If, however, we turn to other sources, such as the household records, letters,
and diaries of people who were part of the day-to-day activities of the court, it is
possible to construct an alternative, more nuanced, and more persuasive picture of
Carlos II. These sources reveal that the king and the court went through a difficult
period of adjustment, but eventually adapted to the new political reality with a
significant measure of success. The ceremonies during the first Christmas season
of Carlos II’s reign, for example, were re-arranged to take place over the course of
several days in “consideration of [the king’s] age.”19 The president of the Council
of Aragon recalled that when it was time for him and ministers to go upstairs to
honor the king, they were informed separately by the two women in charge of
the queen’s household that Carlos II was taking a nap.20 When the court gathered
on April 25, 1666 to celebrate the marriage by proxy of the Infanta Margarita to
Leopold I, the little king “did not allow his hand to be kissed,” thus preventing
one of the traditional political rituals of the Spanish court from taking place.21 The
king’s stubbornness is a clear reminder of the uncooperative, individualistic, and
spirited nature most four-year-olds share. Spaniards in general, and the Habsburgs
17
Indeed, these strategies coincided with the planning stages of Louis XIV’s attacks
on the Spanish Low Countries and continued through the War of Devolution (1667–1668)
and the partition treaty of 1668. I draw my conclusions from my own examination of the
diplomatic correspondence and council of state deliberations from 1665 to 1668. For a
lucid discussion of Louis XIV’s foreign policy, much of it focusing on the conquest of
the Spanish Low Countries, see Paul Sonino, Louis XIV and the Origins of the Dutch War
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988).
18
“[El] Marques de Couuré, Embiado de Françia, tubo audiencia de Sus Magestades,
el qual vino a congratularse de la reconbalecençia del Rey, demontraçion bien contraria al
sentimiento interior.” Nieto Nuño, Diario del Conde de Pötting, II: 139.
19
“el Rey n[ues]tro S[eñor] fuese dividido en dias por no cansar sus pocos años en
función que durase tanto t[iem]po …” BNE mss. 5742 fol. 371v.
20
“… y aunque la resolucion fue tambien que fuese primero al Rey sino dormia y uno
y otro me embiaron a decir la camarera y la Haia pero p[or] estar durmiendo entramos a la
pieza de la Reyna primero ….” BNE mss 5742 fol. 371v.
21
“Acabado que fue [el desposorio] se açerco la Magestad Cesarea [Margarita] a
la Reyna y en rodillas le beso la mano, la qual la levanto con mejor graçia y ternura que
â todos pudo causar. Lo mismo hiço con el Rey, el qual no se dejo besar la mano.” Nieto
Nuño, ed., Diario del Conde de Pötting, 1: 197–8.
in particular, appear to have been quite sensitive to the needs of children.22 Carlos
II was allowed to adapt to his role at his own pace and, consequently, political
rituals suffered.23
Concerns about the negative impact a child king could have on the very
office of king became evident on several occasions. During a council of state
deliberation on an etiquette conflict provoked by a dispute over the proper place
Carlos II’s personal attendants should occupy in court ceremonies, the VI Duke of
Alba protested loudly that the “dignity of kingship” was at risk.24 The ceremonies
associated with the prestigious military order of the Golden Fleece gave way to
a number of awkward situations. The first one took place when Carlos II became
the ninth master of the order in late 1665. Barely four years old, he was naturally
unable to preside over the ritual; the task fell on one of his subjects, the Duke
of Cardona. “It was especially strange,” commented Pötting in his diary, “to see
a gentleman invest his own king into the order.”25 This was an extraordinary
situation, indeed, because in theory no one could knight a king of Spain and no
one, other than the king, could bear the royal arms.26 In the induction ceremony of
the Count of Harrach several months later, a similar situation occurred. This time,
Carlos II’s aya or governess, the Marquise of los Vélez, performed the ceremony
with the king sitting on her lap. Again, the solution was considered “indecent;”
a lady, noted Pötting, should not “intermingle in an affair as gentlemanly as this
one.”27 In these ceremonies, Carlos II was no more inadequate than any other child
of four would have been, no matter how gifted. Nonetheless, when substitutes
were needed to perform royal duties, the office of kingship suffered.
22
My findings here conform to those of Martha Hoffman, who has studied the
childhood of Philip III and Margarita of Austria’s children. See Hoffman, Raised to Rule,
chapters 2 and 3.
23
Words such as impedimentos or embarazos that convey the idea of difficulty appear
often in the records.
24
The comment originated as a result of a conflict of etiquette that debated the place
that Carlos II was given in the rituals and ceremonies of the court during his minority. AHN
Estado leg. 674 exp. 18.
25
“Lo mas raro de esta acion era de haverse visto que un uasallo armaua â cavallero
â su Rey, acion de eterna memoria para la Casa de Cardona.” The ceremony took place on
November 8, 1665, two days after Carlos II’s fourth birthday. Nieto Nuño, ed. Diario del
Conde de Pötting, 1: 149.
26
Teófilo Ruiz, “Unsacred Monarchy: The Kings of Castile in the Late Middle Ages,”
in Rites of Power: Symbolism, Ritual, and Politics since the Middle Ages, Sean Wilentz, ed.
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1985), 124.
27
“Diciembre 3, 1665. … Armole cavallero en nombre del Rey el Duque de Cardona,
pero la Marquesa de los Veles teniendo â su Su Majestad en las faldas le puso con el dicho
Duque de Cardona el collar sobre el cuello, lo que a mi no me parecio muy decente, que una
dama actualmente se entremeta en funcion de una Orden tan caballerosa como esta.” Nieto
Nuño, ed., Diario del Conde de Pötting, I: 156.
“By His Own Royal Hand”
Difficulties gradually subsided as Carlos II grew older and became capable of

withstanding the rigors of court rituals and could adequately carry out his role in
them. Indeed, the court did not have to wait very long for this to happen. Records
indicate that by six and seven years of age, two to three years into his reign, Carlos
II started to receive diplomats, learned to order grandees to cover their heads, and
uttered commands, all of which marked important political milestones.28 Pötting
carefully recorded in his diary the first time that Carlos II inducted a gentleman
into the order of the Golden Fleece “by his own royal hand.”29 At seven years old,
Carlos II performed a knighting ceremony, mastering one of the most traditional

and prestigious tasks associated with kings.30
Like other royal children, Carlos II grew up in the court environment, which
provided hands-on training for the young sovereign. The Spanish Habsburgs
allocated a number of officers to care for their offspring in the queen’s household,
where children spent their formative years until they were given an independent
entourage according to the political demands of the moment, their status within
the larger family structure, their age, and their gender.31 Thus, from the moment
of their birth, royal children were incorporated in the overall court structure and
occupied a conspicuous position in it, even before they took on their permanent
political roles. The presence of royal children had concrete political consequences
for noble families, who could obtain coveted appointments each time a Habsburg
child was born. These arrangements also had implications for queens, who saw
their royal households (and consequently their sphere of influence) increase with
each birth. This system also seems to have worked very well for the children
themselves; the royal household provided stability and a training ground for the
younger generation of royals, who, unlike their French counterparts, continued to
be close to their parents during their formative years. Growing up in this manner,
Habsburg children also became accustomed to being the center of a large staff and
to engage in the rituals and ceremonials of the court.32
Although Carlos II differed from other Habsburg children in that he became
king at a very young age, the system did not change when he inherited the throne.
Carlos II remained under his mother’s supervision and was served by members
28
Some of these occasions are documented in the diary of the Imperial ambassador
(Nieto Nuño, ed., Diario del Conde de Pötting) and the President of the Council of Aragon
(BNE mss. 5742). Maura also gathered these details. Maura, Carlos II y su corte, vol. 1.
29
“El Rey dio por su real mano el Tuson al Marques de Camaraça.” Nieto Nuño, ed.,
Diario del Conde de Pötting, II: 46.
30
See Nieto Nuño, ed., Diario del Conde de Pötting, I: 46 and 156.
31
For a more detailed explanation of all of these issues, see Hoffman, Raised to Rule.
32
Hoffman, Raised to Rule, chapter 2.
of her household for most of his minority.33 This practice held deep political
significance, not the least because it reversed the traditional political hierarchy
of the court, in which members of the king’s household took center stage. It
simultaneously provoked, among other things, a number of etiquette conflicts that
pitted members of the court against each other. It was precisely within this context
that Alba expressed his concerns about the “dignity” of the office of king. As queen
regent, Mariana held fast to the arrangement, but adopted a series of measures
that provided the necessary tools for Carlos II to learn his job. For instance, she
appointed a large number of meninos, male courtiers under 15 years of age, as
Carlos II’s own personal entourage.34 These youngsters, who formed a sort of
mini-household within the larger queen’s household, became the king’s constant
companions.35 With this male-gendered and age-appropriate following, Carlos II
participated in the first public procession of the reign in 1668. It offered a “beautiful
sight,” an eye-witness remarked, because 12 of these boys “especially chosen from
the highest nobility” were part of the spectacle.36 These lavishly dressed attendants
followed the royal carriage, bearing lighted torches and parading on exquisitely
caparisoned horses. Later that year, Carlos II, accompanied by six of his meninos,
performed a dance on the occasion of his mother’s birthday.37 His actions fulfilled
the cultural traditions of the Spanish Habsburg court, in which members, including
the royal children, participated in all kinds of theatrical activities.38 Surrounded by
his young and masculine troop, Carlos II gradually began to command the court’s
center stage.39
33
Testamento de Felipe IV, Clause 36. He obtained his own household on April 14,
1675. AGP Reinados, caja 92.
34
Meninos should not be confused with pages, who had gradually been segregated
to the stable section of the royal household. An office title of Portuguese origin, Meninos
(and meninas) lived inside the palace; these appointments were usually given to children
of higher ranking court officials or to members of the titled nobility. Hoffman, Raised to
Rule, 50.
35
“Meninos incorporated into the household of the queen from the moment that
Carlos inherited. (Listed as Gentiles hombres de la cámara y meninos de la reina).” AGP
Adm. leg. 5648 and AGP, Reinados, caja 92, exp. 3. (Other than that they were younger
than 15, there is no way of knowing from these records the youngsters’ age.) Carlos II had
close to 40 meninos appointed during his childhood.
36
Nieto Nuño, Diario del Conde de Pötting, I: 393–4.
37
ADM Histórica, leg. 69; Nieto Nuño, Diario del Conde de Pötting, II: 164.
38
Mariana hired additional musicians for Carlos II’s dance lessons. ADM Histórica,
leg. 69.
39
The number of meninos grew exponentially during Carlos II’s minority. AGP Adm.
leg. 5648; José Rufino Novo, “La Casa real durante la regencia de una reina: Mariana de
Austria,” in Las relaciones discretas entre las Monarquías Hispana y Portuguesa: las casas
de las reinas, 3 vols, José Martínez Millán and Paula Marçal Lourenço, editors, I: 483–548,
I: 510.
Positive descriptions of Carlos II increased as he adapted to his kingly role

and took on more difficult tasks. While the French were busy deploying alarming
news about the young king, Venetian diplomats produced very different reports
about Carlos II. Marino Zorzi, for example, reported that the six-year old child
was growing up in “prosperity and [good] health” and “encouraging signs of
vigor.”40 Zorzi’s successor, Catterino Bellegno, testified that at nine years of age,
Carlos II possessed such “vigor,” “beauty,” and “talent” that “it defies human
understanding.”41 The next ambassador, Carlo Contarini, described the 12-year
old king in similar terms.42 The three men unanimously lavished praise on the
king: they emphasized his “angelic nature”—a term that is repeated often in other
documents—“his majestic appearance,” and “mature countenance.”43 It is clear
that Carlos II’s active role in courtly activities gave way to enthusiastic descriptions
about the king. Interestingly, as the minority came to a close, political expectations
created a situation similar to that at the very beginning of his reign. This time,
however, the politics of childhood played out not on the international stage, but
in the domestic sphere of the court. While the anxiety over the succession waned,
questions about the composition of the new regime loomed. Everyone’s future
now depended on a 14-year-old boy.
Transition to Adulthood
Although Carlos II showed auspicious signs that he was growing up in the manner
expected of a young king, his transition to adulthood became extremely difficult.
Part of the problem was that legal, physical, cultural, and political expectations of
adulthood in early modern Spain were defined differently. Because these variations
complicated the task of cleanly demarcating childhood from maturity, they are
crucial to any historical understanding of Carlos II’s predicament.44 Male youths
typically came of age at 25 or when they married; if their fathers died, however,
40
“Corre nell’anno sesto con prosperitá e salute, si rinfranca nel vigore del corpo ogni
giorno avanzando … si decantano meravigliosis progressi di talento sublime, e di altísima
capacitá il presagio si forma. L’indole è angelica, l’ apparenza maestosa, il tratto maturo …”
Marino Zorzi, in Nicolò Barozzi and Guglielmo Berchet, eds, Relazioni degli Stati Europei
lette al Senato dagli Ambasciatori Veneti nel secolo decimosettimo. Raccolte ed annotate.
Serie I; Spain, vol. II. (Venice: Pietro Naratovich, 1860), 339.
41
“lo ha costituito in vigore e belleza e dotato di lumi e di spirito grande nel nono
anno della’età sua, che trapassa l’uman concetto.” Barozzi and Berchet, eds, Relazioni, 377.
42
Barozzi and Berchet, eds, Relazioni, 397–8.
43
“L’indole è angelica, l’ apparenza maestosa, il tratto maturo …” Marino Zorzi. This
idea was repeated by Bellegno and Contarini; Barozzi and Berchet, eds, Relazioni, 339,
377, and 397.
44
For an important study of the men’s life cycle in early modern Italy see Guido
Ruggiero, The Boundaries of Eros: Sex, Crime, and Sexuality in Renaissance Venice (New
York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985).
they could be emancipated at 14.45 These several milestones allowed for a wide
range of difference in the attainment of adult status. The two types of guardians the
Spanish legal system specified neatly illustrate this ambivalence. Guardians for
male children 14 and younger (for female children, 12) were called tutores (tutors)
and those of youths from 14 to 25 were called curadores (curators). In her study of
guardianship among the Spanish nobility, Grace E. Coolidge points out that young
people under the surveillance of a curator had a measure of independence, but
not necessarily total autonomy. Young men (and women) past the age of tutorship
had a say in a curator’s appointment by rejecting one altogether or nominating
their own candidate.46 Curatorship implied a transitional period and illustrated the
ambivalent position of a male-heir, who could inherit titles and even choose his
own guardian, yet still be under the partial surveillance of another adult. Carlos
II’s status was also uncertain under the terms of his father’s testament. Although
he was eligible for legal emancipation at the age of 14, he was to remain under the
curatorship of his mother.47
Ambivalence extended to all aspects of the king’s process of coming of age,
including physical maturity. Observations about Carlos II by people close to him,
for instance, reveal their awareness that the king was still a young man who had
much growing up to do even as his political emancipation neared. “The king’s
height is in proportion to his age, his body slim, and his constitution robust and
agile” reported a contemporary.48 “The king is enjoying himself [hunting] very
much; soon we should see him very grown up, since the countryside suits him
wholly, just like his father” reported one court officer to another in a private note
(my italics).49 At the time of these comments, Carlos was 13 and a half, six months
before he was scheduled to take over the government of his extensive realm. The
nuns at the Madrid Royal Convent, known as the Descalzas Reales, reported that
Carlos was becoming a man and that he looked just like his father (he was 15 and
a half at the time).50
45
Grace E. Coolidge, Guardianship, Gender, and the Nobility in Early Modern Spain
(Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011), 22.
46
Coolidge, Guardianship, Gender, and the Nobility, 22.
47
Testamento de Felipe IV, Clause 35, 51–3.
48
“El Rey aunque en estatura de proporción con la edad, flaquito en bulto, robusto y
agil en salud.” BNE mss. 9399, fol. 48v.
49
“Nuestros Amos estan buenos (a Dios gracias) y el Rey n[uest]ro S[eño]r tan
gustoso que pienso le hemos de bolber ya Muy crecido porque el Campo le ace estar tan
divertido, q[ue] sigue el aliento de su Padre que goce de Dios, ayer tubieron Comedia de los
de la legua, salieron luego al Campo, y mato S[u]m[agestad] Jabali. No hay nobedad alguna
de que avisar a v[uestra] m[erced] mas que bolber a repetir me tiene asu obediencia. Cuya
vida g[uar]de Dios mi S[eño]r. Aranjuez 27 de Abril de 1674. … su m[ayo]r ser[vido]r, don
Pedro de VillaReal.” AGP Administracion General, leg. 780.
50
The comments were intended for Carlos’s sister and Queen of France, María Teresa
of Austria, who responded “I am happy that my brother is enjoying good health and that
he is such a man as you tell me he is, and nothing would be better for him than to be and
Perceptions about Carlos II’s physical growth had deep political ramifications
at this point in his life as much, or perhaps more so, than at any other. The council
of state deliberated on the question of his marriage from November, 1673 until
January, 1679 (between his thirteenth and seventeenth birthdays) and considered
his physical maturity at length.51 Here again we can observe how aspects of
childhood intimately intertwined with high politics. Carlos II’s initial engagement
to Archduchess María Antonia of Austria (1669–1692), who was seven years his
junior, was generally acceptable before he reached puberty as a diplomatic and a
dynastic strategy.52 It became intolerable, however, once Carlos II started to show
signs that he reached sexual maturity. The reason behind this strong opposition was
clear: a marriage to a much younger bride would postpone the birth of a successor
longer than necessary. In the summer of 1676, the council of state hesitated to
confirm the marriage to the little archduchess precisely for that reason.53 The
following year, the council reconsidered the marriage options on the basis of the
doctors’ opinion that Carlos II was capable of assuming married life.54 Councilors
urged the king to not delay his marriage to an adult bride any longer. The issue
of Carlos II’s marriage became a point of great contention for everyone involved,
and naturally so. Marriage was yet another benchmark of adulthood, as important
for men as it was for women, and in this case had far reaching consequences for
the succession.
Indeed, the events that took place at the end of Carlos II’s minority indicate
that the unclear boundaries between childhood and adulthood played a decisive
role in the political watershed that followed. The crisis began on the day of Carlos
II’s fourteenth birthday (November 6, 1675), when the young king made his first
attempt to assert political authority. He summoned to court his older, illegitimate
half-brother, don Juan of Austria (1629–1679), to become his advisor in lieu of
his mother, Queen Mariana.55 Under pressure from his mother who demanded
don Juan’s immediate dismissal when she discovered her son’s scheme, Carlos II
quickly lost his nerve and reversed the orders that he had publicized on that same
look like his father.” [… me guelgo infinito que mi hermano este bueno y tan hombre como
me dizes que esta, nada le estara mejor que parezerse a su padre …]. Maria Teresa to the
Descalzas Reales, August 3, 1677. AGP Descalzas Reales, c. 7, exp. 1.
51
They commenced in 1673 with discussions on his marriage to Archduchess Maria
Antonia (AHN E. leg. 2799) and concluded in 1679, when it was decided that Carlos II
would marry the French Princess, Maria Louise of Orleans (AHN E. leg. 2796).
52
Spain and the Empire were military allies in the war against France and Maria
Antonia had rights to the succession. AHN E. leg. 2799.
53
Council of state deliberation on June 4, 1676. AHN E. leg. 2799.
54
See deliberation on July 8, 1677. AHN E. 2799.
55
Mariana and don Juan had been involved in power struggles for most of the minority.
In making his decision, Carlos II had been influenced by his teacher and his confessor, two
authority figures. They had the opportunity to act with more freedom after the king obtained
his own household (April 15, 1675) and was thus no longer under Mariana’s constant
surveillance (AGP Reinados, c. 92 exp. 3).
day.56 The episode was much more than a political struggle between the queen
mother and her enemy, don Juan, who had challenged the regency government on
more than one occasion in the past. Although she won the battle, the event became
a deep source of embarrassment for Carlos II and sealed her downfall. Conspiracies
against Mariana’s regime grew exponentially. Carlos II’s independence became
the reason for the coup d’état that materialized one year later.
On December of 1676, a sizeable group of nobles took the extraordinary step to
“liberate” the king. Forming a “Confederation” (Confederación), they demanded
a change of regime,57 and, most significantly, that Carlos II separate himself
from his mother permanently.58 Mariana’s influence over Carlos II had become
a political issue of significant proportions. The conflict resided not simply in that
she continued to dominate court politics, but more importantly, that her power
compromised the king’s rule.59 The ruling elite required that the king demonstrate
a measure of autonomy and independence. Precisely because the process of
maturation was not clear cut for men in early modern Spain, even for sovereigns,
the ruling elite understood it would be extremely difficult for a boy of Carlos II’s
age to hold his own with his mother, who enjoyed multiple layers of authority
as mother of a king, the widow of another, a Habsburg matriarch, and a former
ruler. In order to avoid precipitating full-fledged civil war, Carlos II acquiesced
to his subjects’ demands.60 He moved into the Palace of the Buen Retiro in the
outskirts of the city under the utmost secrecy on February 14, 1677, leaving his
mother behind.61 A gazetteer wrote that when the king abandoned his mother “all
BNE mss. 10129.

56
The nobles of the confederation called for the elimination of Fernando Valenzuela
57
from the government, who had risen to the office of prime minister thanks to Mariana’s
patronage, and the installation of don Juan at the helm of the government.
58
“Por causa de las malas influencias y asistencias al lado de S[u] M[agestad] dela
Reyna su Madre, dela qual como primera raiz se han producido, y producen quantos males,
perdidas, ruinas, y desordenes experimentamos, y la mayor parte de todas, la execrable
elevación [de Fernando Valenzuela] … evidencia que el mayor serbicio que se puede hacer
a S[u] M[agestad] …. es separar totalmente, y para siempre, cercanía de S[u] M[agestad] a
la Reyna su Madre …” Confederación del S[eño]r Don Juan de Austria, y los grandes de
España, BNE mss. 18211 fol. 19r. Twenty-four members of the upper aristocracy signed
this important document, including don Juan.
59
See Silvia Z. Mitchell, “Habsburg Motherhood: The Power of Queen Mariana of
Austria, Mother and Regent for Carlos II of Spain,” in Early Modern Habsburg Women:
Transnational Contexts, Cultural Conflicts, Dynastic Continuities, ed. Anne J. Cruz and
Maria Galli Stampino. (Farnham, UK and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2013), 175–94.
60
The Duke of Medinaceli (who became Carlos II’s Prime Minister in 1680) and
Count of Villahumbrosa, who wrote a memorandum to the king assessing the situation,
convinced Carlos II that the best way to avoid civil war was to separate from his mother.
Villahumbrosa’s text is housed in ADM hist. leg. 159.
61
BNE mss. 10129.
the lords gathered, as well as much of the population, full of joy and to proclaim
such prudent action, so rare at that age” (my italics).62
Widespread approval greeted Carlos II’s seemingly decisive actions. A few
days after the separation, the king visited the Virgin of Atocha escorted by the
bulk of the nobility.63 Scions of the most powerful lineages of the realm lavished
exquisite gifts and attentions on the young sovereign to celebrate his newly found
independence. Pedro of Aragon presented to Carlos II splendid tapestries and
jewels valued at 300,000 ducats; the duchess of Béjar a sumptuous outfit, adorned
with diamond buttons, and embroidered with emeralds and rubies; the duke of
Osuna 25 horses with exquisite hangings, and so on.64 The demonstrations of joy
continued unabated, in public ceremonies and inside the palace. The visible and
public separation from his mother made a strong political statement. In taking
such a step, Carlos II acted more like an adult male than a timid youth, indicating
to his subjects that he was finally ready to assume his political role as king. He
then issued a royal decree ordering his mother to retire, a request tantamount to
exile; the queen had no choice but to obey her son’s command and left the court
on March 2, 1677.65 Mariana’s retirement, or rather exile, was a milestone in the
king’s own life: the process culminated in an elaborate procession on his return to
the royal palace.66
In spite of these important initial steps, Carlos II had clearly acted under pressure
from his subjects and had evidently been motivated by political expediency.
Carlos II’s correspondence with his mother after she left the court suggests that
the moment of her retirement qua exile did not fully mark his maturity; rather
he continued to grow and mature in stages over the next two years.67 Gaining
independence from his mother’s influence, in fact, formed another crucial marker
of maturity and carried significant political ramifications. Gradually, the young
king asserted his authority, for example, over patronage, one of the most visible
symbols of royal prerogative. On one occasion, Mariana dispatched a decree in
favor of one of her ladies through her mayordomo mayor, the Marquis of Mancera.
Carlos II rebuked Mancera for obeying Mariana. Mancera’s mistake led to his
62
“… concurrieron todos los señores, y mucho pueblo … llenos de alborozo y
aclamaciones por acción tan llena de prudencia y tan estraña en aquella edad …” BNE mss.
9399 fol. 62v.
63
“el Rey n[uest]ro S[eño]r duia R[ea]l persona salio el día siguiente Sabado 16 a
caballo a n[uest]ra S[eñor]a la R[ea]l de Atocha, con gran comitiva de Señores q[ue] lo han
continuado assistiendo …” BNE mss. 10129, fol. 8v.
64
Maura, Carlos II y su corte, II: 334–5.
65
Mariana lived in the city of Toledo from April 2, 1677 (she had spent a month
previously in Aranjuez) and returned to Madrid on September 27, 1679.
66
There are various relaciones describing the event, celebrated not only in Madrid but
in other cities as well. See for example, RAH 9-3656 n. 18 and Menor edad de Carlos II,
Colección de Documentos Inéditos para la Historia de España, vol. 67, 3–68, 27.
67
AHN E. leg. 2729.
exile and precipitated a brief showdown between mother and son.68 Mariana’s
relentless demands for her clients caused considerable friction with her son and
soon became a test of strength over who held ultimate authority.69 Although she
could no longer issue orders directly, she nevertheless expected that Carlos II
would follow her commands. The king sometimes acquiesced, but he just as often
refused his mother’s wishes. On one occasion, for example, he explained to his
mother that the requests she made on behalf of Mancera “are major ones and
thus have to be closely regulated,” justifying his denial in terms that were not
offensive to his mother, but that nonetheless forcefully signaled his authority.70
Carlos II made strong political and personal statements when he limited Mariana’s
influence over him and delineated her subsequent political role.
As he gained confidence, the king became more assertive, and did not hesitate
to be quite blunt with his mother when necessary. Some of his extant letters show
a side of his personality that has been seldom acknowledged by historians: his
assertiveness. One particularly poignant incident during Mariana’s exile illustrates
how far the king could go. Encouraged by what she perceived as a positive turn
in their relationship, Mariana tried to force her son to agree to a personal meeting.
Carlos II responded to his mother’s appeals in no uncertain terms:
Your additional comments, that it is no longer time to pretend (disimular) and

that you will search for me to the ends of the earth, I must confess have hurt and
astonished me greatly, as much because I have heard these expressions from you
as because you force me to respond to you now with the utmost clarity. I have
never given you any reason to pretend [disimular], a term very inappropriate for
you to use. And under no circumstance and in no case must you even think of
leaving [crossed out] to search for me without my express will.71
The Marquis of Mancera to Jerónimo de Eguía, February 2, 1679. BNE mss. 2409,
68
fol. 557.
69
Doña Francisca Manrique is listed as one of Mariana’s ladies in her household in
Toledo. AGP Reinados Carlos II, c. 117, exp. 2.
70
“A Mancera esto en hacer m[er]c[e]d proporcionada a sus meritos y del que esta
haciendo en serbirte pero (no escuso decirte q[ue] la q[ue] te a insinuado de la grandeza y la
q[ue] aca represento del consejo de estado tienen reparo por aora debiendo regularse estas
dignidades q[ue] son las mayores y se hacen a los vasallos con una continuacion larga y
singular de grandes y relebantes meritos. Las que pretende la Manrique tienen grabe reparo
por q[ue] consisten en cargar mi acienda quando esta tan destituida y aniquilada (crossed
out) …” Carlos to Mariana, August 19, 1678. AHN E. leg. 2729.
71
“Lo demas q[ue] me dices de q[ue] ya no es tiempo de disimular, y q[ue] saldrias
a buscarme al cabo del mundo es preciso confesarte me a causado suma extrañeza y
sentimiento asi por aber oido de ti cosas semejantes, como porq[ue] me ayas obligado a
responderte con la claridad q[ue] debo, q[ue] no abiendote dado nunca motibo justo para
q[ue] tengas q[ue] disimular es mui impropio de tu atencion este termino, y q[ue] en ningun
tiempo caso, ni accidente puedes pensar en moberte de donde estas sin expresa volun[tad]
(crossed out) en busca mia sin tan expresa voluntad.” Carlos to Mariana May 11, 1679.
AHN E. leg. 2729.
In thus proclaiming his royal authority, Carlos II left no doubt where he stood.
He was forthright in telling his mother that he would not compromise it for her
sake since God had placed him in his position. He affirmed that he would never
fail to fulfill his kingly obligations; they always came first. The king informed his
mother that he would consent to see her “only when I judge it convenient” and
explained that she should not consider this refusal an indication that his filial love
had diminished.72
The personal and political autonomy that Carlos II demonstrated regarding his
mother also extended to the issue of his marriage. The king had been engaged to
his niece, Archduchess María Antonia, when he was 13 years old. The marriage
plans, however, stalled during the convoluted events of late 1676.73 Deliberations
on this crucial political, dynastic, and diplomatic issue resumed in the council of
state shortly after the queen mother was sent into exile. For numerous reasons,
not least her age, the French princess, Marie Louise of Orleans (1662–1689),
became the preferred candidate by August, 1677.74 By then, Carlos II had assumed
full control of the marriage arrangements, answering the council of state’s
deliberations personally, without even the assistance of a secretary.75 He decided to
marry the French princess, after having received encouraging reports of her beauty
and personality,76 and took the lead in negotiating the delicate situation with his
mother and uncle (Leopold I), both of whom had no choice but to accept Carlos
II’s choice.77 Carlos II met his bride in late 1679 in the city of Burgos and joined
her on the last leg of her progress to the capital. The journey was deeply symbolic
for the king and his subjects. It marked the culmination of a process that began
under such inauspicious circumstances the day of his legal emancipation. By the
time that he returned to Madrid with his beautiful French bride, the 18-year-old
sovereign had left his childhood definitely behind.
72
“pues no pudiendo yo faltar a cumplir en las obligaciones de la dignidad de Rey en
q[ue] Dios me a puesto, y deven ser las Primeras, seria preciso resultaren de lo contrario
muchos inconbenientes contra tu propio respeto y consuelo, y aré que quando yo lo juzgaze
comb[enien]te no te lo negare y q[ue] no por esta declar[aci]on animo debes imaginar ser
menor mi cariño del q[ue] como buen hijo debo tenerte pues esto no tiene q[ue] ver con lo
q[ue] toca a mi soberanía y bien d[e] mis Reynos.” Carlos to Mariana May 11, 1679. AHN
E. leg. 2729.
73
The proxy ceremony had been scheduled for December 9, 1676 in the city of
Passau.
74
Consultation of 2 August 1677 in AHN E. leg. 2799.
75
Carlos II’s answers to the council of state consultations are indisputable holographs.
76
Marie Louise’s potential fertility, physical constitution, and her beauty were seen
as the ticket to the resolution of the succession crisis. All of these issues were abundantly
discussed in the council of state. AHN E. leg. 2796.
77
For example, see the letters Carlos wrote to Mariana dated January 23, April 2,
April 17, and May 4, 1679. AHN E. leg. 2796.
Kingship versus Childhood
The incompatible nature of kingship with childhood can be observed particularly

well at two moments in Carlos II’s trajectory as a child-king: at the beginning of
his rule and when he exited his minority. Carlos II became sovereign of the western
world’s largest empire when scarcely four years of age. Because the political
system under which he ruled depended largely on dynastic succession, fears about
his early death, exacerbated by the absence of siblings that could succeed without
involving the other major contemporary political powers, helped create the black
legend that has for so long surrounded Carlos II. We cannot assume from the
surviving documents, however, that the king suffered from any serious physical
or mental disabilities even if his illnesses repeatedly put Europe on high alert. In
addition, the sophisticated and elaborate Spanish court apparatus demanded that
the king, as little as he was, fully participate in its rituals and ceremonies. His
initial difficulties in fulfilling a role designed for an adult negatively affected the
perception of Carlos II. Nonetheless, the king’s participation in complex court
activities at a still relatively tender age reveal a child with a remarkable capacity
for adaptation and one that was growing up as expected. From these first hesitant
steps as a child-king, Carlos II’s own story emerges as he confidently adapted to
his birth-given position.
As Carlos II approached the age of emancipation, his subjects expected their
king to bring stability to the land by assuming his political responsibilities, getting
married, and providing a successor. Although the boundaries between childhood
and adulthood were ambivalent for all early modern Spanish males of the same
age, Carlos II, as king, had little room to maneuver. The court factionalisms that led
the monarchy to the brink of civil war at the time of his legal emancipation were
to a large extent caused by the king’s inability to assert his independence from his
mother. It took Carlos II almost four years to make a full transition into adulthood
(from late 1675 until late 1679). In spite of the difficulties, however, he showed
strength of character and a clear awareness of his obligations, eventually asserting
his will over the strong figure of his mother and taking the lead in resolving the
crucial issue of his marriage. An examination of Carlos II’s childhood, one that sets
it within the cultural expectations of Spanish male adulthood and the traditions of
Habsburg kingship, offers an alternative to the histories of his reign that project
the events of the end of his life to the beginning. Most importantly, perhaps, it
provides a solid point of departure to rethink and thus rewrite his life story.
Works Cited
Primary Sources
Archivo Ducal Medinaceli, Seville and Toledo (ADM)

Sección Histórica: legajos 69, 159.
Archivo General del Palacio, Madrid (AGP)

Sección Reinados Carlos II: caja 92, 93, 117.
Sección Administrativa: legajos 780, 5648.
Descalzas Reales: caja 7.
Archivo Histórico Nacional, Madrid (AHN)

Estado: legajos 674, 2729, 2796, 2799; libros 129, 130, 139.
Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid (BNE)

Manuscripts: 2409, 2392, 5742, 9399, 10129, 18211.
Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid (RAH)

Manuscript: 9-3656.
Anon. Menor edad de Carlos II, Colección de Documentos Inéditos para la

Historia de España, Volume 67. Madrid, 1842.
Barozzi, Nicolò and Guglielmo Berchet, editors. Relazioni degli Stati Europei
lette al Senato dagli Ambasciatori Veneti nel secolo decimosettimo. Raccolte
ed annotate. Serie I; Spain, vol. II. Venice: Pietro Naratovich, 1860.
Domínguez Ortíz, Antonio, ed. Testamento de Felipe IV. Edicion facsímil. Madrid:
Editora Nacional, 1982.
Loftis, John Clyde, ed. The Memoirs of Anne, Lady Halkett and Ann, Lady
Fanshawe. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979.
Nieto Nuño, Miguel, ed. Diario del Conde de Pötting, embajador del Sacro
Imperio en Madrid (1664–1674), 2 vols. Madrid: Biblioteca Diplomatica
Española, 1993.
Pribram, Alfred Francis and Moriz Landwehr von Pragenau, eds. Privatebriefe
Kaiser Leopold I an den Grafen F. E. Pötting, 1662–1673, 2 vols. Kaiserlichen
Akademie der Wissenchaften in Wien: Vienna, 1903.
Secondary Sources
Contreras, Jaime. Carlos II el Hechizado: poder y melancolía en la corte del

último Austria. Madrid: Temas de Hoy, 2003.
Coolidge, Grace E. Guardianship, Gender, and the Nobility in Early Modern
Spain. Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011.
Elliott, John H. Imperial Spain, 1469–1716. London and New York: Penguin
Books, 2002.
Frey, Linda and Marsha Frey. A Question of Empire: Leopold I and the War of
Spanish Succession, 1701–1705. Boulder: East European Monographs, 1983.
Hoffman, Martha. Raised to Rule: Educating Royalty and the Court of the Spanish
Habsburgs, 1601–1634. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University, 2011.
Kamen, Henry. Spain in the Later Seventeenth-Century, 1665–1700. London and

New York: Longman, 1980.
Langdon-Davies, John. Carlos, The King Who Would Not Die. Englewood Cliffs,
NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1963.
Lynch, John. Spain under the Habsburgs. Volume Two: Spain and America,
1598–1700. 2nd edn. New York and London: New York University, 1981.
Maura, Gabriel. Carlos II y su corte: ensayo de reconstrucción biográfica. 2 vols.
Madrid: Revista de archivos, bibliotecas y museos, 1911 and 1915.
Mitchell, Silvia Z. “Habsburg Motherhood: The Power of Queen Mariana of
Austria, Mother and Regent for Carlos II of Spain.” In Early Modern Habsburg
Women: Transnational Contexts, Cultural Conflicts, Dynastic Continuities,
edited by Anne J. Cruz and Maria Galli Stampino, 175–94. Farnham, UK and
Oliván Santaliestra, Laura. “Mariana de Austria en la encrucijada política del siglo
XVII.” PhD diss., Universidad Complutense de Madrid, 2006.
Patrouch, Joseph F. Queen’s Apprentice: Archduchess Elizabeth, Empress María,
the Habsburgs, and the Holy Roman Empire, 1554–1569. Leiden: Brill, 2010.
Pfandl, Ludwig. Karl II; das ende der spanischen machtstellung in Europa.
Munich: G.D.W. Callwey, 1940.
Ribot, Luis. “Carlos II: El centenario olvidado.” Studia histórica. Historia
moderna 20 (1999): 19–44.
———, ed. Carlos II. El rey y su entorno cortesano. Madrid: Centro de Estudios
Europa Hispánica, 2009.
———. El arte de gobernar: Estudios sobre la España de los Austrias. Madrid:
Alianza Editorial, 2006.
———.“El rey ante el espejo. Historia y memoria de Carlos II.” In Carlos II: El
rey y su entorno cortesano, edited by Luis Ribot, 13–52. Madrid: Centro de
Estudios Europa Hispánica, 2009.
Rufino Novo, José. “La Casa real durante la regencia de una reina: Mariana
de Austria.” In Las relaciones discretas entre las Monarquías Hispana y
Portuguesa: las casas de las reinas, 3 vols, edited by José Martínez Millán
and Paula Marçal Lourenço. I: 483–548.
Ruggiero, Guido. The Boundaries of Eros: Sex, Crime, and Sexuality in
Renaissance Venice. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985.
Ruiz, Teófilo. “Unsacred Monarchy: The Kings of Castile in the Late Middle
Ages.” In Rites of Power: Symbolism, Ritual, and Politics since the Middle
Ages, edited by Sean Wilentz. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1985.
Sonino, Paul. Louis XIV and the Origins of the Dutch War. Cambridge: Cambridge
Spielman, John P. Leopold I of Austria. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press,
1977.
Storrs, Christopher. The Resilience of the Spanish Monarchy, 1665–1700. Oxford:
Oxford University, 2006.
PART 3
Suffer the Little Children

Chapter 9
Good Boys:
The Fifth Dialogue in Pedro Luján’s
Coloquios matrimoniales
Darcy Donahue
Given the increasing significance of socialization in shaping the responsible

citizen in sixteenth century Spain, it is not surprising that conduct manuals of the
time should focus on children and their upbringing. Recognizing that children are
the “parents” of their adult selves, the authors of conduct manuals accord a great
deal of importance to the supervision of their intellectual formation and social
activities. In fact, these works were essential in establishing codes of behavior
aimed at producing men and women who were aware of their roles and how to
enact them. That is, the abundant conduct literature of the late sixteenth century
attempted to inculcate social norms that would result in improved forms of social
interaction. Children who learned and assimilated these socially dictated behaviors
at an early age would then become responsible and self-disciplined adults. The
publication of Erasmus’s Colloquies (1531) was the catalyst for a series of writers
such as Luis Vives, Francisco Osuna, and Antonio Guevara to set forth norms and
accompanying conduct deemed both appropriate and necessary for the welfare
of the individual and society at large. Directed largely to an elite readership and
also an increasing middle class who had access to the texts, the didactic dialogue
influenced by Erasmus’s writings on the education and upbringing of children
became one of the primary genres for inculcating social values and served the dual
purpose of instruction and entertainment. One of the earliest and most influential
of these Erasmian works is Pedro Luján’s Coloquios matrimoniales [Marriage
Colloquies].1
According to social historian Linda Pollock “The family in early modern
Europe was of fundamental importance to the wellbeing of the individual, society
and the state, and the most crucial function of the family was the bringing up of
children.”2 The role of parents in this upbringing was, of course, fundamental even
when they were wealthy enough to have servants take care of their offspring. The
1
Pedro Luján, Coloquios matrimoniales, ed. Asunción Rallo Gruss (Madrid: Real
Academia Española, 1990).
2
Linda Pollock, “Parent-Child Relations,” in David I. Kertzer and Marzio Barbagli
(eds), Family Life in Early Modern Times, 1500–1789 (New Haven: Yale University Press,
2001), 191.
210 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Donahue
writers of conduct manuals in sixteenth-century Spain represent a new humanist

approach to childhood and parenting that, pace Philippe Ariès, accorded children
a central place in the family and the culture as eventual citizens and potential
leaders.3 Although highly influential, Erasmus was not the only source available to
them. The pre-humanist Rodrigo Sánchez Arévalo wrote the first treatise dedicated
to pedagogy in the Iberian peninsula in 1453 and in 1509 the grammarian and
humanist Antonio Nebrija wrote De liberis educandis [On the Education of
Children], a book that coincided with Arévalo’s in much of its content, perhaps
because they employed many of the same classical sources such as Plutarch and
Quintilian. Both Arévalo and Nebrija emphasize the role of parents in overseeing
their children’s upbringing. According to Josué Villa Prieto the parental duties
corresponded to different stages in the child’s development. “Mothers are the
authentic protagonists in the instruction of their children during the first seven
years of their life. From that time, when the child is mentally prepared to assimilate
formative ideas, the father appears on the scene so that his child can learn
with seriousness.”4 Richard Kagan notes that “It is clear that sixteenth-century
Spaniards regarded the years after six as a stage in life during which children had
to be molded in order to prepare them for adult responsibilities. This transitional
stage ended only with the coming of puberty, which contemporaries pegged at
twelve for girls and fourteen for boys.”5
In the Fifth Dialogue of his Coloquios the humanist Luján addresses both
the virtues necessary for correctly raised scions of privilege and the vices to
be avoided by these same young men. As its title indicates, most of the book is
dedicated to the trials and tribulations of upper class married life in late sixteenth-
century Spain, but in this dialogue the sons of the two married women protagonists
exchange ideas concerning the education and training of boys. It is one of the few,
if not the only Spanish dialogue in which children, so often the subject of didactic
literature, actually appear as the interlocutors. It is also one of the two dialogues
(the other is the second dialogue) in the book that follow Erasmus’s work most
closely, in particular, Pietas puerilis [Virtue in Children]. Luján acknowledges
his debt to the Dutch humanist and responds to critics of his lack of originality
stating in an epilogue, “I wanted it (Erasmus’s dialogue) to be the foundation on
which I would build these two colloquies. And to be able to set them forth with
all that was necessary, showing many other different things that didn’t occur to
3
It is not within the scope of this chapter to discuss Aries’s highly controversial
thesis concerning the lack of a concept of childhood in medieval and early modern Europe,
put forth in his book Centuries of Childhood. For an excellent summation of the thesis and
critical response to it, see Linda Pollock, Forgotten Children: Parent-Child Relations from
1500–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 1–67.
4
Josué Villa Prieto, “La educación de los niños pequeños en la Edad Media tardía:
aspectos teóricos,” Tiempo y sociedad 6 (2011–2012): 87. All translations are mine.
5
Richard Kagan, Students and Society in Early Modern Spain (Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1974), 10.
Good Boys 211
him, or that he didn’t want to write about.”6 Asunción Rallo Gruss observes that
while Erasmus “provides the dialogue as frame and function” (“marco y función
dialogales”) other sources such as Guevara’s Relox de príncipes [The Dial of
Princes] and Pedro Mejía’s Silva de varía lección [Forest or Collection of Various
Histories] are more important with regard to “ideas and proposals” (“ideas y
planteamientos”).7 Although he does not acknowledge the influence of his earlier
compatriots Sánchez de Arévalo and Nebrija, it is quite possible that Luján would
have been familiar with their ideas. In any case, he revealed himself to be an able
“recopilador” of Erasmus and the Spanish humanists, creating a work that reached
11 editions between 1550 and 1589.

The Fifth Dialogue is actually a continuation of the Fourth, which concludes
with a discussion of the upbringing of male children by the two female protagonists,
Eulalia and Doroctea, who are also the mothers of the two interlocutors in the Fifth.
Throughout the first four dialogues Doroctea has been the “instructor” or advisor
to her friend Eulalia concerning the vagaries of marriage and family life, and now
her son Julio will fulfill the same exemplary role in his conversation with Eulalia’s
son, Hipólito. At the beginning of the dialogue, Julio, who finds himself by chance
with Hipólito, remarks that he has not seen him for a long time and inquires as to
his activities and this initiates a dialogue that elaborates on the proper conduct for
boys. Although the ages of the two interlocutors are unclear, since they mention
school, are unaccompanied by adults, and exhibit the ability to engage in rational
conversation, we may assume that they are in the transitional stage between the
ages of six and 14 described by Kagan. The knowledge exhibited and comments
made during the dialogue indicate that they are at the high end of this age range. It
is significant that Luján has chosen two boys as the interlocutors, diverging from
the Erasmian model and inverting the role of child as listener/pupil. In this case,
it is the boys themselves who will instruct the fathers (the readers of Luján’s text)
how best to raise their sons, and by the very incongruity of this inversion, the
dialogue becomes a more effective didactic tool.
As the conversation progresses, it becomes clear that Julio embodies the
values and ideals expressed by his mother in the preceding dialogue and therefore
represents a model of virtuous boyhood for his friend Hipólito and the readers.
Interestingly, although fathers were considered the primary instructor and role
model for their sons, in the case of these two boys, it is clearly Doroctea who
assumes this role.8 Hipólito comments to Julio on the high regard in which his own
parents (Eulalia and her husband, Marcelo) hold Doroctea and that “a rosebud such
Luján, Coloquios, 97.

6
Asunción Rallo Gruss, Erasmo y la prosa renacentista española (Madrid: Laberinto,

7
2003), 195.
8
“In the first place, it appears that families in sixteenth and seventeenth-century Spain
were decidedly patriarchal, the father making all important decisions about the organization
of the home, the upbringing and schooling of the children, and their eventual marriages and
careers.” Kagan, Students and Society and Early Modern Spain, 5.
as you” could only come from such a rose (Doroctea). Julio responds that if he
can follow his mother’s sage advice (“sanos consejos”) he can’t help but be good.9
Interestingly, Luján has replaced the father as source of advice and instruction
with the mother, suggesting that women are equally capable of this role. As we
see in the previous four dialogues, Doroctea exhibits good judgment and advice
to both Eulalia and Marcelo, so it is natural that she should be a model at home
to her son. Doroctea, however, as she reveals in Dialogue Four, is the product of
an exemplary upbringing, presided over by a father who becomes a paternal ideal
upon which the negligent or inept fathers described by Julio in Dialogue Five
should model themselves. “Life in her father’s house appears at the end of the
fourth colloquy in all its detail, put forth as model of education (to the point that
the fifth dialogue seems redundant).”10
As the mentor or advisor, Julio must raise his listener/pupil’s consciousness
with regard to precisely what virtuous behavior is, provide evidence of its benefits
and convince him to engage in it. The ultimate purpose of the dialogue is to
communicate an ideal of youthful masculinity which will result in behaviors that
create better men and a better society. Children had come to be seen as future
adults, so the importance of good habits or “costumbres” from an early age cannot
be overstated, and indeed is the central idea in Luján’s dialogue. It is not surprising,
then, that Julio should begin by advising his friend to “adorn your spirit with good
habits which you can then build upon.”11 He then proceeds to enumerate these
habits at some length, with Hipólito occasionally interjecting a question or brief
reaction. It quickly becomes apparent that the good habits or behaviors advocated
by Julio for boys are, with few exceptions, basically the same as those of virtuous
adult men. That is, boys, like men, must avoid leisure and engage in activities that
reflect their strength of will as well as body. Through the assimilation of a set of
conscious and deliberately chosen behaviors overseen by a vigilant and virtuous
father, the boy will self-condition to become a man of high principles. “It should
be pointed out that if Luján and his contemporaries are concerned about children it
is in relation to their future as adults, in function of the life as an adult that awaits
them and using their own experiences as adults. A few centuries will have to pass
before it is possible to study children objectively in order to understand their
needs as children.”12 Closely related to the emerging concept of the individual as
defined by acts rather than by lineage, Julio’s program for a clean living boyhood
reflects Luján’s Erasmian belief in self-discipline as the central factor in masculine
conduct. As Mar Martínez Góngora observes, in the Erasmus influenced texts the
inability to control one’s actions, appetites, or emotions is viewed as a form of
excess and sign of “effeminateness and thus a loss of the attributes that define
9
10
Rallo Gruss, Coloquios, 36.
11
12
Jacqueline Ferreras, Los diálogos humanísticos del siglo xvi en lengua castellana
(Murcia: Universidad de Murcia, 2003), 426.
Good Boys 213
masculinity. In this way, while effeminate conduct functions in these texts as a

reminder of the risk of falling away from the male order, the restraint of appetites
and impulses becomes the principle virtue which defines the ideal male.”13
The emphasis on self-control reflects the norms set forth in Erasmus’s De
civilitate morum puerilium [A Handbook on Good Manners for Children] (1530).14
Written for the son of a Dutch nobleman, it establishes a model of masculine
conduct that would replace the existing models and in so doing make clear the
distinction between civilized and barbaric or uncivilized behaviors, with particular
attention to bodily habits. Norbert Elias considers Erasmus’s text essential in
the formation of a European code of social conditioning that focused on the

individual’s responsibility for his actions and ultimately his life trajectory. It is thus
a code that challenges the existing idea of the fate of the individual as genetically
determined through blood lines and heredity. The book’s success and immediate
imitation by authors throughout Europe are ample evidence of a general increasing
awareness of socialization or the processes by which an individual adapts to his
social environment. Among these processes, the acquisition of correct modes of
social interaction or manners was central. “If nothing else, its success, its rapid
dissemination, and its use as an educational manual for boys show how much it met
a social need, and how it recorded the models of behavior for which the time was
ripe, which society—or more exactly, the upper class first of all—demanded.”15
Although Elias does not mention Spain as being influenced by this work, more
recent scholarship provides ample evidence that Spanish Erasmists such as Luján
had clearly been influenced by it, either through reading or hearsay.16 Erasmus’s
text is more concerned with specific manners (bodily functions, table manners)
than the Coloquios matrimoniales, but Luján avails himself of the ideology of
courtesy that underlies De civilitate.
Self-control and the discipline it requires is evident from the outset as Julio
rejects Hipólito’s statement that he has been relaxing at the home of his parents,
responding, “You would have been better off studying or in church praying,
because the good Christian must be found working at his profession or in the temple
meditating.”17 A virtuous boy or man must resist his desire for rest and relaxation,
and consciously elect to be active. However, the activities that occupy him must
produce good results. Activity for the sake of activity is not worthwhile as Julio
shows in the example of the Roman emperor Caligula, who wasted his time killing
13
Mar Martínez Góngora, El hombre atemperado. Autocontrol, disciplina y
masculinidad en textos españoles de la temprana modernidad (New York: Peter Lang,
2005), 34.
14
Desiderius Erasmus, De civilitate morum peurilium: A Handbook on Good Manners
for Children, trans. Eleanor Merchant (New York: Random House, 2008).
15
Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process: The History of Manners, trans. Edmund
Jephcott (New York: Urizen, 1978), 71.
16
See, for example, Martínez Góngora, El hombre atemperado, 30–60.
17
flies, when “it would have been much wiser for that emperor to carry out his duty,
which was to govern the empire.”18 It is significant that Julio links these productive
activities with the dominant Christian ideology, suggesting that whoever does not
engage in them is not only not a good boy, but not a true Christian. As the dialogue
continues, it becomes clear that for Luján, as for Erasmus, religious values are
inseparable from the ideal of manly virtue he sets forth. “Erasmus may be taken
as the voice of humanism, but it was a humanism inseparable from Christianity.”19
Thus, the good Christian boy/man must remain productively occupied.
Throughout the dialogue Julio supports his precepts through anecdotes
exemplifying the virtues that he prescribes. In so doing he draws primarily upon

the past, often comparing it favorably with the present. Furthermore, he does not
limit the positive examples to Christians, but continually makes use of classical
culture to support his dicta. “The almost complete absence of anecdotes referring
to a contemporary context as well as obsessive reference to the past in the examples
and stories from the classical world are characteristic of the Coloquios.”20 Not
surprisingly, the Romans become Julio’s primary example of strong character and
self-discipline. In his second rule for a praiseworthy boyhood he asserts that the
good son must shun any coddling or “regalo” by his parents “because as parents
that think they are being kind they are really making their children dissolute or
‘soft’ through their coddling. … Far from the wishes of the Romans was it that their
children should be idle because from the age of ten no one could go about the city
without a job.”21 He continues with the example of the Emperor Augustus, who did
not permit his children to sit in his presence, and compares him to contemporary
parents “who not only allow their children to be seated before them, but also give
the head of the table to them.”22 According to Rallo Gruss this juxtaposition of
the past and present provides an opportunity for the listeners/mentees in all of the
dialogues to become aware of the moral values that they must enact in order to
improve the present: “they must continually compare their present reality with the
example of the past in order to validate this example by enacting it.”23
Not all of the examples are positive, however, and in warning against aggressive
or ill-tempered speech, Julio cites the case of Julius Caesar, who, although “he was
wise, he was a conqueror, he was a good governor of his republic, was disliked just
for being sharp-tongued or careless in his speech and being disliked, he ended up
dying of twenty three stab wounds.”24 Caesar, despite his good leadership, becomes

18
Hugh Cunningham, Children and Childhood in Western Society since 1500

19
(London: Pearson, 2005), 45.

20
Asunción Rallo Gruss, La escritura didáctica: Estudios sobre el diálogo
renacentista (Malaga: Universidad de Málaga, 1996), 75.
21
22
23
Rallo Gruss, La escritura didáctica, 75.
24
Good Boys 215
a vivid example of the dire consequences of immoderation or lack of control in

verbal interactions. It is only through calm or “peaceful” behavior that a boy will
be well-liked and grow up to enjoy a harmonious life. Furthermore, excessive or
injudicious use of language is associated with women and weakness, so that true
manliness resides in limited and discreet exercise of verbal discourse. According
to Martínez, “Men’s ability to place limits on their capacity for discourse is
equivalent to their ability to control their bodies and sexuality. As a result, one of
the most important norms that the Erasmists impose is the need for the masculine
subject to control his discourse.”25
Julio addresses one of the most prevalent vices of the day when he attacks
sins of the flesh. Although it may seem strange for young boys to be speaking of
uncontrolled lust we may assume that both Julio and Hipólito are old enough to
understand the significance of this form of desire. Once again, Julio uses evidence
from the Romans, this time to prove that this vice is not only “dirty,” but deadly
for even the most powerful men: “The evil Heliogábalus, the haughty Tarquin,
look how they died, the evil Nero, this was the source of his sins, and there is
no one who doesn’t know about his death.”26 In addition to the immorality of
lustful behavior, Julio points out the hygienic dangers it poses and asserts “this
vice of the flesh is so vile and so dirty in itself that it infects not only he who
commits it, but also the whole town and it brings with it an early death. The boy
who is uncontrolled and lustful in his youth will live in sickness in old age.”27
At this point, Hipólito responds, acknowledging the truth of Julio’s denunciation:
“You’re right; the vice of the flesh is a very dirty thing.”28 Moreover, according to
Julio, the man who engages in excessive sexual activity “is using up his estate”
(“gasta la hacienda”).29 That is, the excessive sexual energy expended in such
acts symbolizes the time and money required to engage in them, which might
be otherwise spent on the maintenance of the household. Moreover, the physical
energy that the promiscuous male wastes in sexual activity could be spent in family
activities. Given that sexual prowess had typically been viewed as a primary sign
of true virility, the emphasis that Luján places on continence is indicative of his
rejection of the existing code of masculinity.
Other bodily appetites may also become vices when uncontrolled by conscious
regulation. Thus, food and drink become possible agents of dissipation if indulged
in immoderately. Luján is certainly not alone in his condemnation of alimentary
excess. “In general, the condemnation of Spaniards’ immoderate liking for
luxurious food items was an endless topic of literature of the time.”30 Again,
alcohol consumption does not appear to be a serious concern for boys in the age
25
Martinez Góngora, El hombre atemperado, 35.
26
27
28
29
30
Martínez Góngora, El hombre atemperado, 19.
group to which Julio and Hipólito belong, but Julio’s precepts are intended to be
preventative rather than corrective and it is clear that alcohol is a substance that
must be entirely avoided in childhood in order to avoid both physical and moral
harm. According to Julio, while it is permissible for “viejos” to drink wine in
moderation, it affects children’s health in a destructive fashion. “For one thing it
damages the stomach, it corrodes the wits and it ruins the memory.” Furthermore,
wine stimulates the drinker to engage in immoral or lustful acts. “Stepfather of
virtue and father of vices because as the Apostle says, in wine lust rules.” As he
has done throughout his remarks, Julio charges the parents with the responsibility
of denying this harmful substance to their children. “Let the father who permits his
son to drink wine from childhood complain about himself who allowed it, if that
child later becomes a drunkard and dissolute, and not about the boy who learned
it from him.”31
Julio’s reference to parents who allow their children to drink leads him to the
issue of the selection of teachers and the importance of moral as well as intellectual
excellence as criteria of selection. “Many parents look for the wisest teacher and
not for the most virtuous.” If the children are good Latin scholars, good at rhetoric,
good musicians and logicians, but morally depraved, it is the parents who must
assume the responsibility for their mistaken priorities. It is not clear whether Julio
is alluding to live-in tutors, usually accessible only to aristocrats, or to private
tutors outside the home “masters of primary letters, embodying the continuation
of medieval craft traditions in which scribes and notaries taught writing to their
sons and a few apprentices.”32 According to Kagan, “Incompetent, poorly trained,
corrupt, and immoral tutors were as common as good ones, making careful
selection by the parents essential.”33 It is also possible that the teachers to whom
Julio refers were employed by the increasing number of small private schools
to which the emerging upper middle class (high government officials, lawyers,
wealthy merchants) sent their sons because they rewarded “drive, obedience and
hard work.”34 However, there were many problems of discipline and teaching
in these small schools.35 Using Rome again as model of an ideal, Julio cites the
attention that was given to the office of teacher and in this case he is able to
find some correspondence between Rome and the existing Spanish system. While
Rome employed philosophers whose sole function was to examine the lives of
teachers in order to ascertain their moral probity, Spain’s ecclesiastical cathedrals
have an official whose sole function is “to get rid of bad teachers and put in good
ones, take out the morally degenerate and leave the virtuous.”36 However, despite

31

Kagan, Students and Society, 10.
32

33

34

See Kagan’s discussion of the alternatives available for educating boys in Students
35
and Society, 10–12.

36
Good Boys 217
this similarity to the Romans, Julio asserts that the system is not always well
administered. “Religious orthodoxy was of the highest priority, and this meant
that the masters had to be proven Catholics. Otherwise, these instructors managed
to preserve much of their freedom. Fathers interested in their services would seek
out a local master, agree to pay him a certain sum, and seal the contract before a
notary. Only rarely did ecclesiastical, royal, or even municipal officials intervene
in the negotiations.”37 Parents, then, must be certain that their children’s instructors
are virtuous as well as professionally competent.
The second half of the conversation between the two friends takes on a more
religious tone and clearly draws upon Erasmus’s colloquy, Pietas puerilis, although
there are some discrepancies between the two works.38 Julio ends his enumeration
of vices and virtues and admonishes Hipólito that none of his recommendations
will be effective if they are not founded on the love of God. Even the ancients in
their erroneous worship of pagan gods were more religious than contemporary
Spaniards. “They certainly were much better than us.”39 Julio’s shift to religious
themes prompts Hipólito to inquire if he intends to enter the religious life. Julio’s
reply reflects Luján’s idealistic, even utopian vision of the truly Christian life.
“Taking the word in its broad sense, any Christian can be called religious.”40 The
clearly didactic purpose of the dialogue is evident as Hipólito asks for a definition
of religion. In his answer, Julio stresses the 10 commandments, reducing them to
two: the love of God and the love of other. His admonition to “not do evil to anyone
although they have wronged us” prompts what might be a skeptical response from
his listener, “Is that what you do?”41 Furthermore, Hipólito expresses resistance
to the “turn the other cheek” response to an aggressor exemplified by Christ’s
own conduct. “By God, if someone gave me a blow I would try to cut off the
hand that gave it, either I myself or through the law.”42 Such vengeful behavior
is not acceptable for a good Christian according to Julio. Through this rejection
of violence and aggressive behavior as unChristian conduct, Luján seems to
be reiterating his earlier suggestion that the civility that Julio had emphasized
previously as necessary in a well-behaved boy is also inseparable from Christian
behavior, so that Christ’s teachings become the basis of the social norms that
such a boy must follow. In fact, the norms of charity, tolerance, and patience that
Julio advocates re-elaborate the new concept of Christian masculinity put forth by
Erasmus.
37
38
According to Rallo Gruss, “Even when it is closest to Erasmus’s text, there is no
literal transcription of ideas or doctrines. With respect to ideological independence we
should apply the words of Bataillon, that there is a ‘diffuse’ presence of Erasmus.” Rallo
Gruss, Erasmo y la prosa renacentista, 197.
39
40
41
42
Similarly, Julio’s previous condemnation of injudicious or ill-tempered

language reappears in this more religiously oriented part of the dialogue as a
prohibition of profanity and particularly blasphemy, the latter being especially
offensive to God. “It’s strange that a father swearing on the life of his children
tells the truth so that his children will not die, yet saying ‘I swear to God’ there is
no shame or fear of God about lying.”43 Taking the name of God seems to have
become so common that it has lost its true significance as an offense against the
supreme being. “We consider swearing and even blasphemy so unimportant that
we swear as though we were saying something else.”44 Once again, the ancients,
although pagan, best the contemporary Spanish Christians in this regard, with the
Romans meting out stiff penalties for the misuse of the names of their gods. In this,
as in the other cases of past versus present, Rallo Gruss observes, “The ancients
are the point of reference for the listener who can’t imagine any other life than the
one he lives, unless he is shown his situation as perfectable like other different
ways of living.”45
Despite their devotion and seeming righteousness, the ancients did not have the
advantage of Christians in having one true God, and this difference is the source
of Julio’s precepts concerning pious practices for youth. When Hipólito asserts
that daily attendance at Mass is not required, Julio responds that precisely for
that reason such attendance would be even more pleasing to God. Nevertheless,
regular attendance at Mass should not interfere with a man’s obligation to provide
for his family: “because in truth it would be better for a man to miss Mass than
not to earn enough for his children in order to hear it.”46 “As practical as always,
Luján underscores the material basis of the paternal role which consists first of all
in providing for the child … That concept of the paternal responsibility implies
the recognition of the primacy of work as an individual and social value.”47 He
prescribes annual confession for children and regular prayer. Reading habits must
also reflect the young man’s intention to avoid provocative or “dirty” books in
favor of those that promote exemplary moral conduct. Hipólito again reflects his
skepticism by asking if Terence and Ovid are not read in schools as well as other
books that deal with amorous themes. Julio responds that he does in fact read
these writers although there are other better authors in the classical canon such
as Marcus Tullius and Sallustius. Nevertheless, he states that as is the case with
the ancient philosophers, he reads the “dishonest” or morally questionable books
for their excellent style or “good Latin” and ignores their bad beliefs or “mala
creencia,” reflecting Luján’s (and Erasmus’s) humanist recognition of the essential
value of classical culture.48
43
44
45
Rallo Gruss, La escritura didáctica, 35.
46
47
Ferreras, Los diálogos humanisticos, 422.
48
Good Boys 219
The final part of the conversation is Julio’s account of how he carries out on a
day by day basis the program for virtuous boyhood he has outlined to his friend.
Beginning with his morning prayers and ablutions, the model youth seems to
adhere closely to his own precepts. He shows the requisite respect for his father
in his morning greeting, eats a handful of raisins for the “conservation” of his
stomach, and goes off to his studies, stopping by the church en route in order to
ask the aid of saints in his studies. Puzzled by what seems like excessive piety, his
listener asks, “Wasn’t it enough to have prayed in the morning without having to
do it again?”49 Julio compares this religious behavior with the act of greeting the
owner of a house when passing by. It is good religious manners to enter a church
and “greet” God and the saints. Once again, human courtesy finds its analogy in
religious practice.
Not surprisingly, in school Julio embodies all of the conduct recommended for
the conscientious and obedient student, avoiding those who engage in gossip and
the telling of tales and any behavior that would incur the teacher’s wrath. Upon
leaving school he returns home, stopping into church on the way. After greeting
his parents and kissing their hands, Julio retires to his room where he reviews
the morning’s lessons, and then asks his parents if they have any chores for him:
“and if they order me to do it, I do it with all reverence and good will, because
he who does not obey his father and mother should not live on the face of the
earth.”50 At meals he exemplifies the restraint recommended by the humanists in
all bodily appetites, always eating in moderation because too much food “blocks
the memory.” Upon completing his meal, Julio relaxes by conversing with his
parents and then returns to his afternoon studies. When school is out, he returns
home, reviews the day’s lessons, and spends his time reading the Bible or the Flos
Sanctorum [The Lives of Saints] or some other “good book” until dinner where he
again shows the due reverence to his parents.51 After dinner, the remaining hours
are spent in reading, study, and on his knees rendering a confession of his day’s
sins, stating his desire to live and die as a Christian. Once in bed, the pious young
man asks God to free him from evil and tempting dreams and falls asleep. The
program is obviously an ideal toward which Hipólito and the readers must strive
rather than any realistic description of daily activities.
Hipólito expresses his surprise that all of his friend’s day is spent working
and inquires as to his holiday activities. Seemingly Julio’s holidays do not differ

49
Luján, Coloquios, 256. Julio’s respect for his parents corresponds to Pollock’s
50
assertion that “Children were taught early to honor their father and mother and they were
told repeatedly that the first duty of a child was obedience. Outward marks of deference,
respect and obedience to parents such as bowing, uncovering the head, or kneeling in their
presence were insisted upon.” Pollock, Family Life in Early Modern Times, 199.
51
The Flos Sanctorum was the Spanish translation of Jacobo de Voragine’s Legenda
Aurea, a 13th century collection of saints’ lives. It was widely used as a classroom text and
was also read in homes for pleasure, although its accuracy came under attack from scholars
such as Juan Luis Vives.
greatly from his normal routine. Instead of studies, he attends to his religious
duties, attending mass and making sure to seek out only priests who know how to
give a good sermon. In this Luján follows Erasmus’s critique of some priests’ use
of the pulpit as a form of entertainment as well as the ignorance that characterized
many sermons of the time. “I seek out those who preach in a Christian fashion and
with lively words preach so that holy words remain embedded in the heart in such
a way that if a man wishes to remove them later, he can’t.”52
The conversation ends with Hipólito’s recognition of the value of Julio’s
“withdrawn life” and pledge to imitate him. He has thus experienced a
transformation, if not yet in his habits, in his acceptance of the values Julio has set
forth as desirable and worthy. It remains only for him to enact them in emulation
of his friend and model. From a seemingly unmotivated and unoccupied youth,
we may assume that Hipólito will attempt to become the same model of boyhood
virtue as Julio. Clearly, this will not be as easy as Julio has made it appear, but the
concrete example of his friend will be his inspiration.
Throughout Dialogue Five, Julio reiterates the need for parents to provide
models of moral probity in their actions and words. The emphasis upon active
involvement in a son’s upbringing reflects the belief that the child is not an
animal or inconsequential being who can be ignored until he is an adolescent.
Rather, Luján’s text follows closely Erasmus’s belief that although humans are
born with a disposition to evil, it is mainly adults who corrupt young minds with
evil before they are exposed to the good. In other words, a young child is a sort
of “tabula rasa” upon whom ideas and behaviors are inscribed. For this reason,
Julio never actually provides concrete examples of bad children, but rather bad
parents who have overindulged their children, often with the best intentions, or
in the worst cases, simply ignored the fact that their own habits will influence the
future conduct of their offspring. Although religious values are primordial in the
models that fathers must provide for their sons, these values are also inseparable
from the daily dealings with other humans from various strata. The boys who are
raised according to Julio’s precepts will not only acquire Christian beliefs of non-
aggression, tolerance, and generosity from their parents and teachers, they will put
these beliefs into practice in their interactions with others. In so doing they will
enact a new form of masculinity that eschews previously tolerated excesses or
vices. Luján’s Fifth Dialogue is intended to inspire parents who wish to produce
responsible sons and future adults, and to transform existing patterns of child-
raising so that this can be achieved. In order for this to be possible, fathers must
become aware of their own bad habits so that they can help their sons avoid them
and create an improved form of manhood. The ongoing cycle of undisciplined
boys becoming dissolute men would be broken and that is the ultimate purpose of
this dialogue.

52
Good Boys 221
Works Cited
Ariès, Philippe. Centuries of Childhood. A Social History of Family Life. New

York: Vintage, 1962.
Cunningham, Hugh. Children and Childhood in Western Society since 1500.
London: Pearson, 2005.
Elias, Norbert. The Civilizing Process. The History of Manners. Translated by
Edmund Jephcott. New York: Urizen, 1978.
Erasmus, Desiderius. The Colloquies of Erasmus. Translated by Craig R.
Thompson. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1965.
———. De civilitate morum puerilium. A Handbook on Good Manners for

Children. Translated by Eleanor Merchant. New York: Random House, 2008.
Ferreras, Jacqueline. Los diálogos humanísticos del siglo xvi en lengua castellana.
Murcia: Universidad de Murcia, 2003.
Kagan, Richard. Students and Society in Early Modern Spain. Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1974.
Luján, Pedro. Coloquios matrimoniales. Edited by Asunción Rallo Gruss. Madrid:
Real Academia Española, 1990.
Martínez Góngora, Mar. El hombre atemperado. Autocontrol, disciplina y
masculinidad en textos españoles de la temprana modernidad. New York:
Peter Lang, 2005.
Nebrija, Antonio de. De liberis educandis in Maneras de criar a los hijos. Edited
by Lorenzo Velazquez Campo and Pedro Arias Hernandez, 97–128. Pamplona:
1999.
Pollock, Linda. Forgotten Children. Parent-Child Relations from 1500–1900.
———. “Parent-Child Relations.” In Family Life in Early Modern Times.
1500–1789, ed. David I. Kertzer and Marzio Barbagli, 191–221. New Haven:
Yale University Press, 2001.
Rallo Gruss, Asunción. Erasmo y la prosa renacentista española. Madrid:
Laberinto, 2003.
———. La escritura didáctica: Estudios sobre el diálogo renacentista. Malaga:
Universidad de Málaga, 1996.
Sánchez de Arévalo, Rodrigo. De arte, disciplina et modo aliendi et erundiendi
filios, pueros et juvenes. In Maneras de criar a los hijos. Edited by Pedro Arias
Hernández, 63–96. Pamplona.
Villa Prieto, Josué. “La educación de los niños pequeños en el ámbito familiar
durante la Edad Media tardía” Tiempo y sociedad 6 (2011–2012): 79–122.

Chapter 10
Investing in the Lineage:
Children in the Early Modern Spanish
Nobility, 1350–17501
Grace E. Coolidge
In 1553, the fifth Duke and Duchess of Infantado celebrated their marriage.
Over the next decade, they watched four sons and four daughters die as small
children, and then arranged their eldest surviving daughter Ana’s marriages, first
to her uncle, then to her first cousin. When three of Ana’s children (including her
only son) died young, Ana arranged her eldest surviving daughter’s marriage and
prayed for a grandson. It was not until 1614 that the duchy of Infantado welcomed
a male heir who would survive to inherit the ancient title, and his success was short
lived as both his sons in turn died as small children. The aristocracy constituted
a tiny segment of the population who controlled a disproportionate amount of
the land, wealth, and political power in early modern Spain,2 but they could not
control death. In a world where the premature death of children and their parents
was a constant, how did noble men and women approach parenting and what did
they invest in the task? What role did children play in the lives of noble families,
and how did the expectations of these families affect early modern childhood?
How did children fit into the larger economic, political, and religious roles that the
nobility played in early modern Spain?
Early modern Spanish nobles valued wealth, power, and privilege and saw
their children as assets that could help them maintain and increase their social and
political prominence. The early modern nobility educated its children according to
their class and arranged careers and marriages that would enable older children to
1
I would like to thank Anne Cruz and Jason Crouthamel for their constructive
feedback on this chapter.
2
This essay is based on records from the family archives of the noble families from the
top of the hierarchy in early modern Spain. The early modern Spanish nobility represented
a very small proportion of the population (less than 10 percent), which encompassed a
range of incomes, wealth, and power. For more on the Spanish nobility, see Helen Nader,
“Noble Income in Sixteenth-Century Castile: The Case of the Marquises of Mondéjar,”
Economic History Review 30 (1977): 411–28; James Casey, Early Modern Spain: A Social
History (London and New York: Routledge Press, 1999), 138–64; Yuen-Gen Liang, Family
and Empire: The Fernández de Córdoba and the Spanish Realm (Philadelphia: University
of Pennsylvania Press, 2011).
transition into successful adulthood and carry their noble lineage into the future.
I argue that this effort combined a concern for the security and prosperity of the
individual child with an overriding commitment to the future of the entire lineage.
In a world in which death often fractured individual families, noble families needed
to invest in a large lineage with enough members to survive the death of individuals
and even of whole generations of children. Although noble families traced their
identity back to the deeds and lives of their ancestors, they were equally focused
on projecting their family status into the future through their children.
This focus on the future of an entire lineage inevitably shaped the lives,
educations, and choices of individual children. The nobility invested heavily in

arranged marriages that were often concluded at early ages, thus securing their
children’s futures and affecting custody arrangements as adolescents began to
interact with their in-laws. The emphasis on lineage also shaped children’s career
choices as noble parents worked to benefit the family by strategically placing
their children within the institutions of church and state.3 Children bound for
careers in the church benefited from thorough classical educations and substantial
financial investments designed to ensure a successful future. In turn, they were
often expected to renounce marriage prospects and future inheritance rights
and use their positions in the church to benefit their secular families in spiritual
and material ways. Other children served in the military, simultaneously risking
death and courting glory for their potential heroics. Still others were raised and
educated in the royal court, benefitting from the companionship of their noble
peers, enhanced marriage prospects, and the prospect of important diplomatic and
political contacts for their families.
***
Parenting in early modern Europe was a risky endeavor, and the Spanish nobility
often failed in their parenting goals. If a married couple did not have children or
did not produce male heirs who survived to adulthood, their marriage failed the
larger lineage. The Duke of Medinaceli made this purpose of marriage brutally
clear when he stipulated in his daughter’s marriage agreement that he would finish
paying her dowry only after the couple had produced a male child who lived more
than 60 days.4 The duke had reason to fear a childless marriage, since infertile
couples often became the center of endless lawsuits as the lack of legitimate
3
This set of career options was widely accepted in early modern Spain. Anne Cruz
analyzes Cervantes’s summation of these three options (iglesia, mar, o casa real), and
Martha Hoffman demonstrates that royal children who were not heirs to the throne were
also trained for these three careers. See Anne J. Cruz, “Fathers and Sons in Don Quixote,”
and Martha Hoffman “Childhood and Royalty at the Court of Philip III,” in this volume.
4
Isabel Beceiro Pita and Ricardo Cordoba de la Llave, Parentesco, poder
y mentalidad: la nobleza castellana, siglos XII–XV (Madrid: Consejo Superior de
Investigaciones Científicas, 1990), 111.
Investing in the Lineage 225
children opened the door to claims by brothers, illegitimate children, or other

male relatives. The nobility had ample opportunities to observe the complications
caused by the lack of a legitimate heir.5
The nobility’s abundant resources allowed them to protect and nurture their
children who could look forward to claiming their parents’ power, privilege, and
wealth if they lived to adulthood. Even young children shared this wealth and
privilege. In 1609 the Duchess of Arcos left her granddaughter Teresa, who was
less than 10, “the pelican with its little chain to be hers” and then went on to bestow
“the two Berber slave women who serve my granddaughters” on Teresa and her
younger sister.6 These young girls were both valued by their grandmother and
brought up in a luxury that included the services of enslaved women. Noble children
often received jewelry or other luxurious tokens from parents and grandparents
that went above and beyond the basic inheritance they were due under the law. The
Duke of Sexto left his adolescent daughter Paula a jeweled broached shaped like a
fountain and his young grandson Pablo some lapis lazuli jewelry.7 These bequests,
and those made to adult children, emphasize the importance of children within
the larger family context and the wealth of the people involved. They also give
a glimpse into the personal relationships that bound large and complex lineages
together. Isabel de la Cueva, the widowed Duchess of Osuna, had no children of
her own, but when she wrote her will in 1618 she left her stepson “a cross of gold
with a Christ and reliquaries” and her niece “four thousand ducados that I would
wish were much more for the good company she has been to me.”8
As well as being the beneficiaries of the family’s material goods, noble
children, even at a very young age, were surrounded by large quantities of servants
designated to attend to their needs and visibly attest to their wealth and power. This
army of servants inevitably included children and adolescents (mozos) who ran
errands, helped in the kitchens, polished silver, looked after horses, and served as
chamber maids. In addition to young servants, many of these households included
young slaves.9 Noble children thus lived at the pinnacle of a hierarchy of other
children who had to work to survive and whose lives and expectations were vastly
5
James Casey asserts that “barely 3 per cent of the patricians of Madrid managed
to hand on their entails in the direct male line to their great grandchildren.” Casey, Early
Modern Spain, 145–6.
6
Archivo Histórico Nacional (hereafter AHN), Nobleza, Osuna, c. 124, d. 21–9,
http://pares.mcu.es.
7
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, c. 130, d. 65–8, http://pares.mcu.es.
8
All translations are mine unless otherwise noted. “una cruz de oro con un christo
y reliquias”; “quatro mil ducados que quisiera yo que fueran muchos mas por la buena
companía que me a hecho.” AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, c. 14, d. 7, http://pares.mcu.es.
9
An account book for the Dukes of Osuna from 1631 includes the wages paid for
servants, many of whom are described as “mozo” or young. AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, c. 128,
d. 273, http://pares.mcu.es. See AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, c. 14, d. 7, http://pares.mcu.es for a
young slave girl being left to the Duchess of Osuna’s niece.
different from those they served.10 This early introduction to the hierarchy of their
world provided noble children with material comfort and emphasized the privilege
that their noble status and lineage conveyed. While the luxury that accompanied
their roles undoubtedly helped commit noble children to upholding the hierarchy
that benefited them, it could not completely protect noble families from the harsh
realities of the world that surrounded them.
Regardless of how much care and attention noble parents provided their
children, many of them did not survive long enough to reach adulthood. Infancy
was an especially dangerous time for all children in early modern Spain. The
records of the Inclusa, the institution that took in foundlings in Madrid, show that
in 1700 58 percent of the infants left there died, and by 1800 the death rate had
risen to 87 percent.11 Although infinitely better off than these abandoned, poverty
stricken children, noble infants also died. In the mid-seventeenth century, the fifth
Duke and Duchess of Osuna lost two sons and one daughter before the age of
one, and the eighth Duke and Duchess of Infantado lost two tiny sons, Juan at
age seven months and Francisco at age five years.12 Even if they survived infancy,
many families lost multiple children before they reached adulthood and could
take up their inheritances. Diego Hurtado de Mendoza’s eldest son, Pedro, died
as a child “in consequence of a fall that he suffered in the alcázar in Madrid” and
another son died at age seven in 1403.13 In the early sixteenth century, the third
Count of Tendilla and his wife lost two sons and three daughters as children, and
almost 100 years later the fourth Duke and Duchess of Arcos lost six sons as
young boys.14 While the longer a child lived the better their chances for survival,
adolescence brought its own risks, especially for boys who left home for school
or the army during these years.15 The fourth Duke of Infantado’s son Alonso was
For the lives of less privileged children, see Valentina Tikoff’s exploration of
10
orphanages and their role in early modern Seville. Valentina Tikoff, “Containing Risk: The
Integration and Isolation of Orphanage Wards within Eighteenth-Century Seville,” in this
volume.
11
Joan Sherwood, Poverty in Eighteenth-Century Spain: The Women and Children of
the Inclusa (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1988), 125.
12
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 1766, nos. 10–11. Diego Gutiérrez Coronel,
Historia genealógica de la casa de Mendoza, ed. Angel González de Palencia
(2 vols) (Madrid: CSIC and Ayuntamiento de Cuenca, 1946), 131.
13
“a consecuencia de una caída que sufrió en el alcázar de Madrid,” Francisco Layna
Serrano, vol. I, Historia de Guadalajara y sus Mendozas en los siglos XV y XVI (Madrid:
Aldus, S.A., 1942), 130; AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 1769.
14
Gutiérrez Coronel, vol II, Historia genealógica, 337–8; AHN, Nobleza, Osuna,
leg. 4283, no. 3.
15
Boys in the Spanish nobility often left home at a relatively early age (between
7 and 14) in pursuit of educations, further training, and future careers in the court or the
army. Their experiences varied, ranging from being educated at home with private tutors, to
education at court, in a relative’s house, at some form of private schooling, or in a religious
stabbed to death accidentally, and another son, Pedro, died while at the University
of Salamanca.16
The nobility expressed their awareness of the fragility of children’s lives in
dynastic and personal terms. In his study of the noble families of sixteenth-century
Granada, James Casey describes a “cult of lineage” that focused on deceased
relatives and the family burial vault to provide stability over time.17 The nobles
in this study had a similar focus and were meticulous about recording the burial
locations of several generations of their dead ancestors. The records included
revealing comments about dead children, especially when those children had been
heirs to the family title. In 1469 the second Count of Arcos, who had at least 16
surviving children, asked in his will to be buried with his eldest son who had died
in battle 10 years previously.18 The Marquis of Villafranca, writing his will in
1625, also requested burial with his dead son.19 In 1658 the fourth Duke of Arcos,
who had lost seven sons before they reached adulthood, asked to be buried in the
Convent of Saint Peter the Martyr in Marchena with “my very dear and beloved
son don Luis Ponce de Leon, marquis de Cahara,” his eldest son and heir who
had died in 1642 at the age of 16. All of these families had other sons, so none of
them faced the dilemma of having no male heir, but their eldest sons obviously
represented something important to them. A Granada nobleman put this sentiment
into words at the birth of his nephew and heir, allegedly giving thanks to God “for
there has come into the world someone to inherit my house.”20 Because the eldest
son was designated to carry the family property and identity into the future, his
death threatened that project.
The noble family’s cult of lineage and its obsession with burial locations did
not focus solely on the eldest male heir, for parents acknowledged and mourned
other dead children in their wills. The seventh Marquis of Villena described his
daughter Teresa as “an angel of the saints of God by having died at the age of three
years.”21 The seventh Duchess of Arcos noted that she and her husband had buried
their three dead sons in the convent of San Cayetano in Madrid under the high
altar, and their only daughter, Teresa, in the Carmelite convent of Saint Teresa. She
instructed her eldest surviving son to move these tiny bodies to Marchena, the seat
institution. Grace E. Coolidge, Guardianship, Gender and the Nobility in Early Modern
Spain (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011), 74–5.
16
Layna Serrano, Historia de Guadalajara, vol. III, 187; Cristina de Arteaga y
Falguera, La casa del Infantado, cabeza de los Mendoza (Madrid: Duque del Infantado,
1940), 345.
17
James Casey, Family and Community in Early Modern Spain: The Citizens of
Granada, 1570–1739 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 168–9.
18
19
20
quoted in Casey, Family and Community, 157.
21
Teresa was dead by 1653 when the marquis wrote his will. AHN, Nobleza, Frias,
leg. 688, no. 5.
of the house of Arcos, and re-inter them “at the feet of Saint Cayetano in memory
and as a sign of our enslavement to the saint.”22 The duchess’s request positioned
her children securely within the burial sites of the Arcos lineage and preserved the
memory of these childhood deaths for the following generations.
The other factor that limited noble parents’ ability to successfully raise their
children was their own premature deaths. The wills of parents of young children
reflect both their fears of leaving small children unprotected and of failing in
their duty to project their lineage into the future. Dying in the middle of winter in
1653, the seventh Marquis of Villena noted in his will that “after the salvation of
my soul, which like a faithful Christian I hope for at the merciful hand of God,
my major care and sorrow are to see the helplessness in which I leave my two
young children and to give security to the youthful years of my esteemed darlings
[who are] the beloved owners of and successors to my house.”23 The marquis’s
language is revealing, demonstrating both his affection for his “darlings” and their
importance to the larger family as the “beloved owners of and successors to my
house.” His anxieties would have been recognized by other noble parents, and the
frequent deaths of parents meant that many noble children, for all their privilege
and wealth, grew up in remarkably unstable families. By the time she was five
years old in 1587, Luisa de Mendoza had lost her father and a younger brother
and sister. Her mother remarried when Luisa was nine, eventually giving Luisa
two half-sisters, one of whom would die as an adolescent.24 Although she lost
two sisters as children, Luisa’s life was most affected by the death of her brother,
which left her to inherit the title of Duchess of Infantado in her own right.
Other noble children lost parents or siblings and thus inherited titles at very
early ages. Juan Pacheco became the Count of Montalbán in 1590 at age four
months when his father died unexpectedly, and Juan’s mother died when he was
only 19.25 The seventh Duke of Arcos died of an accident in 1729 leaving behind
four sons all under the age of 10, three of whom would inherit his title in their
turn.26 The wealth and privilege the nobility valued so highly could not cheat death.
In 1733, five-year-old Pedro Tellez Giron, Duke of Osuna, lived in a luxurious
household, surrounded by plated silver, diamonds, pearls, ebony carving, mirrors,
clocks, cushions, damask tapestries, porcelain, paintings, musical instruments, and
22
“a los pies de San Cayetano, para memoria y en señal de la esclavitud que tenian al
santo.” AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, c. 130, d. 65–8, http://pares.mcu.es.
23
“Y por quanto despues de la salvacion de la alma, que como fiel Christiano espero
de la mano misericordiosa de Dios, mi mayor cuidado, y sentimiento es ver el desemparo
en que quedan mis dos hijos en tan tierna edad, y el dar seguro logro a los cortos años de
prendas tan estimables y queridos dueños, y sucesores de mi casa.” AHN, Nobleza, Frias,
leg. 688, no. 27. Quoted in Coolidge, Guardianship, 66.
24
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 1769, no. 14; leg. 1763, no. 19; Arteaga, vol. II, La casa
del Infantado, 8, 16; AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 1763, no. 22.
25
AHN, Nobleza, Frias, legajo 803, no. 9; leg. 828, no. 4.1.
26
ornate furniture, all of which belonged to him because his father had just died and
he had no siblings.27
Not every noble family was unstable or riddled by the death of children or
parents. In the early 15th century, Alonso Enríquez, the admiral of Castile, lived
to be 75; marrying only once, he raised 12 children to adulthood.28 Almost 200
years later, his direct descendant the Duke of Medina de Ríoseco lived into his
sixties, married only once, and raised seven children to adulthood.29 In fact, James
Casey argues that the “more serious problem than the shortage of male heirs,
at least in the short term, was the too great numbers of offspring born to many
noble houses.”30 In spite of this, however, the nobility, who lived in an intensively
competitive world, were haunted by the fear of how death could disrupt their
families. “Consider how certain death is and how uncertain the hour allotted me”
wrote the Marquis of Cenete, father of 13 children, the eldest of whom was only 23
in 1559 when he wrote his will.31 Uncertainty about when death would strike was a
theme in the formulaic phrases of noble wills. The fifth Duke of Benavente (father
of nine) wrote “we don’t know whether we will be called in times of prosperity or
adversity or in times of age or youth or in times of health or sorrow,” and María
de Mendoza y Fonseca lamented “we do not know when to be afraid.”32 These
fears shaped how the nobility conceptualized their families and their roles as
parents. In order to combat these fears and to consolidate and extend their power,
the nobility invested in the idea of lineage, which used land ownership and the
careers, alliances, and lives of their children to project their families into the future
and overcome the tragedies that might destroy a single generation.
Through the system of inheritance in which noble families acquired land
and then passed it down to their children, the nobility built an identity that could
outlast the damage that death might cause one generation. The families spoke of
memory and the transmission of identity into the future. The seventeenth-century
27
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 48, papeles sueltos, cited in David García Hernán, La
Nobleza en la España Moderna (Madrid: Ediciones Istmo, 1992), 189–90.
28
Milagro Lloréns Casani, Descendientes de D. Alonso Enríquez, I Almirante de
Castilla, vol I (privately published, 1992), Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid (hereafter BNM)
99 GEN ENR; DLi/13891.
29
Lloréns Casani, Descendientes, BN 99 GEN ENR; DLi/13891; AHN, Nobleza,
Osuna, leg. 497, no. 5 and 6.
30
Casey, Early Modern Spain, 146.
31
“considerando qual cierta es la muerte y qual ni cierta la hora acordandome.” AHN,
Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 1763, no. 15.2.
32
The Duke of Benavente’s eldest legitimate son was only 16 when his father died in
1530 shortly after making his will. Ignacio Berdum de Espinosa, Derechos de los Condes de
Benavente a la Grandeza de Primera Clase (Madrid: en la Imprenta de Lorenzo Francisco
Mojados, 1753, reprinted 1997), xviii. “e pues ni sabemos ni seremos llamados en tiempo
de posperidad o adversidad o en tiempo de vejez o de mocedad o en tiempo de sanydad o de
dolencia.” AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 423, no. 12; “no sabemos quando herra temiendo.”
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 1763, no. 16.2.
commentator Moreno de Vargas wrote “since the quality of nobility is neither

corporeal nor visible, and valiant and illustrious nobles die and their qualities
are obscured through the passage of time, men found a way to incorporate their
nobility in an enduring body that could be conserved and perpetuated. This was
by means of the property and the house in which they lived.”33 The ownership of
property, specifically the entailed estate known as the mayorazgo that by-passed
Spanish laws about partible inheritance in order to allow the eldest male to inherit
the title, served as a way for noble families to project themselves into the future.34
When Diego de Zúñiga founded the entail (mayorazgo) that would eventually
form the basis for the duchy of Béjar’s lineage, he used a formulaic clause that
embodied this vision of property stretching through a line of heirs into the future
while at the same time providing for every possible calamity that death could
bring to a noble house. He left his estate to “his eldest son who remains and was
born legitimate and of legitimate matrimony and after him the descendants of
this eldest son will have and inherit, first the male and then the female” because
the property should descend from “father to son for all the male descendants and
[in case of] them dying or if there are not any male descendants then the female
descendants of the said eldest son will inherit …”35 This clause, which features
with some variations in the founding of most mayorazgos, projected the family
into the future through the bodies of its male and female descendants (its children)
while simultaneously setting up a clear hierarchy in the inheritance system. First
the oldest male child inherited. If there were no more males in the family, if death
had taken them all or male children had simply failed to appear, then women
inherited in order to carry the family into a time when another male would be born.
As early as 1397, Diego de Zúñiga insisted that if women inherited his mayorazgo,
their husbands had to take the name and arms of Zúñiga, an action that would
visibly incorporate them into his lineage.36 In the mid-fifteenth century, the second
Count of Arcos solved the problem of his childless marriage by marrying his
long time mistress after his wife’s death and legitimating their eight children, the
eldest of whom, Rodrigo, inherited his title. Rodrigo, in his turn saddled with two
childless marriages, was even more creative. He legitimated his eldest illegitimate
daughter Francisca, left his second wife guardian of Francisca’s legitimate son,
and arranged for the young boy to inherit the title and estate.37 Women (in this case
quoted in Liang, Family and Empire, 42.

33
Casey, Family and Community, 87; for more on Spanish laws and entail, see
34
Bartolomé Clavero, Mayorazgo: propiedad feudal en Castilla, 1369–1836 (Madrid: Siglo

XXI de España Editores, SA, 1989).
35
36
37
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 119, no. 9d; David García Hernán, “Los Grandes
de España en la Epoca de Felipe II: Los Duques de Arcos” (PhD diss., Universidad
Complutense de Madrid, 1992), 336–7.
Rodrigo’s wife and daughter) carried the Arcos family title and wealth until a male
child was born.
In addition to the property and the house, the actions and careers of individual
nobles could help build and strengthen a noble family’s sense of identity. Historian
Yuen-Gen Liang demonstrated in his study of the Fernández de Cordoba lineage
that a family’s service to the Spanish empire came to constitute an enduring identity
for many noble families.38 Active defense of the faith through participation in the
institution of the Catholic Church could also help create a spiritual and political
identity for a noble family. Writing his will in 1615, the third Duke of Arcos
attempted to impose this view on his heirs, informing them that they would be
cursed by him and by God unless they remained “obedient to the Holy Apostolic
Faith and serve[d] the kings with all the loyalty and fidelity, putting their blood and
lives at all possible risk for the defense of the said Holy Apostolic Faith and the
Catholic Faith and service to the kings and to the crown of Castile as our ancestors
have always done.” Some of his vehemence may have stemmed from the fact that
his only son had already died and he envisioned entrusting the future of his family
to his 13-year-old grandson.39 The act of creating a lineage through property, royal
service, and adherence to the Catholic faith imposed a pre-inscribed life trajectory
on noble children.
The vision the nobility had of using property ownership and service to the
church and the crown to create a lineage that would move the family into the
future shaped their mode of parenting as they considered their children, at least
in part, as a means to this end. The seventh Duchess of Arcos articulated why she
had been a good parent in her will in 1739. She stated that she had behaved “with
the best care and attention as regards the said minors’ education and upbringing,
as to the governance of the estates and rents of the house [of Arcos], which I
was able to conserve during the heir’s minority in the splendor and luster that
his father had maintained it.”40 Her definition of good parenting embraced the
care of her children, their property, and the house of Arcos, and was based on the
assumption that caring for and educating her children would benefit that house.
Like the seventh Marquis of Villena, she felt that her children were the “beloved
owners of and successors to” the larger lineage.41
The reverse side of the duchess’s philosophy was that children were expected
to serve the lineage, and their careers and marriages were arranged to benefit this
larger entity. In 1397, when Diego de Zúñiga was setting up the entail that would
38
Liang, Family and Empire, 5.
39
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, c. 125, d. 99–104, http://pares.mcu.es. The duke lived for
15 more years, so his grandson did inherit the title as an adult.
40
“con la mayor vigilancia y atención tanto en lo que mira a la educación y crianza
de los referidos menores, como en el Govierno de los Estaods y rentas de la casa qual en
quanto alcanzaron mi fuerzas procuré conservar durante la menor hedad del sucesor en el
esplendor y lustre que su padre la tenía.” AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, c. 133, d. 5–13.
41
AHN, Nobleza, Frias, leg. 688, no. 27.
become the basis for the lineage of the duchy of Béjar, he positioned his children
carefully. His eldest son inherited the mayorazgo, another son married a princess
from the kingdom of Navarre, and a third son was sent into the church and became
a bishop. One daughter married a member of the king’s household and the other
the son of the Count of Niebla.42 Diego’s will laid out his careful plans in order
to secure each individual child’s future, and (through his attentive parenting) to
benefit the family as a whole by expanding their land, connections, and influence
through his children’s careers and marriage alliances. In 1573, don Luis de
Requesens articulated a similar parenting philosophy, this time designed to benefit
the family by conserving their scarce resources. If he had more than one son, he
wanted one to join the church, one the Order of St. John, and one “the service of
the lord king, each one according to the inclinations he shows.” His first daughter
was honorably married with a dowry, but any additional daughters would need
to join convents or to have a small annuity and live with a female relative.43 The
nobility’s method of parenting was vital to their success as a social class because
in good times it launched a new generation of the noble lineage and extended the
family’s power and wealth into the future, and in bad times it constrained the next
generation to work within their economic limits. At the same time, this method
shaped the early years and educations of noble children by molding their futures
from childhood.
Education
Noble children’s education was designed to equip them in their role of carrying
the family lineage into the future by equipping them with practical skills, courtly
polish, and literary knowledge. Their education started at home where the
nobility’s wealth and privilege could provide luxuries such as libraries and tutors.
Baptismal certificates make clear that most noble children were born at home or
in the houses of close relatives and baptized shortly after their birth. The sixth
Duke of Osuna was born on March 11, 1678 in the house of his close relative and
godfather, the Duke of Uceda, and baptized on March 19th. His younger brother
was born in 1681 in the family’s own house and baptized two weeks later.44 Very
young children remained at home. María de Mendoza indicated that her daughter’s
wet nurse lived in her household with her other ladies-in-waiting, thus keeping
her daughter within the family circle.45 By early adolescence, often around age
14, children were more likely to move between noble households. The Duke of
Linares noted that his 14-year old son was “in my company” in Mexico City where

42
Quoted in Casey, Early Modern Spain, 147. That last clause is unusual. I have never
43
found it in a will, although there is evidence that some unmarried women did live together
or with female relatives.
44
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, c. 18, d. 23–32.
45
he was serving as the viceroy of New Spain, while the Marquis of Santillana lived
with his mother until he was 14 when he moved into the household of his future
father-in-law Lorenzo Suárez de Figueroa, visiting his mother at her request.46
If children were orphaned or could not live with parents, close relatives often
raised them. Pedro Portocarrero, writing his will in 1429, consigned his two young
daughters to the custody of their grandmother, and in 1530 the first Duke of Arcos
specified that after his death his son should live with his uncle and his daughter
should be raised by her aunt.47
Residence within the immediate family exposed noble children to books. The
poet and bibliophile Íñigo López de Mendoza (Marquis of Santillana) recalled that
“at a young age, not more than a small boy, while under my grandmother, lady
Mencía de Cisneros’s care, I saw a great book of mountain poems and Portuguese
and Galician sayings … those who read these works praised their subtle wit and
gracious and sweet words.”48 Noble parents were explicit about the value they
placed on an education, and they expressed that value in terms that embraced
the past and future of their lineage. The first Duke of Infantado (the Marquis of
Santillana’s son) commented in 1475 that he was preserving the family’s library
“because I greatly desire that [my son] and his descendants should dedicate
themselves to study, as … I and our ancestors did, firmly believing our persons
and house to be greatly improved and elevated by it.”49 Almost 100 years later, the
fourth Duke of Infantado commended that still-growing library to his grandson’s
care along with “the falcons, as many as there may be,” thus combining the
practical and the literary in one inclusive clause of his will and fulfilling his great-
great-grandfather’s vision of the future of the library and the family.50 Falconry
was also considered an important part of a noble education, as it outfitted young
men with hunting skills appropriate to their class. The nobility saw libraries (and
education) as possessions that could benefit their lineage as embodied by the
46
The Duke of Linares’s son was illegitimate and the Marquis of Santillana had
lost his father. It is often easier to find custody arrangements for illegitimate or orphaned
children, since noble children with two living, legally married parents were probably raised
at home and nobody thought to comment about this. AHN, Consejos, 4481, no. 23; Beceiro
Pita, Parentesco, poder, y mentalidad, 121.
47
AHN, Nobleza, Frias, leg. 663, no. 29; AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 121, no. 9.
48
Arteaga y Falguera, vol I, La Casa del Infantado, 65–6.
49
Quoted in Helen Nader, The Mendoza Family in the Spanish Renaissance,
1350–1550 (Rutgers: Rutgers University Press, 1979), 181.
50
Nader, The Mendoza Family, 181. Anne Cruz notes that “most of the major book
collections of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries were painstakingly gathered
by learned noblemen, among them Íñigo López de Mendoza, Marquis of Santillana; Diego
Hurtado de Mendoza, Count of Mélito; Diego Sarmiento de Acuña, Count of Gondomar;
and Gaspar de Guzmán, Count-Duke of Olivares.” Anne J. Cruz, “Reading over Men’s
Shoulders: Noblewomen’s Libraries and Reading Practices,” in Women’s Literacy in Early
Modern Spain and the New World, ed. Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández (Farnham,UK:
Ahsgate, 2011), 41–2.
persons of their grandchildren. Access to libraries was perhaps most important to

noble girls who did not pursue studies at the university, but still grew up in a fertile
environment that successfully encouraged many of them to read and own books.
Historian Trevor Dadson has traced the education of Ana de Mendoza, Princess of
Éboli, by examining her parents’ extensive libraries.51
Most noble children began their educations under their parents’ supervision
with access to these private libraries and the added help of private tutors.52 In the
early fifteenth century, Pedro González de Mendoza, the fifth son of the Marquis
of Santillana and future cardinal of Spain, was educated at home by his parents
and tutors until he reached the age of 14.53 In the 1530s the Countess of Miranda
supervised her young son’s education, even teaching him herself when he did not
have a tutor, and Pedro de Velasco’s guardian paid for Pedro’s tutor to live and
eat in his household from the years 1555 to 1558.54 María de Mendoza modified
this pattern by setting up a house in which she installed her three fatherless sons
along with a teacher, a steward, and appropriate servants. She noted that this was
an expensive option which demanded “large quantities of money” that “I have
spent and I still spend” annually.55 Noble girls also benefited from private tutors.
The famous Latin scholar Luisa Sigea was educated by tutors in Portugal, and
Magdalena de Bobadilla, who was literate in Spanish and Latin, provided financial
support for her childhood teacher throughout her adult life.56
Noble education was gendered, but focused on providing both boys and girls
with the literary and social skills they would need to prosper as active members of
a noble family. Noble boys focused on horsemanship, hunting, the management of
arms and weapons, literacy, social skills, and courtliness.57 In the fifteenth century,
Álvaro de Luna’s biographer boasted that by age 10 “he already knew everything
Trevor J. Dadson, “The Education, Books and Reading Habits of Ana de Mendoza
51
y de la Cerda, Princess of Éboli (1540–1592),” in Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain

and the New World, ed. Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández (Farnham, UK: Ashgate,
2011), 79–102.
52
Richard L. Kagan, Students and Society in Early Modern Spain (Baltimore: The
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974), xxi.
53
“con el más exquisito cuidado, atención y buenos maestros en las primeras letras y
gramática.” Gutiérrez Coronel, vol. II, Historia genealógica, 373.
54
AHN, Nobleza, Frias, leg. 539, no. 52. Montserrat Pérez-Toribio, “From Mother to
Daughter: Educational Lineage in the Correspondence between the Countess of Palamós
and Estefania de Requesens,” in Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain and the New
World, ed. Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011), 69.
55
“y he gastado e gasto con ellos mucha cantidad de dinero en cada un año.” AHN,
Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 1763, no. 16.2.
56
Coolidge, Guardianship, 77; Cruz, “Introduction,” in Women’s Literacy in Early
Modern Spain and the New World, ed. Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández (Farnham,
UK: Ashgate, 2011), 4. Both of these young women were close associates of the Mendoza
family.
57
Beceiro Pita, Parentesco, 115–16.
that other boys were beginning to learn. He knew how to read and write at a level
appropriate for a gentleman, and he knew how to ride and to handle a horse well,
and to procure clean and suitable clothes, and to be very gracious in his speech
and countenance.”58 The education of noble girls emphasized different skills but
still combined the practical and the literary. The sixteenth-century moralist Juan
Luis Vives advocated that young women should learn to work with wool and cook,
as well as reading literature, philosophy, and the scriptures.59 The Countess of
Miranda’s education demonstrated the wide range of practical skills that might be
included under the heading of working with wool. She learned to read and write
Catalan as well as the “more sophisticated tasks applicable to the expansion of

a profitable textile business, including the purchase of looms for weaving wool
and the raising of silk worms.”60 The wide range of skills expected from the early
parts of a noble education gave young children a platform from which to take up
their adult roles in the larger family. Both boys and girls would need to manage
property, industries, and the other economic assets of the nobility as well as play
their roles in the polished, literary world of high society and the court.
As they reached adolescence, some noble children went on to study at
specialized schools and universities. A minority of noble girls attended colegios de
amigas (small classes in the private homes of women teachers) or convent schools,
such as the one Brianda de Mendoza y Luna founded in the sixteenth century, for
parts of their education.61 Convent educations were extensive. In the seventeenth
century, Zaragoza noblewoman Ana Francisca Abarca de Bolea was raised from
age three in the Cistercian convent where she later professed. She learned Latin
at a young age and wrote poetry, novels, and hagiographies as an adult.62 Noble
boys bound for religion also needed an extensive education. To prepare for his
ecclesiastical career, Pedro González de Mendoza left home in 1442 at age 14 to
live with his uncle, the Archbishop of Toledo, where “he spent three years studying
rhetoric and history, and there translated Sallust, which he dedicated to his father.”
At age 18, he was sent to the University of Salamanca where he studied canon law
Beceiro Pita, Parentesco, 117–18.

58
Juan Luis Vives, The Education of a Christian Woman: a Sixteenth-Century

59
Manual, trans. and ed. by Charles Fantazzi (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000),
59, 61.
60
Pérez-Toribio, “From Mother to Daughter,” 65, 68.
61
Cruz provides a list of schools for girls founded in the sixteenth and early
seventeenth centuries. Cruz, “Introduction,” 3, note 6; María del Mar Graña Cid, “Mujeres
y educación en la pre-reforma castellana: los colegios de doncellas,” in Las sabias mujeres:
educación, saber, y autoría (siglos III–XVII), ed. María del Mar Graña Cid (Madrid:
Asociación Cultural AL-MUDAYNA, 1994), 127, 130; Coolidge, Guardianship, 74. For
more on women’s education in early modern Spain see Elizabeth Teresa Howe, Education
and Women in the Early Modern Hispanic World (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2008).
62
Cruz, “Introduction,” 4.
and graduated “de doctro in utroque”63 By the sixteenth century Richard Kagan
estimates that between one-quarter and one-third of Castilian noblemen attended
university, extending the benefits of education beyond those boys destined for the
church.64
Noble girls did not attend university and even if they had gone to school, they
often returned to remain at home or in the care of another female relative until
they married or entered a convent. When the Marquise of Zahara wrote her will
in 1626, she noted that her adolescent daughter Elvira “not having attained her
majority remains in my house,” and the Countess of Miranda remained with her
mother until she married at age 22 in 1526.65 Noble girls who remained with their
mothers, aunts, grandmothers, or sisters, however, were not necessarily confined to
an isolated existence in the home, since these women were likely to live and work
at court or in other urban centers where the nobility had financial and commercial
interests. Mothers were important in the early education of boys and crucial to the
entire education of girls. The Countess of Aranda went so far as to write several
treatises on the education of noble children.66 The high level of education obtained
by many noble mothers demonstrates the quality of their own education, which
they were then able to pass on to their daughters. Catalina de Silva, mother of
the Princess of Éboli, owned 288 books in 1570.67 Mencía de Mendoza, who
was childless but helped raise her younger sister and the younger daughter of the
Countess of Miranda, had a collection of 949 books at her death in 1554.68 The
value that these women placed on books, literature, and reading stretched across
the generations and influenced their daughters, nieces, and granddaughters. One of
the most vivid examples of this is the scholarly and unmarried María de Mendoza
who was literate in Greek and Latin and raised her nieces in a household filled
with poetry.69
63
“con el más exquisito cuidado, atención y buenos maestros en las primeras letras y
gramática”; “donde estuvo tres años estudiando Retórica e Historia, y allí tradujo a Salustio,
que dedicó a su padre.” Gutiérrez Coronel, vol. II, Historia genealógica, 373.
64
Richard Kagan, “Universities in Castile, 1500–1810,” in The University in Society,
ed. Lawrence Stone, vol 2 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974), 360–61.
65
“no tiene estado queda en mi casa.” Osuna, c. 125, d. 99–104, http://pares.mcu.es;
Pérez-Toribio, “From Mother to Daughter,” 60.
66
Cruz, “Introduction,” 4.
67
Dadson, “The Education, Books, and Reading Habits of Ana de Mendoza y de la
Cerda,” 86–7.
68
Coolidge, Guardianship, 60; Pérez-Toribio, “From Mother to Daughter,” 74–5;
Cruz, “Reading Over Men’s Shoulders,” 48.
69
See Carmen Vaquero Serrano for a detailed exploration of María de Mendoza’s
education and mentorship of younger women. María del Carmen Vaquero Serrano,
“Books in the Sewing Basket: María de Mendoza y de la Cerda,” in Power and Gender
in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the Mendoza Family, 1450–1650, ed. Helen Nader
(Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004), 93–112.
While this early education developed basic skills for both boys and girls, their
adult roles as members of a larger noble lineage shaped their further educations from
a relatively young age. The two aspects of adulthood that had the most impact on
noble childhood were marriage alliances and careers. The importance of marriage
alliances to the lineage as a whole meant that the nobility arranged marriages for
their children at very early ages, causing marriage and the choice of a partner to
dominate noble childhoods and shape custody and education arrangements for
adolescent children. Noble children were also destined for careers in the church,
the military, and at court. All of these arenas gave them chances to form alliances
and develop opportunities that would further their family’s wealth, power, and
influence.
Marriage and Careers
Noble marriages were explicitly designed to benefit the lineage, thus providing
another example of the ways in which family demands shaped children’s lives.
Yuen-Gen Liang argues that for the nobility
contracting marriage ties was one of the most important acts in the life of
parents and their offspring. The institution not only enabled one generation to
licitly reproduce another; it allowed parents to legally pass the social status,
economic and material resources, and political offices that they had earned in
their lifetimes to their progeny. This process helped create and perpetuate the
hierarchies that structured society.70
Since the nobility sat at the top of those hierarchies, they were invested in
creating and perpetuating them in ways that would benefit themselves. Carefully
arranged marriages allowed them to extend and consolidate their property, power,
and influence. Not surprisingly, the need to arrange advantageous marriages
dominated noble childhoods as much as future careers did. Parents scrambled to
protect both their children and their families by creating suitable alliances that
would shape their adult lives. In 1408 the 10-year-old Marquis of Santillana was
formally betrothed to Catalina Suárez de Figueroa. The marriage was formalized
in 1412, but not consummated until two years later when Iñigo was 16.71 Likewise,
Ana de Mendoza, Duchess of Pastrana and her father’s heiress, was married in
1553 at age 12 with the stipulation that the marriage not be consummated until at
least two years had passed. Ana remained with her parents while her new husband,
Ruy Gómez, Prince of Éboli, travelled to England and Flanders with Philip II.
70
71
Luis Salazar y Castro, Historia genealógica de la casa de Haro, ed. Dalmiro de
la Válgoma y Díaz-Varela (Madrid: Real Academia de Historia, 1959), 409. Arteaga y
Falguera, La casa del Infantado, 69.
Four years later, at the age of 16, Ana was pregnant with the couple’s first child.72
In turn, Ana arranged for her own eldest daughter to marry at age 13.73
The nobility’s awareness of how death could cripple families is visible in the
marriage arrangements they made for young children. Luis Enríquez, the second
Duke of Medina de Ríoseco, was formally betrothed to Ana de Cabrera y Moncada
in 1515 when he was barely five years old. This marriage agreement settled his
future, that of his bride who was probably of a similar age, and that of their siblings
since the agreement stipulated that “in case lady Ana dies before celebrating the
marriage with sir Luis” then Luis was obligated to marry one of Ana’s younger
sisters and if Luis died before the marriage could be celebrated then Ana would
marry one of his younger brothers. In addition to worrying about the possible
deaths of young children, the families making this agreement were concerned
about the deaths of parents. The capitulations go on to stipulate that if the mothers
of the young couple should die and their fathers remarry “then between them
they should keep the same rule, order, and obligation to marry the children of one
house to the children of the other.”74 These marriage arrangements were designed
to combat death and to keep the lineages aligned even if the individuals involved
did not survive. The fears were reasonable. The ninth Duke of Medina de Ríoseco
was married at age four, lost his first bride, and was married again to her younger
sister at age nine.75 Contracting a successful and lasting marriage was an ongoing
parental challenge.
Some of the most blatant examples of marriages that served the interests of
inherited property were those between very close relatives. The alliances of several
generations of the counts of Tendilla in the sixteenth century illustrate this point.
The third count, Luis Hurtado de Mendoza, married a distant cousin, Catalina de
Mendoza. Their son Iñigo married his distant cousin María, and their son Luis
married his aunt Catalina.76 Heiresses especially could be assured that they must
marry a close relative. The sixth Duchess of Infantado, who inherited the title after
the death of her four brothers, married first her paternal uncle and then her first
cousin.77 In the spring of 1716 the sixth Duke of Osuna expressed the reasons for
these marriages as he begged his 18-year-old daughter to marry his brother and
Dadson, “The Education,” 80–81.

72
Helen Reed, “Mother Love in the Renaissance: The Princess of Éboli’s Letters
73
to her Favorite Son,” in Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the
Mendoza Family, 1450–1650, ed. Helen Nader (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois
Press, 2004), 158, 160.
74
“en el caso de que Da Ana muriese antes de celebrar el matrimonio con D. Luis”;
“que entre ellos se guardase la misma regla, orden, y obligacion de casar los hijos de la una
casa con los hijos de la otra.” AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 497, no. 3.
75
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 497, no. 11b. The second marriage took place in 1605.
76
Gutiérrez Coronel, vol II, Historia genealógica, 337–40.
77
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 1763, no. 19; leg. 1764, no. 1; leg. 1763, no. 22.
thus secure the succession since he had no sons. The marriage would benefit the
family, he argued, since the couple would preserve “our house and estates within
the same branch and bloodline and not subject them to litigation or the possibility
of division.”78 Noble marriages were also designed to make allies for the family.
When Ana de Mendoza was married to Ruy Gómez, Prince of Éboli, at age 12 her
family hoped that this intimate connection with the king’s favorite courtier would
help them triumph in their rivalry with the dukes of Alba.79
While it is easy to see that the parental strategy of arranged marriages benefited
the lineage by helping to preserve the status, power, and wealth of a noble family,
the nobility themselves also perceived their strategies as benefiting their children.
Dividing up his worldly goods in 1615, the third Duke of Arcos stated that he had
already done his duty by his daughter María, the Countess of Benavente, because
he had “endowed [her] competently with the said one hundred thousand ducados
and married [her] into such a grand house as the Benavente.”80 While the dukes of
Arcos certainly benefited from a close connection with the counts of Benavente,
the implication in his will is that María herself had benefited by marrying into the
wealth and status that she, as a daughter of a duke, deserved. When the nobility
arranged their children’s careers and shortened their childhoods with advantageous
marriages, they were working to benefit the lineage so that it would support those
children with the wealth and status to which they were accustomed.
Family strategies that involved the marriages of some children simultaneously
encouraged cloistering others. When the Duke of Arcos threatened his descendants
with his curse if they did not carry out his vision of the lineage’s future, he began
by emphasizing the importance of protecting, defending, and serving the Catholic
faith.81 Noble families systematically upheld this vision by dedicating some of their
children to careers in the Church. This was at the same time a way to provide for
the family’s spiritual future, an investment in one of the most powerful institutions
in early modern Spain, and a means of consolidating the family’s financial assets
to avoid the rising cost of marriage dowries. The importance of church careers to
the family and lineage meant that children started preparing for them at an early
age. In 1627 Leonor de Guzmán told the courts that her son Diego was destined for
the church and would receive his first tonsure at age seven.82 By the time church-
bound boys became adolescents, they were already completing the educational
requirements for their adult roles.
78
“conservando los dos en un mismo tronco y sangre su casa y estados y no
poner la a litigio y a la contengencia de dividirse.” AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, c. 18, d. 13,
79
Dadson, “The Education,” 80.
80
“y ten atento que la dicha condesa mi hija fue dotada competentemente con los
dichos cien mil ducados y case con tan Gran casa como la de Benavente.” AHN, Nobleza,
Osuna, c. 125, d. 99–104, http://pares.mcu.es.
81
82
While formal religious profession technically marked the end of childhood,

there is abundant evidence that parents were still involved in the lives of their
church-bound adolescent children. As she lay dying in December of 1662, the
fourth Duchess of Arcos worried about the future of her son Joseph who was
destined for a career in the church. In her will, the duchess asked her brother,
Cardinal Pascual de Aragón to “take special care” of the adolescent Joseph who
was currently a student at the university college in Cuenca and who would be
“abandoned” on her death before he could start his studies at Salamanca. While
Joseph had the financial backing needed for a career in the church, his mother felt
he needed the patronage (and perhaps supervision) of his distinguished uncle to

advance his education. “I would die desolate if I did not have the assurance that
I do that [my brother] will care for him with much kindness” she concluded.83
Deprived of the chance to finish her parenting, the Duchess of Arcos turned to the
larger lineage she and her son were both part of to help him move on to the next
stage of his life and to protect the family’s financial investment in his ecclesiastical
career.
A child’s career in the church was a substantial investment for a noble family,
although it was often less expensive than marriage. In preparation, young boys
needed an extensive formal education, a patron, and a base of financial support
that could pay for their education and provide them with a congrua, or patrimony,
that would enable them to receive the tonsure. Young girls needed a convent
dowry, the means to furnish their cell, a gratuity to celebrate their formal entrance
ceremony, and a pension to support them during the year of their novitiate.84 In
exchange for this investment, noble parents could know that their children were
protected, secure, and bound for a career that would offer spiritual benefits to the
rest of the family. Yuen-Gen Liang argues that the Convent of Santa Clara became
the physical embodiment of the Fernández de Córdoba lineage, containing the
bones of their ancestors as well as their living daughters.85
In addition to its spiritual benefits, a career in the church also provided a
socially acceptable and potentially powerful role for younger children. In the late
fourteenth century, the first Duke of Béjar’s brother was the Bishop of Jaén, while
his sixth son was the Bishop of Osma, and his seventh the Archbishop of Seville,
providing the family with a group of high-ranking churchmen as their staunch
allies.86 Perhaps the most spectacularly successful younger son was the Marquis of
Santillana’s fourth son Pedro Gónzalez de Mendoza who, as we have seen, became
“tenga especial cuidado”; “desamparado”; “muriera muy desconsolada si no

83
hubiera la confianza que tengo de que cuidara d’el con mucha fineza.” AHN, Nobleza,
Osuna, c. 127, d. 124–32, http://pares.mcu.es.
84
Casey, Family and Community, 92, 107.
85
86
AHN, Osuna, c. 124, d. 21–9, http://pares.mcu.es; Luis Salazar y Castro, Historia
genealógica de la casa de Silva, vol. I (Madrid: Por Melchor Álvarez de Llanos, 1697),
322.
the Bishop of Sigüenza and Abbot of Valladolid, then Archbishop of Toledo, and
finally a cardinal. In addition to his church career, he was a key player in Isabel
of Castile’s bid for the throne and an important member of her government.87 The
church careers of noble daughters were also potential assets to their families. The
first Duke of Arcos had two younger sisters who were abbesses, while the third
Duke of Gandía’s only sister was the abbess of the convent of Poor Clares in
Gandía and his daughter Juana the abbess of a convent in Madrid.88
Even if a younger son or daughter did not rise to a powerful role within the
church hierarchy, their church career was often designed to consolidate family
resources. In 1524, Felipa de Villena, daughter of the counts of Belalcázar, entered

the convent of St. Clara of the Column in Belalcázar. Felipa left her inheritance,
which was a third of the family land that lay outside the entailed estate, to her
two younger brothers, Antonio and Luis. Her will stipulated that if her brothers
died without children, this land should be incorporated back into the entail, thus
becoming inalienable. Both Antonio and Luis became monks, thereby insuring
that Felipa’s inheritance (and probably theirs too) did go back into the entail to
be passed down the lineage to future counts of Belalcázar.89 The complex family
planning that cloistered three of the four surviving children of this generation was
not an isolated incident. The Fernández de Córdoba, a medieval noble family from
southern Spain, produced families that averaged more than seven children per
generation, almost all of whom married. As Spain assumed imperial status and the
Fernández de Córdoba became an imperial noble family, with attendant expenses,
the need to conserve resources to meet these new challenges obliged two entire
generations of women to profess as nuns. Put in the larger context, while the
medieval Fernández de Córdoba clan cloistered 9 percent of its children, the early
modern family cloistered 28 percent.90 Their parenting techniques helped secure a
successful transition as a powerful force in the rising Spanish empire by dictating
the career paths of their children and consolidating family resources away from
the rising costs of marriage dowries.
Another option that could extend family influence, conserve family resources,
and provide a future for those younger sons who were not killed in the process
was a military career. In 1615 the third Duke of Arcos articulated this strategy
through the legacies he left his grandsons. The eldest grandson, Rodrigo, received
87
Peggy Liss, Isabel the Queen: Life and Times (Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 89, 203; Gutíerrez Coronel, vol II, Historia genealógica, 373,
379; AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 1858, no. 7; leg. 1760, no. 1.
88
García Hernán, “Los Grandes de España,” 337; AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 538,
no. 3.5b; leg. 539, no. 2.43.
89
AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, leg. 326, no. 35–7. For more on the economic power of
Spanish convents and the women who administered them, see Elizabeth A. Lehfeldt,
Religious Women in Golden Age Spain: The Permeable Cloister (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate,
2005).
90
Liang, Family and Empire, 106–7.
the estate, the title, and “two of the best horses that I leave,” while his younger
brother Luis inherited “the best and most complete sets of my armor for [fighting]
on foot and on horseback.”91 Rodrigo became the fourth Duke of Arcos, and Luis
went into the military. The expectation of military service could shape a boy’s
childhood, and the actual service itself could start at a very young age. The second
Duke of Arcos brought along his 13-year-old son to participate in putting down the
Revolt of the Alpujarras in 1569.92 The seventh Duchess of Arcos noted that she
had been the guardian of her younger son until he emerged “out from the patria
potestas” in 1734 to “enter military service” at age 15.93
This career choice was, of course, a terrible risk. The Duchess of Arcos’s son
died “without succession in Italy of the grave wounds he received in the Battle of
Campo Soto,” in 1743, and the youngest son of the eighth Duke of Béjar died “in
the army in Catalonia” in 1655 before reaching the age of 22.94 The Spanish nobility
were prepared to pay this price. When Martín Fernández de Córdoba’s younger
brother was killed in Italy fighting the Turks in 1529, Martín wrote to Charles
V expressing his grief but also articulating his vision that the role of the next
generation of his family was to replace their elders in imperial service: “Because
at present there is no child of mine who is of age to send to Your Majesty’s service
in the place of my brother I offer Don Francisco de Benavides, my nephew …
whom I have cared for as a member of my own house in order that Your Majesty is
served by him in this campaign.”95 Martín’s commitment to serving the empire led
him to educate the next generation, his children and nephews, to take the place of
his brothers in the line of fire. This parenting strategy, although performed at great
personal cost, was successful. Just as cloistering their daughters had conserved
their resources, sacrificing their sons helped the Fernández-Cordoba to power and
prominence in the growing Spanish empire.
Luckily for the nobility, service to the crown was not always this costly.
Generations of noble children were trained to serve the crown as young
ambassadors of their families while acquiring the networks of contacts they would
need to make their way through early modern politics. The world of the royal
court drew young nobles together with their peers, giving them a chance to form
the bonds and alliances that they would draw on for support throughout their adult
lives. In the early sixteenth century, the son of the Count of Benavente, two sons
of the Duke of Medinaceli, a son of the Marquis of Villafranca, and a son of the
Count of Santiesteban del Puerto were all in service together in Empress Isabel
“dos caballos de los mejores que yo dejare”; “se den las mejores de mis arma de a
91
pie y de a caballo muy cumplidas.” AHN, Nobleza, Osuna, c. 125, d. 99–104, http://pares.
mcu.es.
92
Casey doesn’t state which son participated. Casey, Family and Community, 12.
93
94
AHN, Nobleza, Frias, c. 830, no. 25, http://pares.mcu.es; Osuna, c. 121, d. 51–81,
95
of Portugal’s court.96 Serving in the royal court taught noble boys the polish and
address they needed to embark on diplomatic careers; it advanced their educations,
and brought them to the notice of the royal family.
Noble girls of various ages also benefited from introduction to the royal court,
as it provided them with an education, a chance to form bonds and personal
relationships with royalty, and exposure to eligible marriage partners. Iberian
courts became known for their well-educated women. Isabel of Castile hired
professionals to teach the young ladies of her court to read, write, sing, dance,
and play musical instruments.97 In the sixteenth century, the Count of Mélito’s
youngest daughter, María, grew up in the imperial court, taking up residence there
when she was somewhere between four and six years old, traveling to France as
companion to Queen Leonor of Austria when she was only eight, and not returning
to Spain until she was 18 in 1540 or 1541. In addition to a close bond with the
queen, María received an outstanding education that shaped her later life.98 The
Princess of Éboli and Magdalena de Bobadilla were also raised and educated in
royal courts.99 In addition to an outstanding education, noble girls could benefit
from marriage alliances that were formed in the context of the royal court. Ana
Manrique grew up in Isabel of Castile’s court under the care of her grandmother
who was a lady-in-waiting, and in 1493 Isabel arranged Ana’s marriage to her close
relative Rodrigo de Mendoza and contributed a sizeable sum to Ana’s dowry.100 In
1553 the future Philip II arranged a marriage between Ana de Mendoza, who had
grown up in the court of his sister Juana, and Rodrigo Gómez de Silva. The prince
contributed 6,000 ducats in annual rents as part of the couple’s entailed estate.101
One of the benefits of these marriages was the financial assistance provided by the
crown that helped noble families cope with the rising costs of dowries and enabled
them to continue to create beneficial marriage alliances for their daughters.
***
The nobility’s parenting style was vital to their success as a social class. In good
times it extended the family’s wealth and power into the future through prestigious
careers, advantageous marriage alliances, and spiritual and political allies within
the church. In difficult economic circumstances the nobility were able to shape
their children’s futures in ways that limited economic expense and conserved
resources. Early modern children were fragile, and their frequent loss complicated
96
97
Vaquero Serrano, “Books in the Sewing Basket,” 94.
98
Vaquero Serrano, “Books in the Sewing Basket,” 94.
99
Ronald E. Surtz, “In Search of Juana de Mendoza,” in Power and Gender in
Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the Mendoza Family, 1450–1650, ed. Helen Nader
(Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004), 59.
100
Surtz, “In Search of Juana de Mendoza,” 60.
101
Dadson, “The Education,” 80.
the smooth transfer of property and power that noble families depended on. In
addition, parents were themselves fragile; their early demise could again threaten
the intergenerational continuity that was so vital to the survival of these families.
To protect their families and ensure the lineage, the nobility invested heavily in
their children’s futures by financing educations and dowries. In turn, they expected
their children to submit to having their future arranged to benefit the well-being
of the entire lineage. Advantageous marriages and careers in the church, court,
and military were assigned to different offspring according to the needs of the
lineage, and these complicated plans shaped noble children and their childhoods
by determining education levels and custody arrangements. This focus on the

lineage complicates our understanding of traditional gender roles since both boys
and girls were educated as potential assets to their families. While they could not
join the military, young women could look forward to possibly prestigious careers
in the church or the royal court or as active participants in the care of family and
property, while young men often found themselves accepting career, education, or
marriage plans made for them by their older female relatives.
When death fractured families, the nobility survived through implementing
inheritance strategies such as extensive entails that allowed titles and property
to pass on to the next viable heir and preserve the larger perception of the
family. While individual noble parents expressed affection and concern for their
children (often in the form of grief at their loss), the nobility as a whole viewed
their collective children as an asset to the entire lineage. Through the system of
inheritance in which noble families acquired land and then passed it down to their
children, the nobility built an identity that outlasted the damage that death could
cause in one generation. This system also shaped the lives of children, binding
them to the idea of lineage from a very early age as their marriages were arranged
and their careers settled during their earliest years. The nobility’s parenting style
left their children with little personal choice about their futures, but often secured
them immense wealth and power when their noble lineage benefited from the
careful plans of earlier generations.
Works Cited
Primary Sources
Archivo Histórico Nacional, Sección Nobleza, Toledo

Fondo Osuna: legajos 14, 18, 119, 121, 124, 125, 127, 128, 130, 133, 326, 423,
497, 538, 539, 1760, 1763, 1764, 1766, 1769, 1858, 2028, 4283.
Fondo Frías: legajos 663, 668, 803, 828, 830.
Archivo Histórico Nacional, Madrid

Consejos: legajo 4487.
Berdum de Espinosa, Ignacio. Derechos de los Condes de Benavente a la Grandeza

de Primera Clase. Madrid: en la Imprenta de Lorenzo Francisco Mojados,
1753, reprinted 1997.
Gutiérrez Coronel, Diego. Historia genealógica de la casa de Mendoza, edited
by Angel González de Palencia. Madrid: CSIC and Ayuntamiento de Cuenca,
1946.
Lloréns Casani, Milagro. Descendientes de D. Alonso Enríquez, I Almirante de
Castilla, vol. I. Privately published, 1992.

Salazar y Castro, Luis. Historia genealógica de la casa de Haro, edited by Dalmiro
de la Válgoma y Díaz-Varela. Madrid: Real Academia de Historia, 1959.
———. Historia genealógica de la casa de Silva. Madrid: Por Melchor Álvarez
y Mateo de Llanos, 1697.
Vives, Juan Luis. The Education of a Christian Woman: A Sixteenth-Century
Manual, edited and translated by Charles Fantazzi. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 2000.
Secondary Sources
Arteaga y Falguera, Cristina de. La casa del Infantado, cabeza de los Mendoza,
2 vols, Madrid: Duque del Infantado, 1940.
Baranda Leturio, Nieves. “Women’s Reading Habits: Book Dedications to Female
Patrons in Early Modern Spain.” In Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain
and the New World, edited by Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández, 19–39.
Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011.
Beceiro Pita, Isabel and Ricardo Córdoba de la Llave. Parentesco, poder y
mentalidad: la nobleza castellana, siglos XII–XV. Madrid: Consejo Superior
de Investigaciones Científicas, 1990.
Casani, Milagro Lloréns. Descendientes de D. Alonso Enríquez, I Almirante de
Castilla. 2 vols, privately published, 1992.
Casey, James. Early Modern Spain: A Social History. London and New York:
Routledge Press, 1999.
———. Family and Community in Early Modern Spain: The Citizens of Granada,
1570–1739. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007.
Clavero, Bartolomé. Mayorazgo: propiedad feudal en Castilla, 1369–1836.
Madrid: Siglo XXI de España Editores, SA, 1989.
Coolidge, Grace E. “Contested Masculinity: Noblemen and Their Mistresses in
Early Modern Spain.” In Contested Spaces of the Nobility in Early Modern
Europe, edited by Matthew P. Romaniello and Charles Lipp, 61–83. Farnham,
UK: Ashgate, 2011.
———. Guardianship, Gender, and the Nobility in Early Modern Spain. Farnham,
UK: Ashgate, 2011.
Cruz, Anne J. “Introduction.” In Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain and the
New World, edited by Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández, 1–16. Farnham,
UK: Ashgate, 2011.
———. “Reading Over Men’s Shoulders: Noblewomen’s Libraries and Reading
Practices.” In Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain and the New World,
edited by Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández, 41–58. Farnham, UK: Ashgate,
2011.
Cruz, Anne J., and Rosilie Hernández, eds. Women’s Literacy in Early Modern
Spain and the New World. Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011.
Dadson, Trevor J. “The Education, Books, and Reading Habits of Ana de

Mendoza y de la Cerda, Princess of Éboli (1540–1592).” In Women’s Literacy
in Early Modern Spain and the New World, edited by Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie
Hernández, 79–102. Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011.
García Hernán, David. La nobleza en la España moderna. Madrid: Ediciones
Istmo, 1992.
———. “Los grandes de España en la época de Felipe II: Los duques de Arcos.”
PhD diss., Universidad Complutense de Madrid, 1992.
Howe, Elizabeth Teresa. Education and Women in the Early Modern Hispanic
World. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2008.
Kagan, Richard L. Students and Society in Early Modern Spain. Baltimore: The
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974.
———. “Universities in Castile, 1500–1810.” In The University in Society, edited
by Lawrence Stone. 2 vols, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974.
Layna Serrano, Francisco. Historia de Guadalajara y sus Mendozas en los siglos
XV y XVI. 4 vols, Madrid: Aldus, S.A., 1942.
Lehfeldt, Elizabeth A. Religious Women in Golden Age Spain: The Permeable
Cloister. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2005.
Liang, Yuen-Gen. Family and Empire: The Fernández de Córdoba and the Spanish
Realm. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011.
Liss, Peggy. Isabel the Queen: Life and Times. Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 2004.
Mar Graña Cid, María del, ed. Las sabias mujeres: educación, saber, y autoría
(siglos III–XVII). Madrid: Asociación Cultural AL-MUDAYNA, 1994.
———. “Mujeres y educación en la pre-reforma castellana: los colegios de
doncellas.” In Las sabias mujeres: educación, saber, y autoría (siglos
III–XVII), edited by María del Mar Graña Cid. Madrid: Asociación Cultural
AL-MUDAYNA, 1994.
Nader, Helen. The Mendoza Family in the Spanish Renaissance, 1350–1550.
Rutgers: Rutgers University Press, 1979.
———. “Noble Income in Sixteenth-Century Castile: The Case of the Marquises
of Mondéjar.” Economic History Review 30 (1977): 411–28.
———, ed. Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the Mendoza
Family, 1450–1650. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004.
Pérez-Toribio, Montserrat. “From Mother to Daughter: Educational Lineage

in the Correspondence between the Countess of Palamós and Estefania de
Requesens.” In Women’s Literacy in Early Modern Spain and the New World,
edited by Anne J. Cruz and Rosilie Hernández, 59–77. Farnham, UK: Ashgate,
2011.
Reed, Helen. “Mother Love in the Renaissance: The Princess of Éboli’s Letters to
Her Favorite Son.” In Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women
of the Mendoza Family, 1450–1650, edited by Helen Nader, 152–76. Urbana
and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004.
Romaniello, Matthew P. and Charles Lipp, eds. Contested Spaces of the Nobility
in Early Modern Europe. Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011.
Sherwood, Joan. Poverty in Eighteenth-Century Spain: The Women and Children
of the Inclusa. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1988.
Stone, Lawrence, ed. The University in Society. 2 vols, Princeton: Princeton
Surtz, Ronald E. “In Search of Juana de Mendoza.” In Power and Gender in
Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the Mendoza Family, 1450–1650, edited
by Helen Nader, 48–70. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press,
2004.
Vaquero Serrano, Carmen. “Books in the Sewing Basket: María de Mendoza y
de la Cerda.” In Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of
the Mendoza Family, 1450–1650, edited by Helen Nader, 93–112. Urbana and
Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004.

Chapter 11
The Castigation and Abuse of Children
Edward Behrend-Martínez
To the mule and to the boy, to the behind.1
The portrait of child abuse in early modern Spain has a dark background: obscure,
but with swatches of red. It is only illuminated by the faint light of innocence
whose source is hidden and the hope of love and peace in flight. Children born
into seventeenth-century Catholic society did not simply enter any other violent
society. They entered a Baroque culture that worshiped blood (the blood of Christ),
celebrated suffering, and praised justice meted out through corporal punishment,
punctuated by grisly executions. There was always hope that love and peace might
prevail over the violence of everyday life, but such hope was fleeting.
In the foreground of such a historical portrait lie the subjects: innocent children,
often bound by poverty, blindfolded by ignorance, and unclothed awaiting the
outcome of a struggle between the violent rage of a society in conflict and the
mercy of mother and Church. The contemporary Roman painting by Bartolomeo
Manfredi (1580/87–1620/21) below, then, serves as an apt metaphor of child abuse
in early modern Spain: in it Venus (goddess of love) battles Mars (the violent—and
sadistically unjust—god of war) over the whipping of Cupid, the mischievous god
of erotic love (Figure 11.1).2 In the Spanish context we might even call Cupid a
pícaro. In the upper right corner a white dove, symbolizing peace, love, innocence,
flies away. The painting also conveys other messages: the innocence of Cupid as
displayed by his pale skin, his blindfold, and nakedness appears in stark contrast
to the shadowy, angry figure cast by Mars. Throughout mythology Mars’s violence
was always bloody and unjust: abusive. Venus tries to calm Mars to prevent the
beating. Like the painting, this essay aims to describe a particular kind of violence,
1
Unless otherwise stated, all translations are my own. “Al mulo y al muchacho, al
rabo,” Luis Martínez Kleiser, ed. Refranero general ideológico español (Madrid: Editorial
Hernando,1982), 520. I would like to thank several scholars for feedback and direction
in the composition of this essay: Mary Valante and Grace Coolidge and my colleagues
in the Appalachian State University European History writing seminar: Michael Behrent,
Alima Bucciantini, Craig Caldwell, Jari Eloranta, Joe Gonzalez, Lucinda McCray, and
Jason White.
2
Alfred Moir, “An Examination of Bartolomeo Manfredi’s Cupid Chastised,” Art
Institute of Chicago Museum Studies 11 (Spring 1985): 157–67.
250 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Behrend-Martínez
including its social and cultural contexts, and outline its protagonists and subjects.
Several rhetorics of violence provide the colors, if you will, to paint this picture
of child abuse: the Christian expression of penance, the Counter-Reformation’s
emphasis on patriarchal hierarchy, social order and discipline, and the discourse of
the innocence of children and the weak.3
Considering how accepted and ubiquitous interpersonal violence was in early
modern Europe it might be hard to imagine that Spaniards entertained any notion
of child abuse.4 It can be difficult to see the historical outlines of child abuse in a
society that celebrated violence in so many of its forms. One might also argue that
to look for child abuse in such a distant past is to project a modern sensibility into
that past.5 But Spaniards actually did express deep concern over violence toward
children and their neglect, though in contexts and for reasons different from today.
Physical discipline of children occasionally reached socially intolerable levels, and
people responded. This chapter argues that Spanish Baroque society celebrated
violence and pain, even in childhood. Nonetheless, Spaniards understood clear
limits to the legitimate physical correction of children. It will show that violence
against children outside the family context was abusive; violence against children
within the household, however, was above all criticism.
The practice of child castigation, the construction of its image, and the telling
of it supported the patriarchal family structure and the Church while it undermined
the authority of other institutions and relationships, such as the student-teacher
hierarchy discussed below.6 Early modern Spanish culture defined child abuse as
Regarding the discourse of the innocence of children see Darcy Donahue’s essay on
3
Pedro Luján’s Coloquios matrimoniales in this volume.

4
For a general discussion of violence in early modern Europe and Spain see Julius R.
Ruff, Violence in Early Modern Europe, 1500–1800, New Approaches to European History
(Cambridge, UK and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001); Tomás A. Mantecón
Novellan, “The Patterns of Violence in Early Modern Spain,” Journal of The Historical
Society 7 (2007): 229–64; José Ignacio Fortea Pérez, Juan Eloy Gelabert González, and
Tomás A. Mantecón, Furor et rabies: violencia, conflicto y marginación en la Edad
Moderna (Santander: Servicio de Publicaciones de la Universidad de Cantabria, 2002).
5
I use the term “abuse” in this essay to mean illegitimate violence in the view of
contemporaries. Illegitimate violence was most often called “malos tratos” or “malos
tratamientos,” and could refer both to domestic violence or fights in the street or in Church.
The English word “abuse” originally came from the Latin meaning: to misuse something.
Its violent meaning is an outgrowth of this, to misuse a person, sexually or physically. The
Spanish malos tratamientos, literally “bad treatment” therefore is a synonym.
6
For treatments of the patriarchal household in early modern Europe and Spain see
James Casey, Family and Community in Early Modern Spain: the Citizens of Granada,
1570–1739 (Cambridge, UK and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Scott.
H. Hendrix, “Masculinity and Patriarchy in Reformation Germany,” in Masculinity
in the Reformation Era, ed. Scott. H. and Susan C. Karant-Nunn Hendrix (Kirksville,
MO: Truman State University Press, 2008), 71–91; María Victoria López-Cordón and
Montserrat Carbonell i Esteller, Historia de la mujer e historia del matrimonio (Murcia:
Universidad de Murcia, Servicio de Publicaciones, 1997); Tomás A. Mantecón Novellán,
The Castigation and Abuse of Children in Early Modern Spain 251
Fig. 11.1 Bartolomeo Manfredi, Italian, 1582–1622, Cupid Chastised, 1613,

oil on canvas, 69 × 51 3/8 in., Charles H. and Mary F.S. Worcester
Collection, 1947.58, The Art Institute of Chicago.
1) violence that permanently scarred a child’s body, 2) the material neglect of a

child (food and clothing), and/or 3) an authority other than a parent who employed
illegitimate violence against a child. As such, abuse happened according to
discourses of illegitimate violence quite different from the modern discussion of
child abuse. Spaniards clearly deemed certain types of violence toward minors as
excessive—drawing blood, bruising or maiming, for instance. They took material
neglect of dependents by fathers as a very serious form of abuse. On the other
hand, when it came to physical abuse, it is difficult to find any formal criticism of
parental physical violence against children. Rather, early modern Spaniards nearly
always restricted their disapproval of physical abuse to non-blood relationships:

teacher/student, master/servant, nanny/child, or step-parent/step-child. Modern
concern over child abuse focuses to a large extent on violence parents do to their
own children. Early modern discussions of child abuse, on the contrary, bolstered
the legitimacy of parental violence as discipline, and reserved “abuse” as an
accusation against schoolmasters, masters, step-parents, neighbors, and nannies.
Gender is a further consideration regarding castigation and abuse. There are many
factors that would seem to have singled out boys, rather than girls, as objects
of castigation. There was, for instance, an ever present worry that unsupervised
and improperly reared boys would grow up to become petty criminals. And much
castigation occurred in classrooms; because boys were far more likely to attend
grammar school than girls, they would have been more subject to abuse. But
much evidence shows that girls could often be subjected to much the same kind
of punishment as boys. As far as delinquency, there was an equal fear that an
uncontrolled girl would turn to prostitution while her brother would become the
thief. The many depictions of female picaras in literature attest to this kind of
gender equality in crime.7 Women’s own descriptions of punishments that they
received also show that adults considered girls deserving of as much castigation
as boys.
If Spaniards did have some view of what was truly abusive, then how did early
modern Spaniards understand and deal with child abuse? Child abuse is a difficult
but important and wide-ranging question; it is a crucial question if historians are
to understand the lives of children in the past at all exactly because they grew
up in such a violent world. The task is made more difficult than other aspects of
La muerte de Antonia Isabel Sánchez: tiranía y escándalo en una sociedad rural del
norte español en el Antiguo Régimen (Alcalá de Henares, Madrid: Centro de Estudios
Cervantinos, 1997); Carolyn A. Nadeau, “Blood Mother/Milk Mother: Breastfeeding, the
Family, and the State in Antonio De Guevara’s ‘Relox De Principes (Dial of Princes),’”
Hispanic Review 69 (2001): 153–74. On childhood in general in early modern Europe
see Louis Haas, The Renaissance Man and his Children: Childbirth and Early Childhood
in Florence, 1300–1600 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998); Nicolas Orme, Medieval
Children (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2001).
7
For discussion of female picaras see Enriqueta Zafra, Prostituidas por el texto:
discurso prostibulario en la picaresca femenina (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University,
2009).
daily life because there are few sources that reveal the everyday lives of children.
Furthermore, modern definitions of abuse might constitute everything from verbal
abuse to child labor to disciplining to infanticide. Answering how early modern
Spaniards conceptualized and handled child abuse is made more difficult because
“abuse” was and is a highly relative and contextual term. Who defined an action as
abuse: the individual, neighbors, parents, the Church, or secular authorities? And
whether an act was abusive or not was always a contested issue.
Spanish court documents, autobiographies, hagiographies, didactic, and
picaresque literature all help illuminate the characteristics of childhood violence
and the factors that mitigated it. Looking for child abuse in the past it is easy
to want to begin with the courts, that venue that we assume, from a modern
perspective, deals most often with the crime of child abuse. Spain’s court systems
in the early modern period were famously well developed and hints and brief
descriptions of child abuse do appear among documents in the thousands of
judicial archives throughout Spain. References to violence against children were
sporadic, though, and usually couched in cases concerning some kind of family
dispute or interpersonal violence.
So considering that parental battery of children was not a crime per se in the
early modern period, types of sources need to be considered other than criminal
court records. The evidence of child abuse in early modern courts, in any case, is
sparse. Whereas wives could sue for battery against their husbands in ecclesiastical
and secular courts, usually to secure a spousal separation, children had no such
options. Child abuse only showed up in court as tangential evidence in other cases.
Thankfully there are several other sources that reveal mentalities about violence
against children in the past: First, there is literature that was autobiographical in
nature. These include life stories given to the Inquisition, those provided to the
Church for beatification processes, letters, and other life-writing. Second, religious
sermons and other sources discussed the notions of innocence that society likely
applied to minors as well as the importance of penance, which often took the
form of physical castigation or flagellation—beating. Third, there was the popular
literature of the day that, even though doubtlessly creating a highly stylized and
elaborated picture of childhood, very likely did so in order to connect with the
lived experiences of everyday Spaniards.
One fruitful place to look is murder trials. The chronic abuse of children
obviously must have occasionally led to their deaths at the hands of parents and
guardians. The early years of childhood were already an especially dangerous
time of life for early modern Europeans. For fifteenth-century England Barbara
Hanawalt found that only eight percent of the deaths of children could be
attributed to domestic violence.8 She points out the many ways that children
came to death, usually because they were unattended while work around the
house occupied and distracted their guardians: the linen or swaddling caught fire
8
Barbara Hanawalt, “Childrearing among the Lower Classes of Late Medieval
England,” The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 8 (1977): 1–22, 22.
because children were placed near the hearth for warmth; toddlers fell into rivers,
ponds, or lakes and drowned; children were smothered while asleep at night.9
Leaving infants unattended while working nearby was a necessary and common
practice for peasant households throughout Europe. Mathew Kuefler states that
it was typical for some German peasants, for instance, to leave babies hanging
from their swaddling in trees, safe from some insects, wolves, and other animals.10
Like so many scholars, Hanawalt and Kuefler are skeptical of Philippe Ariès and
Lawrence Stone’s thesis that a lack of sentiment toward children characterized
pre-modern European family life.11 And the “rise of sentiment” argument does not
seem to speak to issues of child abuse either, since domestic violence is typically
motivated at least as much by sentiment—emotion—as it is by indifference. That
is, we cannot necessarily attribute the prevalence of the abuse of children to the
thesis that parents did not cherish them. Unfortunately, child murder cases in
Spain that might shed light on child abuse were mainly prosecuted by parents
against murderers, which seems to be an altogether different situation than what
we are looking for: domestic, interpersonal, chronic child abuse.12 Other murders,
like incidents of infanticide for instance, also appear in criminal records. However,
these cases too are not really incidents of child abuse as much as sad evidence of
unwanted pregnancies and often illegitimate births.13 Outside of infanticide cases,
however, I have yet to find a case in which a parent is criminally prosecuted for
killing their own child. Instead, what we are looking for is evidence of that the
concern over battery in childhood is a newly “modern” preoccupation, and/or that
violence against children was a common “premodern” practice.
Outside of court cases the most compelling descriptions of childhood violence
and abuse come from autobiographical texts and literature. Spanish literature
provides social historians with important clues to child abuse at the time because
the assumption of child abuse is embedded in the tropes of the Spanish picaresque.
The question is whether these experiences spoke to Spaniards as things they could
easily identify with; did they take such a violent upbringing as a familiar rite of
passage to adulthood? Or did they think of such violence as pathetic, extreme,
and therefore entertaining? These readings are not mutually exclusive, and there
were likely a bit of both experienced by early modern Spanish reactions to reading
Hanawalt, “Childrearing Among the Lower Classes,” 7.

9
Mathew Kuefler, “Anderl of Rinn, the Accusation of Jewish Ritual Murder, and the
10
Historical Memory of Childhood,” The Journal of the History of Childhood and Youth
2 (2009): 9–36, 18–19.
11
Philippe Ariès, Centuries of Childhood; a Social History of Family Life, trans.
Robert Baldick (New York: Vintage Books, 1962).
12
This is based on several catalog searches of Spanish Archives, especially the Real
Chancilleria de Valladolid.
13
See Lola Valverde, “Illegitimacy and the Abandonment of Children in the Basque
country, 1550–1800,” in Poor Women and Children in the European Past, ed. John
Henderson and Richard Wall (London; New York: Routledge, 1994), 51–64.
the picaresque. In many picaresque tales an abusive upbringing provides the

background for the typical story of the cunning petty criminal. These genres borrow
from one another: literary critics have long-established the autobiographical
character of picaresque works like Lazarillo de Tormes.14 Anne Cruz argues that it
is the verisimilitude of a true personal narrative, for instance, that gives Lazarillo
de Tormes its authenticity. And they argue that many a picaresque episode, if not
“true” in the details, can boast a Dickensian veracity in reflecting everyday life
among the lower castes of early modern Spanish society. At the same time, many
sixteenth-century autobiographical works approach the fictional picaresque, or are
hagiographical in their formulaic progression.

Early modern Europeans saw excessive violence toward very young children
(under five or six) as abusive due to their innocence. Their purity was an ancient
theme that echoed throughout the early modern period. It is exemplified by the
popularity of Renaissance paintings of puti or of Jesus as an infant, and in Spain
there were innumerable representations of innocence, such as those famous
paintings of Murillo depicting poor children in Seville. Mary Elizabeth Perry
points out that, at least before the age of six or seven, early modern Sevillanos
generally considered children to be wide-eyed, trusting, and virtuous.15 Catholics
also reflected on the purity of children as part of Christmas when they remembered
Herod’s massacre of innocent children on December 28th.
This rhetoric of childhood innocence appears in the autobiography of the holy
woman Isabel de Jesús (1586–1648) when she described her early childhood.
Unlike the violent stories of growing up in early modern Spain told by many of her
contemporaries, Isabel’s depiction of her early years in Castile’s pastoral countryside
appears quietly bucolic: “I was raised in the countryside, guarding sheep with my
siblings. I do not remember in all my childhood playing with other kids, it does not
seem to me that I knew anything other than the countryside until they married me
off at the age of fourteen …”16 Autobiographies in early modern Spain generally
14
Anne J. Cruz, Discourses of Poverty: Social Reform and the Picaresque Novel in
Early Modern Spain (Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press, 1999); Edward Friedman,
“The Picaresque as Autobiography: Story and History,” in Autobiography in Early Modern
Spain, ed. N. Spadaccini and J. Talens (Minneapolis: University Of Minnesota Press, 1991),
119–28; Rainer H. Goetz, Spanish Golden Age Autobiography in its Context (New York:
Peter Lang, 1994).
15
Mary Elizabeth Perry, Crime and Society in Early Modern Seville (Hanover, NH:
University Press of New England, 1980), 190. For discussions of childhood in Seville
see Valentina Tikoff, “‘Not all Orphans Really Are’ The Diversity of Seville’s Juvenile
Charity Wards during the Long Eighteenth Century,” in Raising an Empire: Children in
Early Modern Iberia and Colonial Latin America, ed. Ondina E. González and Bianca
Premo (Albuquerque: Univeristy of New Mexico Press, 2007), 41–74; Tikoff, “Gender
and Juvenile Charity, Tradition and Reform: Assistance for Young People in Eighteenth-
Century Seville,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 41 (2008): 307–35.
16
“crieme al campo, guardando ovejas con mis ermanos. No me acuerdo en toda mi
niñez hallarme en el lugar con otras, no me parece conoci otra cosa si el campo asta que me
followed a pattern beginning with tales of trials and tribulations, followed by a

description of efforts to overcome them, and then a resolution. For Isabel childhood
was an idyllic time of life; her trials and tribulations began, instead, with marriage
at a young age and to a man she hated. Yet, she used her simple pastoral childhood
as a touchstone of purity and goodness throughout her life story.
Early modern Spaniards, consistent with the ancient Roman concept of pater
familias, treated children de facto as the property of their parents, specifically
their father’s if he were around. However, up until the age of three it was expected
that the child would still be nursing and therefore in the care of his or her mother
or wet-nurse, or some other woman of the household.17 This issue, for instance,
was debated in the separation trial of María Gonzalez and Bartolome Melendro in
Baraxas in 1587. A major dispute between María and Bartolome was the interim
custody of their three-year-old son; who would care for him during the course of
the trial? María claimed he was under three, and therefore needed the care of his
mother. Spanish mothers would customarily wean their children by the age of
three. Amazingly, Bartolome and his lawyer disputed the boy’s age—they said
he was four years old—and pointed out that he was no longer nursing, so Pedro
was safe in the custody of his father (or more precisely, his family and servants).
But the court did not agree, and gave María custody. In this Bartolome obeyed
the court’s order and had one of his servants, Grauiel Martin, deliver young Pedro
Melendro to his mother.18 When children transitioned into an age of reason, after
the age of six, they were more likely subject to physical disciplining. If boys were
going to be educated in school, for instance, they usually went after this age, which
would bring them under the specter of the schoolmaster’s strap.
In the eyes of early modern Spaniards, violence was often a true social good.
From a modern standpoint it may be difficult to appreciate how this could be.
Yet, contemporaries believed corporal punishment had many benefits: As part
of legitimate hierarchies, violence served to reinforce relationships. It righted
wrongs and brought justice. Most infamously, in practice and in literature,
violence magically restored honor, either through the ritual of the duel, or an
honor killing. Violence created and maintained social order among all social
ranks: one thinks of the public execution in Seville, ordered by King Philip IV,
of Captain-General Juan de Benevides for losing the New World treasure fleet
me casaron, siendo edad de catorce años …” Isabel de Jesús, Vida de la venerable madre
Isabel de Jesus (Madrid: Francisco Sanz, 1672), 7. For an analysis of Isabel and hagiography
see Electa Arenal, “The Convent as Catalyst for Autonomy: Two Hispanic Nuns of the
Seventeenth Century,” in Women in Hispanic Literature: Icons and Fallen Idols, ed. Beth
Miller (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1983), 147–83. See
also Sherry Velasco, “Isabel de Liaño: Hagio/Biography as Self-Portrait,” Pacific Coast
Philology 27 (1992): 124–32.
17
Nadeau, “Blood Mother/Milk Mother: Breastfeeding, the Family, and the State in
Antonio De Guevara’s ‘Relox De Principes (Dial of Princes),’” 153–74.
18
Archivo Diocesano de Cuenca [hereafter abbreviated ADCE], Curia Episcopal,
leg. 766/648.
to the Dutch in 1628.19 The executioner slit the throat of the great aristocrat and
knight of the Order of Santiago three times in front of a vast assembled crowd. His
bloody sacrifice legitimized royal authority.20 Most importantly, violence brought
people closer to God. Individual, self-inflicted violence, in the form of penance,
reconciled Christians with God.21 The Inquisition’s processions, public whippings,
and executions reconciled heretics with God and the Christian community. And
Christ’s violent and brutal execution had made it possible to reconcile God with
humanity. An objection might be raised against comparing familial castigation
with religious penance, arguing that religious suffering and atonement are
fundamentally different acts from other forms of violence. Such an argument,

however, raises an artificial distinction between religious violence and suffering
from other forms of violence.22 Just as Rudolph Bell fruitfully compared early
modern fasting to modern notions of anorexia I think it is reasonable to compare
religious penance and disciplining to social traditions of corporal punishment.23
Within all this bloodshed, the place of violence against children was least
questioned when it was part of the parent/child relationship in the household. Unlike
wives, who possessed certain legal rights and some financial independence from
their husbands under Spanish law and who had the possibility of separating from
their husbands to protect their safety, young children had no legal recourse against
their parents if they were physically threatened.24 Within the household the parent/
19
Carla Rahn Phillips, Six Galleons for the King of Spain: Imperial Defense in the
Early Seventeenth Century (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986), 3–6.
20
Foucault famously examines the discourse of power via similar executions in
France; see Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: the Birth of the Prison, 2nd edn (New
York: Vintage Books, 1995).
21
I mean to suggest here that penance was, in fact, a physical metaphor of God’s
castigation for sin. It is true that extreme self-denial, asceticism, and self-castigation had
long been controversial as Christian practices, and not always theologically condoned by
canon law and Church authorities; nonetheless, self-castigation was a popular practice
among saints and commoners alike, perhaps because it reflected a familiar parental-child
punishment. For a discussion of penance, pain, and reconciliation in the traditional Catholic
context see Debora Shuger, “The Reformation of Penance,” Huntington Library Quarterly
71 (December 2008): 557–71, and Trisha Olson, “The Medieval Blood Sanction and the
Divine Beneficence of Pain: 1100–1450,” Journal of Law and Religion 22 (2006/2007):
63–129.
22
Not allowing ourselves to think of penance as a form of violence is to condone
religious violence and shield it from the usual sort of scrutiny and criticism to which we
subject other kinds of violence.
23
Rudolph M. Bell, Holy Anorexia (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987).
24
Spanish women could traditionally depend on their dowries, which existed to
support them financially after marriage and during widowhood. Ideally, dowries were also
protected from despoilment from their husbands. For women’s legal and financial rights in
marriage see Edward Behrend-Martinez, Unfit for Marriage: Impotent Spouses on Trial in
the Basque Region of Spain, 1650–1750 (Reno [u.a.]: University of Nevada Press, 2007);
Cynthia Ann Gonzales, “Taking It To Court: Litigating Women in the City of Valencia,
child relationship and hierarchy was nearly above reproach and was assumed to be
a Godly established hierarchy (although, as will be examined below, the case did
seem to be different for step-children). The Siete Partidas accorded the patriarch
full power over children in the household.25 It addresses how parents should treat
children according to the law of nature: “for if beasts, who do not have rational
understanding, naturally love their children, so much more should humans, who
do have understanding ….”26 Yet beyond emphasizing the love parents should
show toward their children it provides no limits to the power they had over them.
At the same time the Siete Partidas admonishes children to obey their parents in
all things. Pedro Lopez de Montoya emphasizes this fact repeatedly in his work
on raising children: “The most sure path to restrain and moderate an arrogant
disposition is the obedience and respect of one’s elders … so it is important to
instruct noble children to respect and obey their parents completely, reminding
them of God’s terrible punishment and what misfortunes can happen to those who
disobey this commandment.”27 Because of this cultural reverence for patriarchal
authority over children then, any extreme violence by parents against them rarely
figured very prominently as a part of separation trials between husbands and wives.
Nearly every separation case included accusations of spousal abuse, usually wife-
battery. Many trials mentioned verbal abuse, gambling debts, drinking, adultery,
and bad tempers. Very little litigation discussed abused children, even though the
majority of homes did have minors of some age living with the couple. So even
though lawyers and courts weighed excessive violence against women as grounds
for intervention, there seemed to be no legal language to consider the welfare
of minors in separations. There was no area of specific law—terms, formulaic
language, procedure—to take up the abuse of minors.
The rhetoric of honor, of course, also gave a great deal of authority to parents,
including the right to use violent discipline and even murder to maintain family
honor.28 A father was allowed to cleanse his family honor by killing a daughter who
1550–1600” (PhD diss., University of Arizona, 2008); Allyson M. Poska, Women and
Authority in Early Modern Spain: the Peasants of Galicia (Oxford and New York: Oxford
University Press, 2005).
25
See Book 4, Título 17 of Alfonso El Sabio, Las siete partidas (Barcelona: Linkgua
Ediciones S.L., 2009).
26
“pues si las bestias, que no tienen razonable entendimiento, aman naturalmente
criar sus hijos, mucho más lo deben hacer los hombres, que tienen entendimiento …” Book
4, Título 19, El Sabio, 129.
27
“El camino más cierto para refrenar y redcuzir a modernación el ánimo altiuo es
la obediencia y respeto a los mayors, …” “Y assí convendrá instruir a los niños nobles a
que respeten y obedezcan mucho a sus padres, proponiéndoles el gran castigo con que
Dios amenaza y las desventuras que suelen suceder a los transgressors deste mandato.”
E. Hernández Rodríguez, Las ideas pedagógicas del doctor Pedro López de Montoya,
(Madrid, 1947), 338–9.
28
Abigail Dyer, “Seduction by Promise of Marriage: Law, Sex, and Culture,”
Sixteenth Century Studies 34 (2003): 439–55. On the rhetoric of honor in general in early
had been dishonored, although this rarely occurred in reality.29 Children served as
vessels of a lineage’s honor making them subject to their father’s control. But this
family honor also protected children from abuse by people outside the family. A
daughter, for instance, might be able to look to her father and/or brothers to protect
her from abuse by other men, including her husband.
A key factor to understanding violence in childhood in early modern Europe is
the Christian conviction that the road to salvation is paved with physical suffering.
In Catholic tradition, as described in the Gospel to the Lives of Saints, everyone
from Christ to common sinners had to endure beatings, piercings, starvation, and
many a dramatic death to secure spiritual redemption and salvation. Luisa de

Carvajal (1568–1614), the celebrated Spanish missionary to England, for instance,
boasted that her uncle gave her a silk whip at the tender age of 14. Luisa, though,
was a precocious penitent and, worried that the gift would not cause her enough
pain, added a silver clip to make sure the whip drew blood.30 She described in
great detail the penitent whippings her uncle ordered a stern female servant to
choreograph:
There was a very convenient and hidden oratory [in the house], and around it
other areas that were much so, where she would order me to await her diverse
times. And upon entering, the doors being locked shut with a severe face or at
least a serious one, she ordered me to bare my back, and, remaining naked to the
waist, with a piece of sheer fabric caught under my chin that managed to cover
my chest in a decent fashion, and on my knees, I offered that sacrifice to Our
Lord, as the hardest and harshest which, in my opinion, could be asked of me. …
She would arrive with whips made of guitar strings, not at all soft, and she would
flagellate me for however long she thought was right, with such well-delivered
blows that I could hardly stand them sometimes.31
modern Spain see Scott. K. Taylor, Honor and Violence in Golden Age Spain (New Haven
and London: Yale University Press, 2008). Taylor makes it clear that the rhetoric of honor
could be manipulated and was quite malleable.
29
This is the assertion of Dyer, who argues that despite the demands of the honor code
it was much more common for families to reconcile the demands of honor with affection
and the practicalities of everyday life. Dyer, “Seduction by Promise of Marriage: Law, Sex,
and Culture,” 439–55. Allyson Poska also downplays the severity of the demands of the
rhetoric of honor, Poska, Women and Authority in Early Modern Spain: the Peasants of
Galicia, 7–9.
30
Glyn Redworth, The She-Apostle: The Extraordinary Life and Death of Luisa de
Carvajal (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 19–20. On Luisa de
Carvajal see also Anne J. Cruz, “Willing Desire: Luisa de Carvajal y Mendoza and Female
Subjectivity,” in Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the Mendoza
Family, 1450–1650, ed. Helen Nader (2004), 177–93.
31
Luisa de Carvajal y Mendoza, This Tight Embrace, trans. Elizabeth Rhodes,
Reformation texts with translation (1350–1650). Women of the Reformation v. 2
(Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2000), 83.
In early modern Spain such sufferings were endlessly celebrated in the myriad
painting and sculptures of the period, in rituals of flagellation like Luisa’s, and, of
course, in public Inquisitorial autos de fe. Spaniards, therefore, understood such
physical castigation in life as a spiritual and social good. Pain was a medium
though which one reconciled one’s spiritual debt with God. But a person needed
someone ready to punish in order to obtain this great spiritual benefit, since pain
and suffering might not be available when one needed it. Administering pain, then,
was also a social good, which explains why Luisa thanked God for her uncle and
the whippings he ordered. Considering such a mindset, one that not only praised
the endurance of physical pain, but one that celebrated the disciplinarian and the
violent exchange itself, everyday violence toward minors was not only accepted,
it was practiced and praised. Such violence was a part of childhood education. It
was a ritual ultimately meant to ensure a child’s salvation.
Discipline and suffering were two sides of the penitential coin that resulted
in salvation. Many acts of violence that today might be defined as abuse were
often seen by early modern Spaniards as rites of salvation. Spaniards understood
an individual’s suffering and perseverance over unjust discipline and violence
as a praiseworthy form of penance. Teresa de Ávila (1515–1582) recalled that
as a child after reading many stories of the lives of saints and their martyrdom:
“my brother and I discussed together the means we should take to achieve this
[salvation]. We agreed to go off to the land of the Moors and beg them, out of love
of God, to cut off our heads ….”32 Luisa de Carvajal’s description of childhood
penance highlights the sacredness of suffering. She seems to relish telling the most
gruesome details of her violent flagellations. In one instance, after beating her
own back bloody with whips, she covered the wounds with a towel that stuck to
and became imbedded in her skin: “And with both of us [her servant] enclosed in
an appropriate room, she tried to get the towel off, and not being able to without
yanking off pieces of skin with it (which pained me so that I thought my insides
were being pulled out, without saying anything, helped by the practice of gritting
my teeth and squeezing my fists), she cut the piece of towel with some scissors.”33
In an unabashedly hierarchical society everyone understood that physical
correction was an expected part of demarcating who was subordinate to whom.
Take, for instance, the domestic violence case of María Palomar against Clemente
Garcia, her abusive husband, in Chillaron del Rey in 1701. María was demanding
separation.34 It was a given that Clemente, fulfilling his patriarchal duty and
according to law, had the legal right to discipline his wife María physically. But in
this case the violent hierarchy did not end with the household; local authorities, in
Teresa de Ávila, The Book of Her Life, trans. K. Kavanaugh and O. Rodríguez
32
(Indianapolis and Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, 2008), 3.

33
Carvajal y Mendoza, This Tight Embrace, 97. See also Luis Muñoz, Vida y Virtudes
de la Venerable Virgen Doña Luisa de Carvajal Mendoça (Madrid: Imprenta Real, 1632).
34
ADCE, 1118/19, María Palomar against Clemente Garzia, Chillaron del Rey, 1701,
severity and abuse.
turn, had the duty to discipline Clemente when he was too violent to his wife, and
so they put him in chains for beating her. Considering how accepted and ubiquitous
interpersonal violence was, then, can we even imagine Spaniards thought hitting
children was abusive? And even if they entertained a concept of abuse, how did
early modern Spaniards understand and deal with child abuse?
Another factor that defined child abuse for early modern Spaniards was its
relational and spatial context. That is, Spaniards were much more likely to consider
physical violence illegitimate—over-the-top, excessive—when one unrelated
individual harmed another. If such violence occurred between kin (father-child,
siblings), the threshold of what was considered abusive was higher. The beating of
a servant by his master was more likely to be seen as abusive than if a father beat
his own child. We see this in cases of step-parentage as well: women were more
likely to complain that their husbands harmed their children when this was a step-
parentage relationship. It seems when interpersonal violence took place outside
blood relationships, people were more likely to be offended, escandalizada, and
intervene, and the incident was more likely to end up in courts. This helps explain
why the child murder cases that exist are primarily parents suing someone outside
the family for the wrongful death of their child; other than infanticide cases, there
are few if any criminal cases to be found of parents being prosecuted for the
death of their own underage children. Parental violence against children, then,
had no legal, and few cultural boundaries. We see this relational aspect of abuse
in literature of the Golden Age as well. Nearly all depictions of child abuse in
literature involve masters and servants or teachers and students.
As Michel Foucault has argued, where violence occurred was key to how it
was defined.35 Foucault was primarily concerned with state and institutionalized
violence, yet interpersonal violence could appeal to the same legitimizing spaces
used by Church and state. Violence was much more abhorrent when it occurred
in Church, and more expected when it happened in a tavern. When a man beat
his child in public, the spectacle itself was meant to legitimize the violence and
his authority to use it. Public violence dared bystanders to intervene; if they did
not, then they silently condoned the spectacle and recognized the authority of the
punisher.
The classroom was the classic venue for the corporal punishment of children
throughout European history. The use of violence to teach was an ancient practice
that continued through the centuries to the early modern period in the religious
institutions that provided education.36 Pacifist philosophies like those of St. Francis
and St. Anselm may have abated the traditional tendency of medieval teachers
to beat lessons into the memories of pupils.37 However, most teachers persisted
35
Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison.
36
See Henrietta Leyser, “Corporal Punishment and the Two Christianities,” in
Childhood and Violence in the Western Tradition, ed. L. Brockliss and H. Montgomery
(Oxford: Oxbow, 2010), 113–22.
37
Leyser, 116.
in taking the easier course of discipline: the use of the strap or the rod. Martin
Luther famously recalled his days in school, for instance: “I was caned in a single
morning fifteen times for nothing at all. I was required to decline and conjugate
and hadn’t learned my lesson.”38 So common was the use of the whip in Spanish
classrooms that some teachers complained about lenient parents who pulled their
children out of school because they did not want them to be beaten.39 A teacher
might use beatings to display his authority both to the castigated student and to
the class. Order, after all, could be difficult to maintain when teaching grammar to
a large classrooms of rambunctious boys. Perhaps so teachers would not become
too abusive, José de Calasanz, the Spanish founder of the Piarist Order famous for
its devotion to education, laid out strict guidelines for corporal punishment in his
schools. He allowed his teachers latitude to hit children’s hands with a stick, or
whip them on the buttocks with a strap.40 If any boy needed more punishment the
teacher was supposed to send him to the school’s disciplinarian.
Montoya also addressed the problem of severe castigation meted out by
teachers. Throughout his work on raising children he emphasized that children
needed to be directed, corrected, and instructed, especially the raucous boys of
noblemen, being, he thought, more imbued with natural heat than boys of a lower
status or girls. In this he implied the use of corporal punishment. Despite this
allusion to physical discipline, however, Montoya argued that the teacher can
teach better when he is loved rather than when he is feared. Montoya criticized
teachers who abused their authority to punish children:
[teachers make many demands on the students] until they resort to the hand and
the authority that they have to punish, and the severity with which some of them
use it and the inopportune whims that they order and heavily scold and yell at all
the children for everything they do; they cannot in this way engender nor imprint
love, but rather hatred and loathing in the minds of such children.41
38
Quoted in Robert H. Bainton, Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther, 2nd edn
(Abingdon and Nashville: Festival Books, 1978), 17.
39
Richard L. Kagan, Students and Society in Early Modern Spain (Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1974), 7, n. 12.
40
Karen Liebreich, Fallen Order: Intrigue, Heresy, and Scandal in the Rome of
Galileo and Caravaggio (New York: Grove Press, 2004), 25.
41
“y allegándose a esto la mano y poder que tienen para el castigo, y el rigor con
que algunos lo executan y las impertinencies que ordenan siendo importunes y pesados en
reprehender y reñir todo quanto los niños hazen; no se puede con esto engendrar ni imprimir
amor, sino odio y aborrecimiento en el ánimo de los tales niños.” Pedro López de Montoya,
“De la Buena educación y enseñança de los nobles en que se dan muy importantes auisos
a los padres para criar y ensñar a sus hijos [1595],” in Las ideas pedagógicas del doctor
Pedro López de Montoya, ed. Emilio Hernández Rodríguez (Madrid: Graficás Orbe, S.A.,
1947), 370.
The Discurso de mi vida [The Story of My Life, 1630] by Alonso de Contreras

(1583–1633) begins with such a harrowing classroom tale of a teacher’s abuse of
corporal punishment. Alonso writes that he was born into the urban poverty of
Madrid toward the end of the sixteenth century. The capital was then in its heyday
under the reign of Philip II. Alonso was the oldest of eight children, and around the
time his father died, probably at the age of 12, he began going to grammar school.
Having skipped classes with a classmate named Salvador Moreno one day so they
could watch a jousting match, he returned the next to find an unhappy teacher.
Alonso writes:
when I went back, the schoolmaster told me to step up and lower the breeches
of the other boy [with whom he had skipped class], for, said he, he considered
me a brave fellow. I gladly stepped forward, with the master behind me. But he
had laid a trap for me; for he ordered me to lower my breeches, and laid on with
a parchment rod till he drew blood. This was done at the insistence of the boy’s
father, who was richer than mine.42
Here the author rhetorically depicts his punishment as unjust. Not only was the
overly abusive schoolmaster already a well-recognized trope in sixteenth-century
Europe, in Alonso’s account the schoolmaster acted dishonorably, having lied to
and tricked Alonso so he could beat him. Worse than this, he had allowed wealth
and status to pervert justice. Wealth had protected rich Salvador Moreno while the
poor boy Alonso faced the punishment for both of them skipping school. Finally,
the schoolmaster drew blood administering the whipping; as with the Church’s use
of torture, the castigation of children was not supposed to leave lasting marks and
drawing blood was obviously abusive.
Alonso de Contreras used this incident of unjust punishment in the beginning of
his autobiography to explain the murder that he then committed. For after school,
Alonso, wounded so much in body and pride by the whipping, took out his anger
on Salvador Moreno, whom he blamed. In an open plaza he threw Salvador to the
ground and stabbed him with a penknife several times in the back and the gut. The
boy died two days later. Moreno’s father, a prominent court bailiff, arrested and
successfully prosecuted Alonso for murder. But, due to his youth, Alonso was only
sentenced to a year’s exile from Madrid.
The role of castigation as part of education extended to the home in the person
of the tutor and the nanny. Luisa de Carvajal recalled the many abuses and beatings
she received from her nursemaid, Ayllón while a young girl. This was violence
that was hierarchical and not penitential, and as such much more likely to be
considered abuse: “If she found me involved in anything contrary to her desire, my
42
This English translation is mainly that rendered by Catherine Alison Phillips in
1926. However, I have modernized and corrected a couple phrases with reference to the
original Spanish text. Alonso de Contreras, The Life of Captain Alonso de Contreras,
Knight of the Military Order of St. John, Native of Madrid [1630], trans. Catherine Alison
Philips (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1926), 12.
arms paid the price, such that I had them full of bruises and very large marks.”43
Luisa recalled that other people in the household considered this nanny’s violence
especially abusive because she was a commoner: “the Marquesa took very badly
even just what could be observed, which was the least of it. And the young people
said it was captivity, and asked why I endured that severity and punishment from
my servant, or even obeyed her, being myself her mistress.”44 The idea that a
commoner would dare to so thoroughly beat a noble child was an insult to several
women in the royal court in which Luisa spent her childhood. Luisa, on the other
hand, saw things differently. As with all other forms of violence, she saw her
servant’s beatings as blessings that edified her and made her into a better person.
Early modern Spaniards, as all Europeans, viewed violent upbringing as a
normal part of childhood. Suffering family violence was common and recognizable
and therefore provided a painful source of humor and drama in literature and plays.
Like childbirth and other transitional and painful events in life, violent discipline
was a frightening rite of passage that occasionally produced tragedies. Complaints
of child abuse do survive in trials that focused on strained family relationships, or
ones involving marriage, or property, or some kind of violent crime. For example,
child abuse appeared in the marital separation case of María Josepha de Baños
from her husband Andres Pardo Baños in the Northern Spanish town of Navarrete
in 1741. This was a divorce case, or more precisely, a plea for a permanent
separation from hearth and cohabitation (the parties could not remarry). María’s
main reason for suing for a divorce from hearth and cohabitation may have been
simply that she wanted to live apart from her husband. But throughout her pleas to
the church court of Calahorra and La Calzada, she, through the help of her lawyer,
of course, highlighted the abuse that her children suffered at her husband’s hands:
I say in addition, that the said Andres, not content with abusing me and my
person, did the same many horrifying things to the two children that he has had
with me, the one being twenty months old, and the other six years old, so it is for
the conservation and safety of the lives of these infants that they should stay in
my house and the company of my parents …45
So María’s plea appeared to be as much for the protection of her children as it

was for herself. The great majority of separation trials never mentioned children,
so the fact that she decided to include them in her plea is striking; the abuse of
these children was an important issue to her. More than 11 neighbors, clerics, and
43
Carvajal y Mendoza, This Tight Embrace, 63.
44
Carvajal y Mendoza, This Tight Embrace, 65.
45
“Otrosi digo, que no contentandose dho Andres con maltratar a mi parte, haçe
lo mismo con muchas execraziones con los dos hixos q ha tenido con mi parte que
son de hedad de veinte meses el uno, y otro de seis, pr lo que se hace preciso q otras
criaturas se conserben para el seguro de sus bidas en la casa y compañia de mi parte y sus
padres …” Archivo Catedralicio y Diocesano de Calahorra (hereafter abbreviated ACDC),
leg. 20/150/17, fol. 1.
family members corroborated the abuse of María. Importantly, several witnesses

mentioned the abuse of her children as well. Both María and Andres accused one
another of drinking heavily. She blamed alcohol for his abusiveness. He blamed
alcohol for causing his wife’s alleged insubordination and laziness. The court
eventually permitted María the divorce with custody of their children.
The kinds of actions that constituted abuse for early modern Spaniards were
much broader than simple physical acts of violence. In fact, people of the era
may have often thought beatings to be less serious than other harmful behavior,
especially verbal abuse and material neglect. Verbal abuse could destroy a
person’s reputation, honor, social standing, and good credit. However, it was
primarily a complaint adults made and would not have been a complaint made
by children. Material neglect, on the other hand, affected children deeply. It could
lead to begging, exposure, and even starvation. In towns and villages in which
people lived much closer to famine than is common today, failing to feed or clothe
one’s dependents was a deadly serious form of abuse. This concern over neglect
even appears in works meant for Spain’s elite. Humanist and censor for the Holy
Inquisition Pedro Lopez de Montoya wrote On the Good Education and Instruction
of Noblemen, in which is given very important advice to parents on how to raise
and teach their children in 1595 in Madrid. In it he complained about noblemen
who spent extravagantly on clothes and animals but neglected their children:
Such that as Diogenes, seeing the children of the Megarenses naked and abused,
while the sheep were fat and wooly, said that it was better to be a sheep there
than a child. We could say the same thing seeing the recklessness in the proper
rearing of children in that some gentlemen’s horses are better off than their
children, and that against all reason and against what Christ teaches, they throw
the bread meant for their children to their dogs.46
Montoya here does not argue for simply spending money on children’s
education, but feeding and clothing them well. He obliquely addresses the problem
of child poverty, something that had become a growing concern for Spain during
the course of the sixteenth century. Mary Elizabeth Perry describes the legions of
delinquent children, thieving boys and prostitute girls who populated the streets of
early modern Seville, for instance; they were obviously the result of impoverished
and broken homes.47 And this theme of neglect emerges in many separation cases
due to domestic abuse from the period. When women complained to courts that
46
“Demanera que como Diógenes, viendo maltratados y desnudos los niños de los
Megarenses, adonde avía muy gordos y muy lanudos carneros, dixo que allí más valía ser
carnero que hijo. Assí se podría dezir viendo el descuydo en la Buena criança de los hijos,
que en los que toca a esto son auentajados los cauallos a los hijos de algunos señores, y
que contra la razón pide y contra lo que Christo enseñó, el pan de los hijos se echa a los
perros.” Montoya, “De la Buena educación y enseñança de los nobles en que se dan muy
importantes auisos a los padres para criar y ensñar a sus hijos [1595],” 326.
47
Perry, Crime and Society in Early Modern Seville, 190–94.
their husbands failed to feed them, give them money, and properly clothe them,
in the background there were often child dependents. In a 1734 plea for marital
separation, for example, Luisa de Salinas and her witnesses never failed to mention
her children when she described her husband’s abusive behavior: “[he] castigates
his wife as well as his children with rigor ….”48 Witnesses said that because he
refused to provide for his family “the eldest son resolved to leave home to look
for work and that he repeatedly came back from the fields because he could not do
the work because he did not have sustenance, and as to clothing, as is well-known,
his wife and children go about naked and indecent ….”49 In another case, this one
from 1641 in Montalvo, a wife’s main complaint was that her new husband could
not provide for her and her child from her first marriage: “he is poor and doesn’t
have anything to be able to support [me] as he does not have a farm, fruits, nor
rents nor a trade and is a person who doesn’t work ….”50 Worse than this, she
complained that her husband was a glutton and a heavy drinker, consuming the
estate she had from her first marriage and wanted to pass on to her son from that
marriage.
This evidence of men neglecting to support dependents disturbed community
members more than if the men physically abused their families. The sixteenth
century in Spain had already experienced a sharp rise in delinquency, leading
to concerns over charity and criminality.51 While physical abuse might upset
neighbors and extended family members, when a father failed to feed and clothe
his dependents they might be forced to take to begging or living with extended
family and therefore become a financial burden on the entire community. Worse,
the children could take to thieving, prostitution, and other forms of criminality.
This material abandonment was the very accusation that María de Villalba made
against her husband Bartolome Ortiz in Belmonte in 1634. He was a tailor who,
she complained, drank heavily and once threw his scissors at her. She also claimed
that he had left María and their children to fend for themselves for 14 months
“without leaving [me] or the said children any food at all, leaving them to perish
from hunger ….”52
48
ACDC, leg. 20/151/22, folio 8, 1734, testimony of Diego del Corral “a su muger
como a sus hijos loas Castiga con rigor ….”
49
ACDC, leg. 20/151/22, folio 16, 1734, testimony of Manuela Infantte, “el hijo
maior le aprezisado salirse de cassa a buscar donde servir y que en repettidas bezes se a
venido del campo por no poder llevar el travajo a caussa el falttarle el alimiento prezisso, y
que en quanto a vesttido como es nottorio los trae asi a su muger como a hijos desnudos e
indezentees …”
50
ADCE, 948/4213, folio 17, Interrogatorio “es pobre y no tiene con que poder
sustentar a la dicha Benita lopez por no tener hazienda frutos ni rentas ni ofizio y ser
persona que no trabaja y no puede por ser paseante …”
51
Cruz, Discourses of Poverty: Social Reform and the Picaresque Novel in Early
Modern Spain, 5.
52
ACDE, leg. 924/3517, folio 3 “sin dexarla alimentos ningunos, ni a los dichos sus
hijos dexandolos perecen de amber …”
Blended families like Benita Lopez’s figured prominently when accusations

of child abuse arose in wife-battery trials. Several women in second marriages
complained as a reason for divorce that the men they married abused their step-
children. In the mid-seventeenth century Catalina de Arista, for instance, married
Bernabé de Osma in second nuptials after her first husband died. She brought two
sons with her into this new household. But after six years, his abuse forced her to
go to the local church court for a divorce. Along with all of her complaints about
being abused herself, Catalina de Arista added that Bernabé de Osma had partially
blinded one of her sons. The step-father, she said, “gave him such a blow to the
eye that he totally lost his vision [in that eye] ….”53 As is typical of these cases
that describe an enormous amount of violence between spouses, this horrifying
incident was only mentioned in passing and did not figure prominently in the 200
folio case. Considering, however, the extensive beatings that women complained
about, it must be assumed that children were equally subjected to such violence
even though they could not litigate for separations like their parents.
Illegitimate violence against children is a common thread in the literature
of the picaresque. To take the most obvious and famous example, Lazarillo de
Tormes, the antihero boy is abused throughout his youth, which makes the reader
both pity and identify with him. Master after master beats, starves, and leaves
Lazarillo cold. Of the many examples, one will suffice. While Lazarillo served
the blind man as a boy his master harshly punishes him for sneaking extra wine:
“The blind man’s little tap was so hard that I was knocked right out and had bits
of broken jug stuck in my face and was cut all over. My teeth were broken and
that’s why I haven’t got a tooth in my head today.”54 Child abuse is also clearly
depicted in Don Quixote. As Anne Cruz has also noted earlier in this volume, in
Chapter IV of Cervantes’ novel the idealistic Don Quixote comes across a master
whipping a boy in the countryside. He intervenes to stop the abuse. Don Quixote,
of course, is impelled to right wrongs, and when he sees the boy tied to an oak tree,
shirtless, being whipped by his master, he is compelled to see justice done. Don
Quixote scolds the master and demands that the boy be properly paid and set free.
Of course, as in most of his misadventures, his intervention backfires: when the
knight errant leaves the master and boy, the master lashes the boy again to the tree
and beats him in a rage, hurting him more than he would have otherwise.
Several important characteristics appear in the telling of this situation. First
is the implied innocence of children. Don Quixote’s boy was pathetically tied to
an oak tree and naked, and one imagines the very popular Renaissance image of
St. Sebastian tied to a tree, shot through with arrows. Although Cervantes hints to
us that the boy may have been more deserving of punishment than he admitted,
53
“se dio una tan gran puñada en el ojo que sele quito totalmente la vista de el …”
ACDC, leg. 457/2.
54
Anonymous and Francisco de Quevedo, Lazarillo de Tormes, The Swindler (El
Buscón): Two Spanish Picaresque Novels, trans. Michael Alpert, rev. edn, Penguin Classics
(London: Penguin, 2003), 11.
as in most of his misadventures, Don Quixote instinctively believes the word of

the weak—in this case, the boy—rather than that of the strong—the master. As
Cervantes illustrates throughout his novel, things are often not as they seem. We
find that the weak and oppressed are as often as corrupt as the powerful. But in
the boy’s second beating, which leaves him crippled and languishing in a hospital
for weeks, Cervantes illustrates again the injustice of undue violence against
minors. The moral, of course, is that by intervening in a domestic dispute Don
Quixote only made matters worse for the victim. As Anne Cruz points out above,
it suggests the bad consequences of questioning patriarchal authority. This again
spoke to the lived experiences of Spaniards everyday: the reality of illegitimate

violence against children, and that this was a problem, was a common idea in
Golden Age literature. It also addresses whether or not neighbors and authorities
should intervene to protect children, and if so, at what point?
We find such picaresque childhoods in autobiographical literature as well,
as in the autobiography of Catalina de Erauso. Historians harbor a great deal
of skepticism toward this nun’s account of her life as a soldier and adventurer,
gallivanting throughout Spain and its empire. Still, whether her autobiography
was true, embellished, or highly fictionalized, Catalina de Erauso’s life story
reveals important attitudes about child abuse. Her life story begins with an account
of Catalina’s violent experiences in the convent as a girl. This abuse serves as the
initial and main justification for Catalina living her life as a man for the next 20
years. Sent to a convent when she was 12 years old, Catalina claimed that she
suffered regular beatings from older nuns. When she was no longer able to stand
this abuse, she escaped aided by taking on a boy’s dress and haircut. This disguise,
in turn, led her to lead a life as a man and soldier. Her abuse at the convent, then,
is the crucial justification for the social transgression of cross-dressing.
Much depended on her Spanish readers sympathizing with Catalina’s
experience of child abuse; it must have helped them identify with her and excuse
this woman’s choice to live as a man and not marry or return to religious life. As we
have seen in the life of Luisa de Carvajal, being disciplined and beaten, especially
in a religious context, formed an important life-stage for many Spaniards. It is
likely that contemporary adults understood their own youth in the way Erauso
explains hers, with a mix of sympathy and nostalgia when they saw children
disciplined by their guardians. They probably did not have much sympathy when
they used violence on their own children. Children had no rights, as such. And in
a society long accustomed to slavery, hierarchy, and violent discipline, we can
expect that there was no concept of an illegal violence against minors. Abuse was
defined in context and according to very local familial expectations.
To conclude, then, even though early modern Europe was a society that
embraced the physical castigation of children, it still set cultural limits as to
who, when, where, and how such violence occurred. Child abuse happened when
people outside the parent/child blood relationship used excessive violence against
children. When a teacher excessively beat a student, or when a step-parent harmed a
step-child, they violated the honor of that child and his lineage. If someone outside
the household permanently harmed a child, when the child’s body was physically
violated, their blood spilled or limb cut off, they violated the child’s family. The
ideal of the patriarchal family was also jeopardized when fathers failed to fulfill
their role as providers of food and shelter; leaving dependents hungry and destitute
necessarily shifted a father’s responsibilities onto the parish and community.
Therefore Spaniards recognized neglect as the one form of child abuse parents
could do to their own children. When parents physically punished children within
the household, however, that violence was castigation that supported the authority
of parents in the traditional household. The right of a father to kill his own daughter
to restore family honor is an example of the expansive authority parents had to use
such violence.55 Like Venus pleaded with Mars, in the painting that begins this
essay, people within the household, such as a spouse or grandparent, perhaps a
neighbor, might intervene to protect a child from excessive punishment. However,
there were few other practical limits to parental castigation. The early modern
discourse of “child abuse,” then, existed outside the home because the disciplinary
authority of parent over child within it was above reproach.
Works Cited
Anonymous, and Francisco de Quevedo. Lazarillo de Tormes, The Swindler (El

Buscón): Two Spanish Picaresque Novels. Translated by Michael Alpert. Rev.
edn, Penguin Classics. London: Penguin, 2003.
Arenal, Electa. “The Convent as Catalyst for Autonomy: Two Hispanic Nuns of
the Seventeenth Century.” In Women in Hispanic Literature: Icons and Fallen
Idols, edited by Beth Miller, 147–83. Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London:
University of California Press, 1983.
Ariès, Philippe. Centuries of Childhood; a Social History of Family Life. Translated
by Robert Baldick. New York: Vintage Books, 1962.
Ávila, Teresa de. The Book of Her Life. Translated by K. Kavanaugh and O.
Rodríguez. Indianapolis; Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, 2008.
Bainton, Robert H. Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther. 2nd edn. Abingdon and
Nashville: Festival Books, 1978.
Behrend-Martínez, Edward. Unfit for Marriage: Impotent Spouses on Trial in the
Basque Region of Spain, 1650–1750. Reno, Nevada: University of Nevada
Press, 2007.
Bell, Rudolph M. Holy Anorexia. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987.
Carvajal y Mendoza, Luisa de. This Tight Embrace. Translated by Elizabeth
Rhodes, Reformation texts with translation (1350–1650). Women of the
Reformation v. 2. Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press, 2000.
55
See, for example, Dyer, “Seduction by Promise of Marriage: Law, Sex, and
Culture,” 439–55.
Casey, James. Family and Community in Early Modern Spain: the Citizens of
Granada, 1570–1739. Cambridge, UK and New York: Cambridge University
Press, 2007.
Contreras, Alonso de. The Life of Captain Alonso de Contreras, Knight of the
Military Order of St. John, Native of Madrid [1630]. Translated by Catherine
Alison Philips. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1926.
Cruz, Anne J. Discourses of Poverty: Social Reform and the Picaresque Novel in
Early Modern Spain. Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press, 1999.
———. “Willing Desire: Luisa de Carvajal y Mendoza and Female Subjectivity.”
In Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the Mendoza

Family, 1450–1650, edited by Helen Nader, 177–93. Champaign-Urbana:
University of Illinois Press, 2004.
Dyer, Abigail. “Seduction by Promise of Marriage: Law, Sex, and Culture.”
Sixteenth Century Studies 34 (2003): 439–55.
El Sabio, Alfonso. Las siete partidas. Barcelona: Linkgua Ediciones S.L., 2009.
Fortea Pérez, José Ignacio, Juan Eloy Gelabert González, and Tomás A. Mantecón
Movellán. Furor et rabies: violencia, conflicto y marginación en la Edad
Moderna. Santander: Servicio de Publicaciones de la Universidad de Cantabria,
2002.
Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. 2. Vintage
Books edn. New York: Vintage Books, 1995.
Friedman, Edward. “The Picaresque as Autobiography: Story and History.” In
Autobiography in Early Modern Spain, edited by N. Spadaccini and J. Talens,
119–28, Minneapolis: University Of Minnesota Press, 1991.
Goetz, Rainer H. Spanish Golden Age Autobiography in its Context. New York:
Peter Lang, 1994.
Gonzales, Cynthia Ann. “Taking It To Court: Litigating Women in the City of
Valencia, 1550–1600.” PhD diss., University of Arizona, 2008.
Haas, Louis. The Renaissance Man and his Children: Childbirth and Early
Childhood in Florence, 1300–1600. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998.
Hanawalt, Barbara. “Childrearing among the Lower Classes of Late Medieval
England.” The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 8 (1977): 1–22.
Hendrix, Scott H., and Susan C. Karant-Nunn. Masculinity in the Reformation
Era. Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2008.
Jesús, Isabel de. Vida de la venerable madre Isabel de Jesus. Madrid: Francisco
Sanz, 1672.
Kagan, Richard L. Students and Society in Early Modern Spain. Baltimore: Johns
Kleiser, Luis Martínez, ed. Refranero general ideológico español. Madrid:
Editorial Hernando, 1989.
Kuefler, Mathew. “Anderl of Rinn, the Accusation of Jewish Ritual Murder, and
the Historical Memory of Childhood.” The Journal of the History of Childhood
and Youth 2 (2009): 9–36.
Leyser, Henrietta. “Corporal Punishment and the Two Christianities.” In

Childhood and Violence in the Western Tradition, edited by L. Brockliss and
H. Montgomery, 113–22. Oxford: Oxbow, 2010.
Liebreich, Karen. Fallen Order: Intrigue, Heresy, and Scandal in the Rome of
Galileo and Caravaggio. New York: Grove Press, 2004.
López-Cordón, María Victoria, and Montserrat Carbonell i Esteller. Historia de la
mujer e historia del matrimonio. Murcia: Universidad de Murcia, Servicio de
Publicaciones, 1997.
Mantecón Movellán, Tomás A. La muerte de Antonia Isabel Sánchez: tiranía y
escándalo en una sociedad rural del norte español en el Antiguo Régimen.

Alcalá de Henares, Madrid: Centro de Estudios Cervantinos, 1997.
———. “The Patterns of Violence in Early Modern Spain.” The Journal of the
Historical Society 7 (2007): 229–64.
Moir, Alfred. “An Examination of Bartolomeo Manfredi’s Cupid Chastised.” Art
Institute of Chicago Museum Studies 11 (Spring 1985): 157–67.
Montoya, Pedro López de. “De la Buena educación y enseñança de los nobles en
que se dan muy importantes auisos a los padres para criar y enseñar a sus hijos
[1595].” In Las ideas pedagógicas del doctor Pedro López de Montoya, edited
by Emilio Hernández Rodríguez. Madrid: Graficás Orbe, S.A., 1947.
Muñoz, Luis. Vida y Virtudes de la Venerable Virgen Doña Luisa de Carvajal
Mendoça. Madrid: Imprenta Real, 1632.
Nadeau, Carolyn A. “Blood Mother/Milk Mother: Breastfeeding, the Family, and
the State in Antonio De Guevara’s ‘Relox De Principes (Dial of Princes).’”
Hispanic Review 69 (2001): 153–74.
Olson, Trisha. “The Medieval Blood Sanction and the Divine Beneficence of Pain:
1100–1450.” Journal of Law and Religion 22 (2006/2007): 63–129.
Orme, Nicolas. Medieval Children. New Haven and London: Yale University
Press, 2001.
Perry, Mary Elizabeth. Crime and Society in Early Modern Seville. Hanover, NH:
University Press of New England, 1980.
Phillips, Carla Rahn. Six Galleons for the King of Spain: Imperial Defense in
the Early Seventeenth Century. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1986.
Poska, Allyson M. Women and Authority in Early Modern Spain: the Peasants of
Galicia. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2005.
Redworth, Glyn. The She-Apostle: The Extraordinary Life and Death of Luisa de
Carvajal. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2008.
Ruff, Julius R. Violence in Early Modern Europe, 1500–1800, New Approaches to
European History. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001.
Shuger, Debora. “The Reformation of Penance.” Huntington Library Quarterly
71 (2008): 557–71.
Taylor, Scott. K. Honor and Violence in Golden Age Spain. New Haven and
London: Yale University Press, 2008.
Tikoff, Valentina. “Gender and Juvenile Charity, Tradition and Reform: Assistance
for Young People in Eighteenth-Century Seville,” Eighteenth-Century Studies
41 (2008): 307–35.
———. “‘Not all the Orphans Really Are’ The Diversity of Seville’s Juvenile
Charity Wards during the Long Eighteenth Century.” In Raising an Empire:
Children in Early Modern Iberia and Colonial Latin America, edited by
Ondina E. González and Bianca Premo, 41–74. Albuquerque: University of
New Mexico Press, 2007.
Valverde, Lola. “Illegitimacy and the Abandonment of Children in the Basque
country, 1550–1800.” In Poor Women and Children in the European Past,

edited by John Henderson and Richard Wall, 51–64. London; New York:
Routledge, 1994.
Velasco, Sherry. “Isabel de Liaño: Hagio/Biography as Self-Portrait.” Pacific
Coast Philology 27 (1992): 124–32.
Zafra, Enriqueta. Prostituidas por el texto: discurso prostibulario en la picaresca
femenina. West Lafayette: Purdue University Press, 2009.
Chapter 12
Containing Risk:
The Integration and Isolation of Orphanage
Wards within Eighteenth-Century Seville
Valentina Tikoff
Early modern Spaniards would not have been surprised to see a group of children,
somberly dressed and carrying candles, participating in a funeral cortege. In
Seville, as in many other cities throughout Spain and elsewhere in early modern
Europe, orphans regularly marched in funeral processions and performed other
roles within their communities, such as drawing lottery numbers. To this day, every
year on December 22, Spaniards gather to watch and listen to the broadcast of
students from Madrid’s San Ildefonso School, formerly an orphan school, drawing
and “singing” the numbers of the national Christmas lottery, as generations of San
Ildefonso students have done since the eighteenth century. Yet orphanages also
are well known as places that segregated resident children from broader urban
contexts, and scholars have long recognized that institutions like charity homes
contain both people and dangers. But did institutions keep risks in or out, or
both? Who was risky, and who at risk? And how did perceptions of risk affect the
degree to which institutionalized populations were marginalized from “outside”
communities?
This chapter addresses these questions and the issue of early modern orphanage
wards’ integration with their broader communities through an examination of
eighteenth-century Seville. Here, orphanages and orphanage wards were very
much part of the broader urban milieu. To be sure, Seville’s orphanages did function
in part to contain risk for both their wards and the broader communities in which
they were located, and this entailed a degree of mutual isolation. Yet the isolation
was neither complete nor permanent. Porous and flexible institutions, orphanages
and their wards played important symbolic and economic roles in broader
municipal, national, and even international geopolitical contexts. Male and female
orphanage wards experienced isolation from and integration into their broader
communities differently, as we might expect in a society where expectations for
boys and girls (and the men and women that they would become) were so distinct.
In other respects, though, these young people’s experiences may surprise us, as
they challenge common images of and assumptions about early modern charity
children, perhaps especially about female orphanage wards in Catholic countries.
Indeed, gender cannot be ignored and is crucial to understanding the ways that
274 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain / Tikoff
charity children fit into the bustling urban community of eighteenth-century

Seville, as suggested by several main points developed in this chapter:
First, containing risk at Seville’s orphanages was not just a matter of controlling
wards’ contact with the outside world; it also concerned the selection and
segregation of young people. For girls, this selection occurred mainly at the point
of admission and was intended to protect the admitted girls and their reputations,
not to take in, reform, or rid the urban community of its wayward girls. In contrast,
male orphanages admitted broader categories of boys, including the criminally
suspect; one even doubled as a reformatory for young males.
Second, orphanage wards’ public roles beyond institutional confines were both
symbolic and economic. They performed ritual exercises as well as remunerative
labor that cemented their own and their institutions’ place in Seville’s municipal
culture, as well as the city’s long-standing link to the Spanish maritime empire,
even after the city had ceded its status as Spain’s monopoly port for transatlantic
shipping. While females’ ritual roles were more restricted and their economic roles
were certainly different than those of males, their labor—especially employment
as domestic servants during their gradual process of transition out of institutional
care—also meant leaving orphanage confines while still formally orphanage
wards.
Third, even though poor young males in general, and Seville’s male orphanage
populations in particular, were considered potentially dangerous, many male
orphanage wards had considerable mobility and high degrees of integration
within the surrounding society. Male orphanage administrators mitigated this risk,
however, by segregating the most threatening wards from the others and severely
restricting their movements.
Fourth, while Seville’s female orphanage wards had much less freedom of
movement than their male counterparts did, they were not as cut off from the
broader urban society as depictions of girls enclosed within institutions of religious
women often suggest.
The analysis that follows is based specifically on the experience of charity
wards and their interaction with the world beyond orphanage confines, though
it should be noted that many of Seville’s orphanages also sometimes served as
schools for day-students and boarders—another way that these porous institutions
were integrated into the broader community.1
Though still influential, Michel Foucault’s “Great Confinement” paradigm,
with its emphasis on institutionalization as repressive control of the poor, has
sparked many persuasive challenges.2 Scholars have been especially effective in
showing how families and children used and experienced relief institutions like
See Valentina Tikoff, “‘Not All the Orphans Really Are,’” in Raising an Empire:
1
Children in Early Modern Iberia and Colonial Latin America, eds Ondina González and
Bianca Premo (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2007), 41–74.
2
Michel Foucault, Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of
Reason, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Vintage, 1988 [1965]), esp. 38–64.
Containing Risk 275
poorhouses and foundling homes. Some, like Joel Harrington, have challenged
the notion that the purpose of the poorhouse (at least the one in Nuremburg,
Germany) was to marginalize its residents, arguing instead that the goal was to
reintegrate residents into the urban community.3 Others have found that even
when institutions had been established with repressive goals, families could use
them in alternative ways to promote their own strategies.4 While foundling homes
and the infants abandoned to them at birth have attracted much of the scholarly
attention on charity children since the 1970s, more recent scholarship also has
explored orphanages for older children. Nicholas Terpstra’s work on Florence and
Bologna, Isabel Robin-Romero’s work on Paris, Thomas Max Safley’s work on

Augsburg, and Anne McCants’s work on Amsterdam, for example, have shown
the rich rewards of mining orphanage documentation to explore not only the
lives of the children, families, patrons, and administrators directly involved as
providers or recipients of the charity dispensed by these institutions, but also the
important roles that these institutions played in the broader communities in which
they were located.5 For Spain, Hélène Tropé’s work on an orphanage in Valencia,
Marta García Garralón’s work on Seville’s San Telmo maritime orphanage (an
institution also discussed in this essay), and Gabriel Mora del Pozo’s work on
Toledo’s Colegio de Niños de la Doctrina are the most substantial monographs
on the topic, mainly dedicated to charting the institutional histories of specific
establishments.6 Timothy Hacsi’s work on orphanages in the United States during
3
Joel Harrington, “Escape from the Great Confinement: The Genealogy of a German
Workhouse,” Journal of Modern History 71 (June 1999): 308–45.
4
See, for example, Robert M. Schwartz, Policing the Poor in Eighteenth-Century
France (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1988), 93–131, esp. 93–9; and
Silvia Marina Arrom, Containing the Poor: The Mexico City Poor House, 1774–1871
(Durham: Duke University Press, 2000), 278–88, and passim.
5
Anne E.C. McCants, Civic Charity in a Golden Age: Orphan Care in Early Modern
Amsterdam (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1997); Thomas Max Safley, Charity and
Economy in the Orphanages of Early Modern Augsburg (Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities
Press, 1997); Nicholas Terpstra, Abandoned Children of the Italian Renaissance: Orphan
Care in Florence and Bologna (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005); Nicholas
Terpstra, Lost Girls: Sex and Death in Renaissance Florence (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 2010); and Isabelle Robin Romero, Les Orphelins de Paris: Enfants et
assistance aux XVIe–XVIIIe siècles, with a preface by Jean-Pierre Barded (Paris: Presses de
l’Université Paris-Sorbonne, 2007). See also Joel F. Harrington, The Unwanted Child: The
Fate of Foundlings, Orphans and Juvenile Criminals in Early Modern Germany (Chicago:
The University of Chicago Press, 2009).
6
Gabriel Mora del Pozo, El Colegio de Doctrinos y la enseñanza de primeras letras
en Toledo, siglos XI a XIX (Toledo: Instituto Provincial de Investigaciones y Estudios
Toledanos, 1984); Marta García Garralón, “Taller de Mareantes”: El Real Colegio
Seminario de San Telmo de Sevilla (1681–1847) (N.p. [Seville?]: Fundación Cajasol, 2007);
and Hélène Tropé, La Formation des enfants orphelins à Valence (XV3-XVIIe siècles): Le
cas du College Impérial Saint-Vincent-Ferrier (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, Presses
de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1998).
the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, though separated chronologically
and geographically from the early modern European milieu, offers a useful
framework that distinguishes between “integrating” and “isolating” institutions.
Hacsi argues that U.S. orphanages were not common until the late nineteenth
century, when they proliferated; he notes, though, that while many began as
“isolating” institutions, they tended to shift their focus fairly quickly to become
more “integrating” institutions, until with Progressive reforms they were largely
replaced by mother’s pensions and other arrangements that allowed children to
remain in familial settings.7 In some ways, this may be seen as a return to the
non-institutional or “outdoor” forms of juvenile poor relief that had been more
prominent in earlier periods of U.S. history and early modern England.
In eighteenth-century Spain, too, orphanage residence was neither the only nor
necessarily the main way that parentless children were cared for. Undoubtedly, most
such children were raised by relatives or other guardians without the intervention
of charitable establishments. Children who had been abandoned anonymously to
any of Spain’s main foundling homes usually died before they reached the ages at
which they might enter a charity home for older children, though a few of them did
make the transition if institutional admission policies and administrators allowed
it.8 Yet even though they did not accommodate a large portion of the population,
orphanages nonetheless provide important insight regarding the ways that early
modern Spaniards viewed and treated institutionalized children, and how these
charity wards eventually transitioned out of institutional care.
Seville is a fascinating locale to explore this topic, especially in the eighteenth
century, when a diverse array of juvenile charity homes operated side-by-side.
(Shortly thereafter, between 1795 and 1850, the local charitable scene—especially
the network of children’s homes—would change considerably, as some of the
orphanages merged, others were absorbed or supplanted by a newly established
general poorhouse, and crown policies changed, with direct repercussions for
the provision of juvenile charity in Seville.) The city’s history in the eighteenth
century has long been overshadowed by its sixteenth-century heyday, when it was
the sole royally designated port of departure in Spain for all ships sailing across the
Atlantic to Spain’s colonies in the Caribbean and the Americas. Although it ceased
to be the monopoly for Spain’s transatlantic fleets in 1717, Seville nonetheless
remained an important ecclesiastical, administrative, and commercial center and
7
Timothy Hacsi, Second Home: Orphan Asylums and Poor Families in America
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), 54–74. See also Matthew A. Crenson:
Building the Invisible Orphanage: A Prehistory of the American Welfare System (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1998).
8
On the foundling home in Seville, see León Carlos Alvarez Santaló, Marginación
social y mentalidad en Andalucía occidental: Expósitos en Sevilla (1613–1910), with a
prologue by A[ntonio] Domínguez Ortiz (Seville: Junta de Andalucía, 1980).
Containing Risk 277
prominent noble stronghold.9 For several years, from 1729 to 1733, the Spanish
monarchy even took up residence in the city. Seville’s population was in the range
of 65,000 to 80,000 for most of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.10 By
1787, it was still the most populous city in Andalusia, though Madrid, Valencia,
and Barcelona were all larger Spanish cities.11 About 10 percent of Seville’s
population in the mid-eighteenth century has been characterized as “poor,”12
though this designation is clearly only an estimate (undoubtedly a conservative
one) and subject to wild fluctuations related to cyclical variations, such as harvest
and disease conditions, as well as the subjectivity of the designation “poor.”13
Children constituted a large portion of the poor in eighteenth-century Spain

and figured prominently in contemporary discussions about the problems of
the poor. Even a cursory glance at the work of Spain’s best known eighteenth-
century proponents of social reform—figures like Pedro Rodríguez (the Count of
Campomanes), Bernardo Ward, Pablo de Olavide, and Gaspar de Jovellanos—
reveals their consistent and overwhelming preoccupations with juvenile poverty.14
Many less prominent commentators shared their concerns. These concerns are
especially visible in voluminous discussions about creating a general poorhouse
9
David Ringrose, Spain, Europe, and the “Spanish miracle,” 1700–1900
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 297. See also Antonio Collantes de
Terán, Josefina Cruz Villalón, and Victor Fernández Salinas, “Sevilla,” in Atlas histórico de
ciudades europeas: Península Ibérica, ed. Manuel Guàrdia, Francisco Javier Monclús, and
José Luis Oyón (Barcelona: Salvat Editores, 1994), 183–209.
10
Antonio García-Baquero [González], “Sevilla en la Edad Moderna (II): Entre la
crisis y la atonía,” in Sevilla (Madrid: Editorial Mapfre, 1992), 145. See also Francisco
Aguilar Piñal, Siglo XVIII, 3rd edn, rev., Historia de Sevilla series, ed. Francisco Morales
Padrón (Seville: Universidad de Sevilla, 1989).
11
David Reher, “Ciudades, procesos de urbanización y sistemas urbanos en la
Península Ibérica, 1550–1991,” in Atlas histórico de ciudades europeas: Península Ibérica,
ed. Manuel Guàrdia, Francisco Javier Monclús, and José Luis Oyón (Barcelona: Salvat
Editores, 1994), 17.
12
Francisco Aguilar Piñal, La Sevilla de Olavide[:] 1767–1778 (Seville, 1966;
facsimile reprint, with new preface and introductory material, Seville: Ayuntamiento de
Sevilla, 1995), 53–7; and Alfonso Braojos Garrido, “El hospicio de Sevilla, fundación del
reinado fernandino,” Archivo Hispalese, 2nd series, 59 (1976): 5.
13
On the difficulties of measuring poverty, particularly in early modern Western
Europe, see Stuart Woolf, “Introduction: The Poor and Society in Western Europe,” in The
Poor in Western Europe in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries (London: Methuen,
1986), 1–46.
14
See María Jiménez Salas, Historia de la asistencia social en España en la edad
moderna (Madrid: Instituto Balmes de Sociología, Departamento de Historia Social,
Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, [1958]), 3–143; Elena Maza Zorilla,
Pobreza y asistencia social en España, siglos XVI al XX. Aproximación histórica (Valladolid:
Unversidad de Valladolid, 1987), 75–114; and Maria Pérez Estévez, El problema de los
vagos en la España del siglo XVIII (Madrid: Confederación Española de Cajas de Ahorros,
1976), 301–36.
in Seville—discussions that occurred throughout the eighteenth century, when the

new institution always seemed imminent, though the poorhouse was not actually
established until 1831. These discussions reveal that young people were believed
to merit special attention, in part because they were seen as almost infinitely
malleable; and in that malleability, reformers perceived both promise and threat.
Poor children were the best hope of those who wished to reform society by solving
the problem of poverty and, simultaneously, a latent menace to be kept in check.
They represented, on one hand, the possibility of redemption, the hope—to use
today’s parlance—of “breaking the cycle of poverty” and even the potential
to spearhead moral, social, and economic reform. Yet the very malleability
of children and youth also raised the specter of a darker future, the threat of
growing ranks of individuals shaped only by their baser instincts or pernicious
external forces, menacing respectable society. For example, in their brief on
the poorhouse project, Seville’s Economic Society of Friends of the Country
(Sociedad Económica de Amigos del País, a group of prominent male citizens
committed to civic improvements, hereafter, SEAP) sought to constrain “the
common passions to which youth is most inclined,” which they enumerated as
“haughtiness, pride, vanity, ire, vengeance, tenacity, etc.”15 Authorities also feared
that unsupervised and destitute young people might turn into thieves, vagabonds,
and other unproductive members of society.16 Sexual maturity made these ages
particularly “risky,” especially for females.
Plans prescribed by the SEAP advocated a combination of “hard” and “soft”
approaches to discipline that reflect the threat and promise that young people
simultaneously represented in the minds of many social reformers. While
upholding the necessity of punishing transgressions—seemingly, mainly as an
example to discourage other youngsters—reformers commonly rejected harsh
punishment and undue regimentation as cruel and ineffective. For example,
“[L]as pasiones comunes a que la juventud es más propensa,” including “la

15
sobervia, el orgullo, la vanidad, la ira, la venganza, la tenacidad [etcétera].” Archivo

Histórico de la Diputación Provincial de Sevilla (hereafter, ADPS), Hospicio, bundle 3,
unnumbered document, copy of poorhouse (hospicio) plan drafted by Seville’s Economic
Society of Friends of the Country, dated Seville, September 5, 1778; copy dated Madrid,
August 27, 1781. For further information on this organization and its educational interests
and activities in the eighteenth century, see María Consolación Calderón España, La Real
Sociedad Económica Sevillana de Amigos del País: Su Proyección Educativa (1775–1900)
(Seville: Universidad de Sevilla, 1993).
16
Some of the works discussing eighteenth-century thought about internment of
the poor include Callahan, “The Problem of Confinement: An Aspect of Poor Relief in
Eighteenth-Century Spain,” Hispanic American Historical Review 51 (February 1971):
1–24; Pérez Estévez, El problema de los vagos; Jacques Soubreyoux, “El discurso de
la Ilustración sobre la pobreza. Análisis de una formación discursiva,” Nueva revista de
filología hispánica 33 (1984): 115–32; and Pedro Carasa Soto, Historia de la beneficencia
en Castilla y León: Poder y pobreza en la sociedad castellana (Valladolid: Universidad de
Valladolid, 1988).
Containing Risk 279
SEAP members recommended the following for the children who would be taken
into the poorhouse: “[I]n the hours of recreation, they must be permitted every
decent game, be what it may, and the teachers must not out of a bad humor bother
them with inopportune strictness that might aggrieve them; let them enjoy their
freedom well. These happy moments must be theirs alone because they may be
the only happy ones in their lives.”17 This passage clearly shows sensitivity toward
children and a desire to indulge them in some ways. Yet on the very same page, the
authors also complain about the “passions” of young people and stress the need to
curb their wayward tendencies by “fomenting in them, at times with sweetness, at
times with rigor, the opposite virtues, which form the true character of man for the
ends (destinos) of his Creator.”18
Such ambivalence toward children and youth is characteristic of much of the
writing on young people found in the poorhouse proposals and other discussions
of poverty and relief in eighteenth-century Spain. Indeed, these sentiments appear
to be local manifestations of a much more widespread phenomenon. Focusing on
England, Hugh Cunningham has argued:
Two strains of thought about children did battle with one another in the
eighteenth century. On the one hand, as heirs to the Puritans, children were seen
as conceived and born in sin. The prime aim of parents in this perception had to
be the awakening of the child to a consciousness of its own sin, a consciousness
the more likely to be achieved if firm discipline was exerted; … This pessimistic
view of childhood was openly at odds both with the Lockean conception of the
child as a tabula rasa, and with the more positively sentimental idea that children
were the embodiments of innocence, an idea fully articulated … long before the
Romantic poets.19
We have seen that eighteenth-century Sevillians held what Cunningham labels as

“Lockean” and “sentimental” notions of children, while also sharing their English
contemporaries’ suspicion of young people’s wayward tendencies, especially
those of poor youngsters. This might prompt us to question the attribution of these
17
“[E]n las horas de recreo se les ha de permitir todo juego decente sea el que fuere,
sin que las maestras por un efecto de mal humor las molesten con severidades importunas
que las aflijan; gocen enhorabuena en ellas de toda su livertad; estos alegres momentos han
de ser suyos exclusivamente por que quizá[s] serán los únicos felices en su vida …” ADPS,
Hospicio, bundle 3, unnumbered document, copy of poorhouse (hospicio) plan originally
drafted by Seville’s Economic Society of Friends of the Country, dated Seville, September
5, 1778; copy dated Madrid, August 27, 1781.
18
“[F]omentando en ellas, ya con la dulzura, ya con el rigor las virtudes opuestas,
que forman el verdadero carácter de el hombre para los destinos de su criador…” ADPS,
Hospicio, bundle 3, unnumbered document, copy of poorhouse (hospicio) plan drafted by
Seville’s Society of Friends of the Country, dated Seville, September 5, 1778; copy dated
Madrid, August 27, 1781.
19
Hugh Cunningham, The Children of the Poor: Representations of Childhood since
the Seventeenth Century (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), 47–8.
views to Locke and the Puritans, respectively, since Puritanism was hardly popular
among Catholic Spaniards and Locke, though perhaps read by some Spaniards in
the original or other languages, was not translated into Spanish before the 1790s.20
(Even in England itself, Paul Griffiths has contended that both the optimistic and
pessimistic views of young people, and poor young people in particular, pre-
dated Locke, extending back at least to the sixteenth century.21) Moreover, it is
debatable whether the optimistic and pessimistic visions of childhood necessarily
“did battle with one another” or were as “openly at odds” in the eighteenth
century as Cunningham contends. In Spain, at least, the two conceptions may
not have been at odds at all. Rather, both the hopeful and fearful conceptions of
childhood articulated in the SEAP proposals reflected a widespread belief among
municipal leaders, charity providers, and social reformers in the importance of
steering young people out of the dangerous ages of childhood and youth, and into
respectable and “useful” future adult roles. Threat and promise appear as flip sides
of the same coin—the belief in youth’s ultimate malleability and susceptibility to
transformation. This belief, with its double implications, also helps explain the
perceived need for both protection of children and protection from them.
If it is in reformers’ treatises and discussions of a long-gestating poorhouse
plan that we hear what eighteenth-century Sevillians were saying about the
juvenile poor, we see what they were doing somewhere else: in the institutions
that accommodated orphans and other poor children. For most of the eighteenth
century, Seville had six orphanages, three for boys and three for girls. There were
municipal male and female homes, counterparts of which existed throughout much
of Spain, often known as “Schools of Christian Doctrine” [Colegios de Niños de
la Doctrina]—as, indeed, Seville’s boy’s home also was known.22 (The girls’
home was simply the “Home for Orphaned Girls” [Casa de Niñas Huérfanas].)
In the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, though, both of these municipal
institutions were very small, housing only a handful of wards each, sometimes
none at all. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, they ceased to
exist entirely after merging with other, subsequently established institutions that
increasingly accommodated the bulk of the children in Seville who were entrusted
to institutional care after the age of about six. The extant documentation for
the municipal institutions is scant, consisting mainly of sporadic reports to and
deliberations among the city council about these institutions’ operations. Yet even
this type of material yields some important clues about these institutions’ and their
20
On the reception of Locke in Spain, see Richard Herr, The Eighteenth-Century
Revolution in Spain (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1958), 70, 167, 361.
21
Paul Griffiths, Youth and Authority: Formative Experiences in England 1560–1640
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 17–61. Griffiths focuses on “youth” rather than
“children,” though as he notes, the distinction was not always clear.
22
Juan Ignacio Carmona, “Control, amparo y adoctrinamiento. Los centros para
menorel en el siglo XVI,” in La Infancia en España y Portugal Siglos XVI–XIX, ed.
Francisco Núñez Roldán (Madrid: Sílex, 2010), 69–96.
Containing Risk 281
wards’ roles—both ideal and actual—in the civic life of eighteenth-century Seville.
Better institutional records are available, however, for four “new” institutions that
were established in Seville between 1675 and 1725. While the records from these
institutions also vary widely in both quantity and quality, they provide valuable
information about the lives of the children and youth that passed through these
institutions.23
For boys, one of the newer institutions was called simply “The Toribios,” after
its founder Toribio de Velasco, a layman who initially provided educational and
religious instruction to street children, and whose activities eventually led to the
establishment in the 1720s of a residential home for such children. Soon, however,
this institution gained a reputation as a reformatory as well, to which parents and
various public authorities sent youths—and occasionally also adults for whom
incarceration in adult correctional facilities was deemed inappropriate—for
punishment and reform. Following the death of the home’s founder, administration
of the Toribios came under the supervision of Seville’s municipal and ecclesiastical
leaders, and clergymen took over the institution’s daily administration. The
population of the Toribios varied dramatically over the eighteenth century, from a
few dozen to several hundred wards. The Toribios also changed location several
times, in part to accommodate this growing population, but the neighborhood
with which it is most commonly associated is Seville’s Macarena district in the
northern part of the city.
At the other end of town, near the banks of the Guadalquivir River and just
outside the city walls at the Puerta de Jeréz, was the other chief home for boys
in eighteenth-century Seville: the Royal School of San Telmo (Real Colegio
Seminario de San Telmo). Its name, honoring a favorite patron saint of sailors
(Saint Elmo), also suggests it mission: to educate Spanish boys to become skilled
23
The information about Seville’s orphanages in this aticle is based principally on
archives at the Archivo Municipal de Sevilla (hereafter, AMS), Archivo Histórico de la
Universidad de Sevilla, Universidad de Mareantes section (USUM), Archivo Histórico
Arzobispal (AA), and ADPS. Select published work on the institututions discussed here
includes Francisco Collantes de Terán [y Delorme], Los establecimientos de caridad
de Sevilla, que se consideran como particulares: apuntes y memorias para su historia
(Sevilla: Oficina de El Orden, 1886); Juan Luis Morales, El niño en la cultura española
(Madrid: n.p., 1960), 411–30; Francisco Aguilar Piñal, “Los Niños Toribios,” in Temas
sevillanos, Primera serie: 2nd edn, rev. and aug. (Seville: Universidad de Sevilla, 1992),
51–7; Antonio Herrera Garcia, “Estudio Histórico sore el Real Colegio Seminario de San
Telmo de Sevilla,” Archivo Hispalense, 2nd series, nos. 89–90; and García Garralón, Taller
de Mareantes. See also the notes and bibliographies of my previous articles, especially
“Juvenile Internment before the Reformatory: A Correctional Orphanage in Ancien Regime
Seville,” in Becoming Delinquent: European Youth, 1650–1950, eds Pamela Cox and
Heather Shore (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate/Dartmouth, 2002), 59–75; “Saint Elmo’s Orphans:
Navigation Education and Training at the Royal School of San Telmo in Seville during the
Eighteenth Century,” International Journal of Maritime History 20 (June 2008): 1–32; and
“Not All the Orphans Really Are.”
mariners in Spain’s military and merchant fleets. Seville was the logical city for
his organization and the orphanage/school that they established in 1681, since
it was the official monopoly port for all of Spain’s transatlantic maritime trade
and home of the Casa de Contratación (House of Trade) that administered that
trade and the fleets that were its lifeline. San Telmo’s founders and administrators
for its first century were members of the Universidad de Mareantes, a guild of
ship owners, captains, and other experienced mariners. From the beginning,
though, this maritime orphanage also was a Crown-supported endeavor. Even
after Cádiz displaced Seville as Spain’s official monopoly port in 1717 and
the Casa de Contratación moved its operations to the coastal city, San Telmo
remained in Seville—perhaps in part because a large and prominent building
had been erected to house it. It proved capacious enough to house approximately
150 resident wards simultaneously throughout most of the eighteenth century;
it would also accommodate various orphanage staff, classrooms, an infirmary,
a “cell” (cepo) for misbehaving wards, and even a functioning model ship in
one of the courtyards, where the residents could practice nautical maneuvers. A
change in the administration of Spanish transatlantic shipping (the implementation
of the so-called libre comercio policy, which ended the monopoly port system)
was prominent among the causes precipitating the transfer of San Telmo’s
administration and direct oversight to the Spanish Navy in the 1780s.
The two new homes for girls established in the late seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries were physically housed within communities of Catholic women
religious and much smaller than the boys’ homes. One was at the Beaterio de
la Santísima Trinidad (hereafter, BST). Beaterios were technically homes of
pious laywomen (beatas) but increasingly came under clerical supervision; by
the eighteenth century, they resembled convents of nuns in many respects. Isabel
Moreno Caballero founded this beaterio in the early 1720s. Although it remained
quite small with only a handful of beatas and wards until the last third of the
eighteenth century, it began to grow dramatically in the 1780s and eventually
became a prominent nineteenth-century school and home for girls. Seville’s other
female home existed within the elite Espíritu Santo convent. Founded by Seville’s
archbishop Manuel Arias in 1711, it required that wards be from noble families
and hence was known as the Noble Girls School (Colegio de Niñas Nobles) and
will be referred to as such throughout this essay, though the official name was
the Niñas del Espíritu Santo. The founding by-laws specified precisely 12 spots
for girls, and this was strictly observed. (The by-laws also specifically banned
the acceptance of paying boarders in addition to the 12 charity wards, but this
prohibition was disregarded.)
Anyone writing about charity children and charity homes in early modern
Europe inevitably encounters terminological problems. I use the term “orphanage”
to refer to the residential institutions discussed here, even though the Spanish
words for “orphanage” (orfanato, orfanatorio) were not common in the eighteenth
century. Nor was it customary for such institutions to have the word “orphan”
in their name (the exception being the municipal Home for Orphaned Girls). If
Containing Risk 283
there was an institutional label at all, it was usually a variant of “school” (colegio,
seminario); and when contemporaries talked about such institutions collectively,
they usually used terms like “charity home” (casa de caridad, casa de misericordia)
and “poorhouse” (hospicio)—general terms for charitable establishments, with
nothing suggesting their specific role in caring for juveniles. I nonetheless use
“orphanage” as shorthand for the juvenile charity homes discussed here because
these institutions were established expressly for children deemed needy in some
way, generally with stated preferences for those with deceased parents. The term
“orphanage” carries its own problems and customary associations, however, so
several further clarifications are in order. First, notwithstanding stated admission

policies, it was common for children in Seville’s orphanages to have at least one
surviving parent, as scholars have found for orphanages elsewhere. Moreover,
Seville’s orphanages should not be confused with the city’s foundling home for
abandoned babies (Casa de Niños Expósitos), as Robin-Romero and Brian Pullan
have similarly pointed out for early modern Paris and Venice, respectively.24
Children typically entered Seville’s orphanages not as very young infants but
between the ages of six and 14. Moreover, once admitted, they could remain until
much older ages; so it is not uncommon to find wards in their 20s, both male
and female, still under the auspices of these institutions (a phenomenon discussed
further below).
Contemporaries often did refer to the residents of Seville’s juvenile charity
homes as “orphans”—whether they were full orphans (those with neither parent
alive), half-orphans (those with one widowed parent), or not orphaned at all—and
also used a host of other terms for them, such as variations of “student” (colegial/
colegiala, seminarista). Here, I tend to use the term “ward” for simplicity. Faced
with similar terminological complexities, Joel Harrington titled a recent book The
Unwanted Child: The Fate of Foundlings, Orphans, and Juvenile Criminals in
Early Modern Germany, explaining that he uses “unwanted children” to refer to
those “whose circulation came to involve governmental intervention.” Harrington
emphasizes “child circulation” as a model for understanding young people’s
experiences in various contexts that he loosely calls informal fostering.25 While I
agree with him in eschewing the label “abandoned children,” too often misleadingly
applied to many children who were reared in institutions or by figures other than
parents, I am equally uncomfortable with the term “unwanted child,” especially for
children who did receive institutional assistance. For while institutional life was
not always rosy, it did involve resources committed to preserving and protecting
both young wards and the surrounding society.
In Seville, such mutual protection involved not just controlling the amount
and type of contact between orphanage wards and the “outside” world, but also
24
Brian Pullan, “Orphans and Foundlings in Early Modern Europe,” in Poverty and
Charity: Europe, Italy, Venice, 1400–1700 (Aldershot, UK: Variorum [Ashgate], 1994);
Romero, Orphelins de Paris, 40.
25
Harrington, The Unwanted Child, 9.
deciding who would be admitted in the first place. Male and female institutions
differed significantly in this respect, reflecting strongly gendered contemporary
preoccupations about juvenile risk. Authorities feared that boys might fail to make
the critical transition to independent adult employment and turn to crime instead,
whereas girls might “fall into” prostitution or other illicit sexual activity that
would undermine public morality and prevent them from becoming “respectable”
women safely ensconced in marriages or religious life. I have suggested elsewhere
that such ideas were prevalent and help explain why boys far outnumbered girls
in Seville’s orphanages during the eighteenth century.26 Similar ideas clearly also
influenced the degree to which orphanage wards were integrated with or isolated
from the broader urban environment.
To female orphanage administrators, age made girls suspect. At all female
institutions, maximum ages at entry, ranging from 10 to 14, were justified as
necessary to ensure that girls did not bring in bad habits that would be difficult to
eradicate or set bad examples for the other girls.27 Moreover, while only the Noble
Girls School required that wards be from noble families, both of the other female
institutions insisted that wards be children of known married parents (i.e., they
had to be “legitimate”). Restricting the entering population in these ways seems to
have been a strategy not only for avoiding future problems within the orphanages,
but also for protecting wards’ respectability by controlling their companions and
ensuring the institution’s reputations for accommodating “respectable” girls.
While each institution presented itself as helping poor girls who might
otherwise be endangered, serving the most destitute was clearly not their main
objective, nor was removing misbehaving girls and young women from the streets
and homes of the surrounding community. Indeed, the BST by-laws explicitly
stated that “this is a house of education, not correction.”28 To some degree, these
restrictive admission practices resemble Nicholas Terpstra’s findings about the
institution that the Pietà girls’ home in Florence had become by the late sixteenth
century. Terpstra notes that this institution had shed its initial objective of housing
the most desperately poor and vulnerable girls to embrace the alternative social
role of confining the daughters of better-off families. While the shockingly high
mortality rates that he had found in the institution’s early years diminished after
this transformation had occurred, he suggests that the “improvement” was illusory,
Valentina K. Tikoff, “Gender and Juvenile Charity, Tradition and Reform:

26
Assistance for Young People in Eighteenth-Century Seville,” Eighteenth-Century Studies

41 (Spring 2008): 307–35.
27
AMS, IV, vol. 24, doc. 3; BST, uncatalogued document labeled “Provisión Real de
aprovación de las ordenanzas del Seminario de Niñas Huérfanas de la Santísima Trindidad
de Sevilla,” Madrid, August 16, 1797, article 5; and AA, V, Espíritu Santo, unnumbered
bundle [1], unnumbered document, letter from Sor Francisca del Corazón de Jesús, Seville,
August 22, 1797 to [archbishop of Seville].
28
BST, uncatalogued document labeled “Provisión Real de aprovación de las
ordenanzas del Seminario de Niñas Huérfanas de la Santísima Trindidad de Sevilla,”
Madrid, August 16, 1797, article 5.
Containing Risk 285
reflecting not better care for the most destitute girls but rather their exclusion from
care at this establishment.29 (He further notes that far greater confinement and less
interaction between the institutionalized girls and the surrounding community was
a concomitant development.) While there is little evidence of the same institutional
trajectory at any of the female orphanages of eighteenth-century Seville, neither do
we find in Seville the status quo ante that Terpstra describes for the earlier years of
Florence’s Pietà. From their very beginnings in the early eighteenth century, both
the BST and the Noble Girls School had restricted admission to a “higher” rank
of girl. The municipal Home for Orphaned Girls might have been open to a wider
range of girls, but admission here was hardly a matter of taking all comers, either;
evidence suggests that the intervention of city council members was important in
securing a girl’s placement in this home. And as noted above, the number of places
available here was small. Nonetheless, the municipal home did limp along with a
handful of girls until it merged with the BST in 1795, and thus perhaps provided
some access to girls who did not meet the stricter criteria of the BST (let alone the
Noble Girls School). In sum, barriers to girls’ admission to Seville’s orphanages
clearly had not loosened dramatically in the eighteenth century; even though there
were two additional girls’ homes in Seville for most of the century, access did not
extend to a wider range of girls; there were still few slots for those from the least
privileged and arguably neediest circumstances.
Collectively, the male institutions admitted a far wider array of youths, and
age was less important, but admission requirements did become increasingly
restrictive at the maritime orphanage of San Telmo. The initial goals of all three
male institutions were similar: to take in poor, unsupervised boys and divert them
from lives of crime or vagrancy into respectable adult paths. These objectives
suggest that the institutions were not only meant to help poor boys, but also to
protect the surrounding society from the problems that the most destitute and
criminally prone boys might cause in their youth and beyond—a clear contrast
with the female institutions. In 1721, San Telmo administrators did very directly
and consciously tighten admission criteria, requiring wards to be “legitimate” and
to show “blood purity.”30 At the Toribios, however, the street-sweeping function
remained. Indeed, in the 1760s, one Toribios advocate pointed out the valuable
civic service that the orphanage provided by interning “those [boys] who find
themselves already partially lost or soon to lose themselves, with grave detriment
to their souls and no small harm to the republic.”31 Moreover, as we have noted,
the Toribios came to double as a sort of reformatory.
All this might suggest that orphanages were isolating institutions for young
males that separated them from the broader community. This was not always,
29
Terpstra, Lost Girls, 127–46.
30
USUM, book 310, folios 36r–42r (July 7, 1721).
31
Gabriel Baca, Los Thoribios de Sevilla: Breve noticia de la fundación de su
hospicio, su admirable principio, sus gloriosos progresos, y el infeliz estado en que al
presente se halla (Madrid: Imprenta de Francisco Xavier García, 1766), 11.
nor even typically, the case, however. Seville’s male orphanage wards often had
considerable contact with the broader urban community. Like their counterparts
elsewhere in Europe, they performed ritual public roles, from marching in
funerals to singing for visiting royalty. In all of these roles, they were very visible
public presences; their young ages portrayed innocence and showed publicly
the charitable largesse of the sponsoring individual or organization toward the
deserving poor. They also served as reminders to the local community of their
presence. In addition, wards at the maritime orphanage of San Telmo had regular
organized outings, from attendance at church services to recreational excursions.
While such group outings physically removed boys from orphanages, they
remained under tight supervision, and one could argue that these activities did
not thoroughly integrate wards into local communities, as their distinctive roles,
clothing, company, and supervision clearly marked them as a group apart.
It was boys’ labor and training, mainly in their teenage years, that facilitated a
much different kind of movement beyond orphanages. From their early teens (and
perhaps even younger ages), boys from all three male institutions were sent to learn
and practice trades at locales ranging from the city’s artisanal workshops to ships
traversing the Atlantic. Although these youths remained under orphanage auspices
while in these positions, often owing part or all of their wages to the institution,
these positions afforded orphanage wards considerable mobility and autonomy.
San Telmo wards moreover could aspire to leaves beyond their shipboard service
for periods ranging from several hours to several weeks.
At San Telmo, the need for boys to work on ships after completing their
orphanage-based formal schooling was never seriously challenged. At the Toribios,
however, boys’ movement beyond institutional confines was more controversial.
A number of workshops were installed directly within the institution, and some
administrators and city leaders sought to restrict wards’ employment to these
sites.32 Yet orphanage account books suggest that some of the wards at the Toribios
continued to work off-site at local artisanal workshops as long as this institution
operated (until it was absorbed into the broader poorhouse erected in the 1830s).
Did the value of boys’ labor outweigh the threat that they presented?
Undoubtedly, this was part of the calculation, though as contemporaries pointed
out, the boys’ work rarely offset the costs of their accommodation in orphanages,
which sometimes was quite expensive. Indeed, rather than collecting a portion
of the wages earned by some wards, San Telmo administrators sometimes even
paid apprenticeship fees on their behalf; this occurred especially in the cases
of San Telmo wards whose stature or other physical characteristics made them
unsuitable candidates for maritime posts. If the “bottom line” alone had governed
policy, the orphanages might have been better off letting such wards fend for
themselves once they reached the ages at which they could be sent off to work, as
some contemporaries even suggested. Keeping wards under orphanage auspices,
however, allowed for the youths’ integration with the labor market and local
ADPS, Hospicio, bundle 1, doc. 24.

32
Containing Risk 287
community while retaining some degree of institutional oversight. Orphanage

administrators could pursue their objective of placing youths into the world of
adult male labor while retaining a considerable measure of “paternal” authority. In
this role, they sometimes defended and served as the wards’ advocates in conflicts
with employers and other adults whom the youths encountered beyond orphanage
confines. At other times, however, they punished the boys on behalf of such parties.
It is also significant that administrators of the city’s male orphanages helped
mitigate the threat collectively posed by their wards by highly constraining the
movement of the “riskiest” among them, both preemptively and in reaction to
specific incidents. Administrators of Seville’s principal male orphanages punished

wards whom they believed had misbehaved (whether within or beyond orphanage
confines) and prevented or tightly controlled such wards’ access to the local
community beyond orphanage walls. Both the Toribios and San Telmo had cells
for offending wards, and San Telmo sometimes sent boys away for punishment,
whether to the Toribios, to labor in Spanish shipyards, or to other sites where they
were isolated from other wards and the local population.33
Scholars have generally found that throughout early modern Europe, female
orphanage wards had considerably less freedom of movement than their male
counterparts did.34 This also was the case in Seville. As already noted, none of
Seville’s female orphanages doubled as a reformatory, and while misbehaving
female wards may well have been isolated from their peers, their access to the
outside world was not greatly affected, since even the best behaved girls had very
limited ability to move beyond orphanage grounds. Until they began to transition
out of institutional care in their late teens or early twenties, all of their education
and training occurred within the orphanage. Yet their isolation was not as complete
as is sometimes portrayed, nor did their status as orphanage wards necessarily
separate them from labor or other expectations of life beyond institutional confines,
as is sometimes assumed.
Girls’ contact with the outside world was most constrained at the Noble Girls
School. This is not surprising, since this establishment was located within a formal
convent (whereas technically, the BST was not); it preened girls for future lives as
cloistered nuns, and the noble families that sent their daughters here had the most
“honor” at stake in their daughters’ proper enclosure. Indeed, it was undoubtedly
the institution’s ability to protect these girls from the ignominy of having to work
in more public roles and its promise of a future dowry for those who wished to
33
For an example at San Telmo, see Valentina K. Tikoff, “Adolescence in the Atlantic:
Charity Boys as Seamen in the Spanish Maritime World,” The Journal of Early Modern
History 14 (2010): 45–73.
34
See, for example, McCants, Civic Charity in a Golden Age; Safley, Charity and
Economy; Eugenio Sonnino, “Between the Home and the Hospice: The Plight and Fate
of Girl Orphans in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Rome,” in Poor Women and
Children in the European Past, ed. John Henderson and Richard Wall (London: Routledge,
1994), 94–116; and Terpstra, Abandoned Children.
become nuns that led many families to place their daughters here. Yet even at this
most isolating of institutions there was a little wiggle-room. Wards mainly relied
on the outside world coming to them through visiting relatives. Illness, though,
allowed girls from the Noble Girls School to return to their families temporarily
before returning to resume their places; and nuns sometimes suspected that
families kept their daughters longer than strictly necessary.35 We even find a case
of a ward who “left to enjoy herself” (salió a divertirse) but was subsequently
allowed to return to her place at the orphanage, eventually becoming a nun at the
Espíritu Santo convent that housed it.36
At the city’s less selective female orphanages, contacts with the outside world
were somewhat more common and varied. While the girls at these homes did not
participate in funeral processions or receive training beyond orphanage confines,
as male charity wards commonly did, there were group outings to parish churches
and girls could occasionally leave with relatives. Moreover, at least until this
practice came under scrutiny in the late eighteenth century, some orphanage wards
appear to have accompanied the adults who collected alms on the streets of Seville
on behalf of the municipal Home for Orphaned Girls. Indeed, various proposals to
revise this institution’s by-laws in the late eighteenth century suggest that lively
debate about the appropriateness of girls’ public alms-seeking persisted until this
institution ceased to exist.
As young women made their transitions out of institutional care, they had
more interactions with the “outside” world, even if they ultimately returned
to the institution. This was the case at both the more and less selective female
orphanages in Seville, though again, girls’ experiences differed substantially
across institutions. As noted above, the Noble Girls School provided dowries to
the wards who chose to become nuns in one of Seville’s “Common Life” convents.
In accordance with decrees of the Council of Trent, novices were supposed to
be at least 16 years old before taking permanent vows. One year earlier, at age
15, Noble Girls School wards were allowed to leave for a period of “reflection”
or “contemplation” on their future plans. For most girls, this meant physically
leaving the orphanage and the convent in which it was housed and going back to
family homes for a time, even if they subsequently decided to return to the convent
to take vows—as many did.
At the other female institutions, wards were expected to go into domestic service.
At the BST, they departed for such positions at the age of 20; at the municipal
Home for Orphaned Girls, seemingly a bit younger. While these positions required
35
At least, nuns complained about this “abuse” of the illness leaves in the nineteenth
century. See, for example, AA, V, Espíritu Santo, unnumbered bundle [1], unnumbered
document, letter from Doña Dolores Badia to archbishop of Seville, Seville, 6 July 1884,
and accompanying materials, including response from Sor María de San Yldefonso,
Prioress of Espíritu Santo Convent, Seville, July 9, 1844.
36
Convento del Espíritu Santo, uncatalogued document labeled “Libro en que se
apuntan las entradas y salidas de las niñas coleg[ial]as desde el mes de en[er]o de 1741.”
Containing Risk 289
living in employers’ homes, wards frequently returned to orphanages between

jobs. Indeed, preprinted roster books at the BST from the early nineteenth century
suggest that this was not only the practice but also the expectation, as each page
was essentially a form with spaces provided to list a ward’s multiple departures
from (and subsequent returns to) the BST. Some of the young women’s comings
and goings are charted over multiple pages, documenting many years of short-
term employment interspersed with returns to the orphanage between stints.37 As
these rosters suggest, female wards retained the right to return to orphanages until
they “took an estate” (married or joined a convent), and many moved in and out
of an orphanage for many years after making their initial departure into service.
Finding some similar patterns for both male and female orphans in early modern
Augsburg, Thomas Max Safley has characterized the orphanages there as “halfway
houses” for their wards in the world of labor.38 This may also be a useful way to
think of Seville’s orphanages functioning.
While the administrators of Seville’s female orphanages feared the potentially
dangerous consequences of allowing girls to enter at ages slightly older than those
specified in admission guidelines, the return of substantially older wards over many
years after their initial departure for domestic service positions does not seem to
have been questioned. Once a girl was admitted, it was rare for an orphanage to
sever ties with her. Some of the girls at both the Noble Girls School and the BST
did eventually become women religious (nuns or beatas) at the establishments
that housed the orphanages. While this phenomenon is sometimes characterized
as wards never leaving the institutions, with the implication that they remained
permanently dependent, this is not quite accurate. These young women commonly
did leave the institutions where they had been reared, if only temporarily. Indeed,
departing from the orphanage/convent premises, even for only a short time, seems
to have been an important part of the transition for girls. They did not depart
suddenly, but rather transitioned out in a gradual process perforated by returns
to institutional care. While for years the orphanages had minimized interned
young women’s exposure to risk by limiting their access to the outside world,
at this stage—when the young women were outside—orphanage administrators
mitigated the risk by leaving the door open for them to return.
As we have seen, Seville’s orphanages sought to protect both their residents and
the broader communities in which they were located. This did not mean complete
isolation, though. While their experiences varied according to age, gender, and the
institutions that they attended, the wards of Seville’s orphanages were not entirely
cut off from the outside world. Clearly, female wards did not have the freedom
of movement that most of their male counterparts did, and the males—already
considered suspect and criminally inclined—were subject to strict confinement
if they violated social or behavioral norms. Yet the orphanages protected both
37
BST, uncatalogued document labeled “Libro donde se anotan las niñas que salen a
servir, y a las casas donde ban.”
38
Safley, Charity and Economy, 247.
the community and their wards not only by isolating the children and youth they
accommodated, but also by providing some controlled access to and integration
with the broader community.
Ritual roles such as marching in funeral processions and accompanying
adults collecting donations in public plazas made orphanage wards visible to
the residents of eighteenth-century Seville. These activities marked orphanage
wards as part of the broader community, but also highlighted their marginalization
and seemingly froze them in time as children. The other chief means of social
integration, orphanage wards’ labor, though in part economically motivated, also
better facilitated orphanage wards’ gradual incorporation into the community; and
this was arguably its most important role. Boys served in workshops, incipient
factories, and on board Spanish ships; girls in domestic tasks, first within
the orphanages and then (unless they were at the Noble Girls School), as they
transitioned out of institutional care into service within private homes. While such
employment was not easy or without conflict, neither was it unique to orphanage
wards, and in this way, it likely helped normalize the identities and experiences of
these young people, enabling them to grow out of their roles as orphans to take up
post-institutional adult lives in eighteenth-century Spain.
Works Cited
Abad, Carlos Alberto et al. El Colegio de San Ildefonso de los Niños de la Doctrina.
Madrid: Ayuntamiento de Madrid, 1989.
Aguilar Piñal, Francisco. La Sevilla de Olavide[:] 1767–1778. Seville, 1966;
facsimile reprint, with new preface and introductory material, Seville:
Ayuntamiento de Sevilla, 1995.
———. “Los Niños Toribios.” In Temas sevillanos, Primera serie: 2nd edn, rev.
and aug. Seville: Universidad de Sevilla, 1992, 51–7.
———. Siglo XVIII, 3rd edn, rev., Historia de Sevilla series, ed. Francisco Morales
Padrón. Seville: Universidad de Sevilla, 1989.
Alvarez Santaló, León Carlos. Marginación social y mentalidad en Andalucía
occidental: Expósitos en Sevilla (1613–1910). Prologue by A[ntonio]
Domínguez Ortiz. Seville: Junta de Andalucía, 1980.
Arrom, Silvia Marina. Containing the Poor: The Mexico City Poor House,
1774–1871. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000.
Baca, Gabriel. Thoribios de Sevilla: Breve noticia de la fundación de su hospicio,
su admirable principio, sus gloriosos progresos, y el infeliz estado en que al
presente se halla. Madrid: Imprenta de Francisco Xavier García, 1766.
Braojos Garrido, Alfonso. “El hospicio de Sevilla, fundación del reinado
fernandino.” Archivo Hispalese, 2nd series, 59 (1976): 5.
Calderón España, María Consolación. La Real Sociedad Económica Sevillana de
Amigos del País: Su Proyección Educativa (1775–1900). Seville: Universidad
de Sevilla, 1993.
Containing Risk 291
Callahan, William J. Honor, Commerce and Industry in Eighteenth-Century Spain.

Boston: Harvard Graduate School of Business Administration, 1972.
———. La Santa y Real Hermandad del Refugio y Piedad de Madrid, 1618–1832.
Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas (Instituto de Estudios
Madrileños), 1980.
———. “The Problem of Confinement: An Aspect of Poor Relief in Eighteenth-
Century Spain.” Hispanic American Historical Review 51 (February 1971):
1–24.
Carasa Soto, Pedro. Historia de la beneficencia en Castilla y León: Poder y pobreza
en la sociedad castellana.Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid, 1988.

Carmona, Juan Ignacio. “Control, amparo y adoctrinamiento. Los centros para
menores en el siglo XVI.” In La Infancia en España y Portugal Siglos
XVI–XIX, edited by Francisco Núñez Roldán. Madrid: Sílex, 2010.
Carmona García, Juan Ignacio. El extenso mundo de la pobreza: La otra cara de
la Sevilla imperial. Seville: Ayuntamiento de Sevilla, 1993.
Collantes de Terán, Antonio, Josefina Cruz Villalón, and Victor Fernández Salinas.
“Sevilla,” in Atlas histórico de ciudades europeas: Península Ibérica, ed.
Manuel Guàrdia, Francisco Javier Monclús, and José Luis Oyón, 183–209.
Barcelona: Salvat Editores, 1994.
Collantes de Terán [y Delorme], Francisco. Los establecimientos de caridad de
Sevilla, que se consideran como particulares: apuntes y memorias para su
historia. Sevilla: Oficina de El Orden, 1886.
Cunningham, Hugh. The Children of the Poor: Representations of Childhood
since the Seventeenth Century. Oxford: Blackwell, 1991.
Crenson, Matthew A. Building the Invisible Orphanage: A Prehistory of the
American Welfare System. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998.
Fernández Vargas, Valentina and Luis Lorenzo Navarro. El niño y el joven en
España (siglos XVIII–XX): Aproximación teórica y cuantitativa. With a
prologue by Juan Bosch-Marín. Barcelona: Editorial Anthropos, 1989.
Foucault, Michel. Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of
Reason. Translated by Richard Howard New York: Vintage, 1988 [1965].
García-Baquero, Antonio. “Sevilla en la Edad Moderna (II): Entre la crisis y la
atonía.” In Sevilla. Madrid: Editorial Mapfre, 1992.
García Garralón, Marta. “Taller de Mareantes”: El Real Colegio Seminario de
San Telmo de Sevilla (1681–1847). N.p. [Seville?]: Fundación Cajasol, 2007.
Griffiths, Paul. Youth and Authority: Formative Experiences in England
1560–1640. Oxford: Clarendon Press (Oxford University Press), 1996.
Hacsi, Timothy. Second Home: Orphan Asylums and Poor Families in America.
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997.
Harrington. Joel. “Escape from the Great Confinement: The Genealogy of a
German Workhouse.” Journal of Modern History 71 (June 1999): 308–45.
———. The Unwanted Child: The Fate of Foundlings, Orphans and Juvenile
Criminals in Early Modern Germany. Chicago: The University of Chicago
Press, 2009.
Henderson, John and Richard Wall, eds. Poor Women and Children in the European
Past. London: Routledge, 1994.
Herr, Richard. The Eighteenth-Century Revolution in Spain. Princeton: Princeton
Herrera García, Antonio. “Estudio histórico sobre el Real Colegio Seminario de
San Telmo, de Sevilla.” Archivo Hispalense, 2nd series, nos. 89–90 (1958).
Reprint, Seville: Imprenta Provincial, 1958.
Jiménez Salas, María. Historia de la asistencia social en España en la edad
moderna. Madrid: Instituto Balmes de Sociología, Departamento de Historia
Social, Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1958.

Maza Zorilla, Elena. Pobreza y asistencia social en España, siglos XVI al XX.
Aproximación histórica. Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid, 1987.
McCants, Anne E.C. Civic Charity in a Golden Age: Orphan Care in Early
Modern Amsterdam. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1997.
Mora del Pozo, Gabriel. El Colegio de Doctrinos y la enseñanza de primeras letras
en Toledo, siglos XI a XIX. Toledo: Instituto Provincial de Investigaciones y
Estudios Toledanos, 1984.
Morales, Juan Luis. El niño en la cultura española. 3 vols. Madrid: n.p. [privately
published?], 1960.
Núñez Roldán, Francisco, ed. La Infancia en España y Portugal Siglos XVI–XIX.
Madrid: Sílex, 2010.
Pérez Estévez, María Rosa. El problema de los vagos en la España del siglo XVIII.
Madrid: Confederación Española de Cajas de Ahorros, 1976.
Premo, Bianca. Children of the Father King: Youth, Authority, and Legal Minority
in Colonial Lima. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2005.
Pullan, Brian. “Orphans and Foundlings in Early Modern Europe.” In Poverty
and Charity: Europe, Italy, Venice, 1400–1700. Aldershot, UK: Variorum
(Ashgate), 1994.
Reher, David S. “Ciudades, procesos de urbanización y sistemas urbanos en la
Península Ibérica, 1550–1991.” In Atlas histórico de ciudades europeas:
Península Ibérica, edited by Manuel Guàrdia, Francisco Javier Monclús, and
José Luis Oyón. Barcelona: Salvat Editores, 1994.
———. Perspectives on the Family in Spain, Past and Present. Oxford: Clarendon
Press (Oxford University Press), 1997.
Ringrose, David. Spain, Europe, and the “Spanish Miracle,” 1700–1900.
Robin Romero, Isabelle. Les Orphelins de Paris: Enfants et assistance aux
XVIe–XVIIIe siècles. Preface by Jean-Pierre Barded. Paris: Presses de
l’Université Paris-Sorbonne, 2007.
Safley, Thomas Max. Charity and Economy in the Orphanages of Early Modern
Augsburg. Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press, 1997.
Schwartz, Robert M. Policing the Poor in Eighteenth-Century France. Chapel
Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1988.
Containing Risk 293
Sonnino, Eugenio. “Between the Home and the Hospice: The Plight and Fate of
Girl Orphans in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Rome.” In Poor Women
and Children in the European Past, edited by John Henderson and Richard
Wall, 94–116. London: Routledge, 1994.
Soubreyoux, Jacques. “El discurso de la Ilustración sobre la pobreza. Análisis de
una formación discursiva.” Nueva revista de filología hispánica 33 (1984):
115–32.
———. “El encuentro del pobre y la sociedad: Asistencia y represión en el Madrid
del siglo XVIII.” Estudios de historia social 20 (1982): 7–225.
———. “Pauperismo y relaciones sociales en el Madrid del siglo XVIII.” Estudios

de historia social 12 (1980): 7–227.
Terpstra, Nicholas. Abandoned Children of the Italian Renaissance: Orphan Care
in Florence and Bologna. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005.
———. Lost Girls: Sex and Death in Renaissance Florence. Baltimore: Johns
Tikoff, Valentina K. “Adolescence in the Atlantic: Charity Boys as Seamen in the
Spanish Maritime World.” The Journal of Early Modern History 14 (2010):
45–73.
———. “Gender and Juvenile Charity, Tradition and Reform: Assistance for
Young People in Eighteenth-Century Seville.” Eighteenth-Century Studies 41
(Spring 2008): 307–35.
———. “Juvenile Internment before the Reformatory: A Correctional Orphanage
in Ancien Regime Seville.” In Becoming Delinquent: European Youth,
1650–1950, edited by Pamela Cox and Heather Shore, 59–75. Aldershot, UK:
Ashgate/Dartmouth University Press, 2002.
———. “‘Not all the Orphans Really Are’: The Diversity of Charity Children in
Old Regime Seville.” In Raising an Empire: Children in Early Modern Iberia
and Colonial Latin America, edited by Ondina González and Bianca Premo,
41–74. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2007.
———. “Saint Elmo’s Orphans: Navigation Education and Training at the Royal
School of San Telmo in Seville during the Eighteenth Century.” International
Journal of Maritime History 20 (June 2008): 1–32.
Tropé, Hélène. La Formation des enfants orphelins à Valence (XVe–XVIIe siècles):
Le cas du College Impérial Saint-Vincent-Ferrier. Paris: Publications de la
Sorbonne, Presses de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1998.
Woolf, Stuart. The Poor in Western Europe in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth
Centuries. London: Methuen, 1986.

Index
Admiral of Castile 135, 229 Arcos, Duchess of 225, 226, 231,

adolescence 61, 66, 226, 232, 235. See also 240, 242
mancebía, youth Arcos, Duke of 227, 231, 233, 239, 241, 242
adulthood 1–2, 11, 13–14, 66, 72, 123, Arcos, lineage 228, 231
183, 204, 225–7, 229. See also Ariès, Philippe 2, 123, 210, 254
puer-senex aristocracy 200n58, 223. See also nobility
marriage and 199, 237 authority 75, 85, 86, 97
transition to 136–7, 139, 191, 197, abusive 79, 261–2
224, 254 paternal 74, 76, 258, 268–9, 287
Ágreda, Sor María de royal 8, 53, 70, 72, 76, 130, 199,
Mystical City of God 25n19, 98–9, 106, 200–203, 257
111–12, 117 teachers and 154, 250, 252
Alcázar (Madrid)
palace 136, 146, 154, 167, 174, Baltasar Carlos, Prince of Asturias 10, 12,
180, 226 143–60, 165, 167
plaza 145 birth of 143–6
alcohol death of 159, 171, 181, 184
consumption of 215–16, 265 education of 166, 146–55
alimentary excess 215 Barca, Calderón de la 151
Ana of Austria, Infanta 76n40 Casa de dos puertas mala es de
childhood 126–9 guardar 152
education of 131–3, 166 La banda y la flor 152
as mother 124 La dama duende 145
as royalty 134–8 beata(s) 282, 289
Ana Dorotea, Sor 28, 29 Beaterio de la Santísima Trinidad,
angel(s) 26, 27, 34, 103, 108, 110–13, Seville 282
116, 143 Béjar, Duchess of 201
children as 197, 227 Béjar, Duke of 240, 242
Anna of Austria, Queen of Spain Béjar, lineage 230, 232
marriage to Philip II 70 Benavente, Countess of 239
sons of 72n25 Benavente, Count(s) of 145, 239, 242
Anne, Saint 9–10 Benavente, Duke of 229
cult of 44, 100 Benavente y Benavides, Cristóbal de
immaculate conception of Mary 28 Advertencias para reyes, príncipes y
presentation of Mary and 94, 97, 99 embaxadores 157, 158
teaching the Virgin to read 93, 97, Benevides, Juan de 256–7
99–108, 112, 116–17 Bernal, Beatriz 58–9, 66n7
Antoniano, Silvio Cristalián de España 58, 66n7
Dialogo della Istoria 20 body language 56–8. See also gestures
Arcos, Count of 227, 230 breastfeeding 26, 33, 46, 147
296 The Formation of the Child in Early Modern Spain
Calasanz, José de 262 Arderique 51

Campomanes, Pedro Rodríguez, Count Clarián de Landanís 56
of 277 Claribalte 47, 54
careers 1, 4 Clarisel de las flores 61
noble children and 12, 223–4, 226n15, Cristalián de España 58, 59
229, 231–2, 237–44 Félix Magno 52, 56
orphans and 286–9 Florindo 48
royal children and 133, 139 Florisel de Niquea 42, 49, 58, 66
Carlos, Infante 126, 129, 134, 139, 145, Lisuarte de Grecia 66
146, 150 Olivante de Laura 56
Carlos II, King of Spain 11, 103, 189–204 Palmerín de Olivia 52, 54–6, 66
child king 191–4 Platir 57, 59
childhood 191–4 Polindo 52
education of 151 Primaleón 47, 57, 58,
myths about 189, 192–9, 204 Silves de la Selva 47, 66
rumors about illnesses 192–3 Tristán de Leonís 56
separation from mother 200–203 Valerián de Hungría 54
symbol of decline 190 Christ
transition to adulthood 197–203 ancestors of 25, 27, 32–3, 35
Carreño de Miranda, Juan 103 blood of 249
Carrillo, Martín 14, 19–38 childhood 29
Carvajal, Luisa de 1, 259–60, 263–4, 268 passion of 113
Casa de Contratación (House of Trade) 282 shroud of 113
Casa de Niñas Huérfanas, Seville 280 as son 108, 112
Casey, James 225n5, 227, 229 teachings of 265
castigation concepts of royalty 125–7, 138, 140
children and 13, 249–69, 86 children as royalty 133–6
gender and 252 female royalty 157–8
religious penance as 257, 260 confessor(s) 129–30, 146, 149, 169, 170,
teachers and 262–3 172, 199
Castillejo, Cristóbal Contreras, Alonso de
Diálogo de mujeres 48n20 Discurso de mi Vida 263
Cenete, Marquis of 229 convent(s)
Cervantes, Miguel de 8 burial in 227, 240
Don Quixote 1, 8, 11, 65–88, 267 as career choice 12, 96, 172–3, 232,
charity 217, 266, 275, 280 236, 240–41, 268, 288–9
children 13, 273–90 Descalzas Reales (Madrid) 20–21,
homes 273, 276, 282–3 28–9, 33, 103, 128, 132, 198
performed by children 136 paintings in 96, 106–7, 117n63
Charles I, King of England 124 praying for the king 129
Charles V, King of Spain 70, 76n40, 85, as refuge 48, 128
125, 145, 146, 242 royal visits to 136–7, 150, 176, 179
child abuse 1, 13, 15, 77, 249–69. See also San Jerónimo (Madrid) 134, 150
castigation schools 235, 282, 287
child labor. See juvenile labor convivencia 111
chivalric novels correction 27. See also castigation
Adramón 46 of children 250, 260
Amadís de Gaula 65 facilities for 281, 284
Amadís de Grecia 46 Cort, Cornelis 94
Index 297
court system 253 punishment 13, 14, 15, 124, 250, 252,
child abuse and 254, 256, 258, 261 258, 261, 262, 264, 268, 278–9
divorce and 263, 265, 267 religion and 260, 268
courtly literature 42, 49n24 self 125, 209, 212–14
Cruz, Anne J. xi, 8, 11, 14, 41, 42, 224n3, domestic life
233n50, 255, 267, 268 of the court 175, 197
custody of children 3, 224, 233, 236–7, domestic servant(s) 77, 274, 288, 289, 290
244, 256, 265 domestic skills 105, 106
domestic violence 250n5, 253–4, 260,
Dadson, Trevor J. 234 265, 268
daughter(s) 9, 101, 240, 284 dowry 57, 153, 224, 232, 243
abuse of 258–9, 269 contract 12
as bargaining chips 56–9 convent 240, 287–8
biblical 25, 34–7 Dürer, Albrecht 94
careers 241, 243
custody of 233, 236 Éboli, Ana de Mendoza, Princess of
death of 59, 144, 223, 226–7, 258, 269 education 234, 243
disobedient 54–5, 61 marriage 237, 239
education of 44–8, 99, 103, 105–6, 236 education 9. See also schools(s), teachers
enclosure of 48, 242, 284, 287–8 at court 243
as heirs 69, 224–5 early 45
illegitimate 28, 176, 230 female 4, 10, 44n10, 46–9, 52, 56, 61,
images of 10, 93 101, 105, 117, 235–6, 243, 287
marriage of 83, 96, 135, 146, 191–2, in fiction 46–9, 52, 56
224, 232, 238–9 gender and 3, 10, 129, 234–7
murderous 61 humanist 79, 155
obedient 52, 61, 99 male 76, 226n15, 235–6, 286
relationship with mothers 9–10, 15, mothers in 10, 14, 58, 150–51,
41–61, 105–6 160, 231
royal 11, 14–15, 19, 28, 44, 76, 128, of nobility 224, 232–7, 244, 265
136–8, 144, 147, 158, 165, 168–72, of orphans 281, 284, 287
176, 179, 181–4 religious 138, 170, 239, 240, 261
submissive 53–4, 61 of royalty 123, 129–33, 138–40, 144,
Virgin Mary as 93–4, 99, 103, 116 146–56, 165–7, 180–84
death texts for 61, 112, 153, 156, 209–10,
of Baltasar Carlos 159–60, 171, 181 213, 265
of Carlos II 15, 189–90, 192, 204 tutors 152, 155, 234
of children 12, 35, 59, 67, 159–60, violence and 260–63
223–4, 226–30, 238, 253, 261 Eiximenis, Françesc 111–12
Christianity and 215, 259 Libre del Crestia 111
in Don Quixote 85, 87 Vita Christi 111
good 88 Elias, Norbert 213
lineage and 244 Elizabeth I, Queen of England 124
of parents 12, 48, 56–7, 67, 127, emotions
136–7, 139, 153, 159, 171, 191, of children 126, 137
223–4, 233, 238, 240 in chivalric novels 41, 50, 56, 61
discipline in Don Quixote 82
education and 2, 9, 14, 125, 209, feminine 10, 56, 61
212–14, 216, 262, 278–9 masculine 212
maternal 50 royal 1, 15, 70, 72, 76, 124, 127, 130,

royal 126, 37 136–7, 139, 150, 153, 154, 165,
entail 69, 74n34, 225n5, 230, 231, 241, 168–71, 174–6, 178–85
243, 244. See also mayorazgo father-son relations 11, 67–9, 77, 79–80,
Erasmus, Desiderius 218, 220 82, 87–8, 219–20, 235
Colloquies 209–14, 217, 218 feelings 41, 52, 53, 55, 59, 170, 171. See
De civilitate morum puerilium 182, 213 also emotions
Institutio Principis Christiani 146, 153 female exemplars 2, 9, 19–20, 22–5,
Pietas puerilis 210, 217 27–31, 34–5, 37, 43, 45, 61
Erauso, Catalina de 268 female readers 20, 45, 49, 117
Espinosa, Antonio de feminist theory 43

Reglas de bien vivir 53 Fernández de Cordoba
family 231, 240–42
family. See also paterfamilias, lineage Fernando, Cardinal-Infante 12, 126,
abuse and 250, 253, 258–9, 261, 127, 129, 130–34, 138, 139, 148,
264–6, 269 150, 153
affection 124 festivities 137–8, 145, 149, 152
in art 100, 108, 116 feudalism 86
fathers and 51, 70, 74, 215, 218, 256, flagellation 253, 260
266, 269 fleet (Spanish) 73, 256, 276, 282
history of 4–5, 209–10, 254 folktales 73–4
Holy 100, 108, 116 Foucault, Michel 257, 261, 274
honor 36, 55, 269 foundling(s), 6, 13, 226, 275–6, 283. See
literary representation of 8, 41–2, 48, also orphan(s)
51, 52, 55, 61, 73, 84, 211, 215, home(s) 226, 275–6, 283. See also
218, 264 orphanage(s)
noble 224–5, 227, 228–35, 237, France
239–44 childhood in 166
property 69, 70, 74, 84, 227 royal marriage alliances with 131,
royal 11, 123, 125, 128, 131, 133, 136–8, 148, 158, 167
135–7, 140, 149, 166, 174, 180, treaty with 158
184, 195 war with 159, 168, 184, 199n52
women and 31, 44, 45, 52, 61, 70, 158, free will
184, 288 in chivalric romances 49, 53, 61
farthingale 2n1, 169, 178–81, 183 in Don Quixote 69, 72, 74–7, 86,
father(s) 11, 15. See also stepfather(s) 88, 267
abuse and 15, 256, 258–9, 261, marriage and 53
266, 269 of women 49, 61
arranging marriages 53n36, 54, 83, freedom 158, 217, 274, 279, 287, 289
85, 238 funeral
biblical 31–6 monuments 3
death of 67, 88, 127, 139, 197, processions and orphans 273, 286,
228–9, 263 288, 290
as exemplars 67, 76, 88, 212, 216,
218, 220 Gatos, Juana de 58–9
incest and 30–31, 34, 60 genealogy
inheritance and 73–4, 230, 237 biblical 30, 32
literature and 42–3, 48, 49–50, 51, of the chivalric novel 8, 42
53–5, 60, 65–88, 210–12, 216 visual 93
Index 299
gestures. See also body language mother of María Teresa 167, 169,
in art 112 170, 184
in chivalric novels 51, 55, 61 regent 159, 168, 170
Ginzburg, Carlo 19–21, 28 role in education of her son 10–11, 12,
godfather(s) 134, 232 14, 143–60
governance 22, 70n22, 85, 231 Isabel of Castile, Queen 46, 125, 131, 159,
grandfather(s) 75, 233 241, 243
royal 143, 153 Isabel Clara Eugenia 159, 166
guardainfante. See farthingale Isasi Idiáquez, Juan de, Count of Pie de
Guevara, Antonio 147, 209 Concha 153, 154
Relox de príncipes 45, 55, 211

James I/VI, King of England and
Habsburg monarchy 70. See also Spanish Scotland 124
monarchy Jesus, Isabel de 255–6
Herrera, Francisco the Elder 94, 98 Joachim, Saint
historian(s) 19, 21, 28, 31–3, 36–7, 88, father of Mary 26, 94, 97, 99, 103,
154–5, 252, 254 106, 116
history Joseph, Saint 26, 93, 96, 100, 112
biblical 19–20, 22–3, 25, 27, 30, 34–5, Jovellanos, Gaspar de 277
37, 96 juvenile delinquency 284
of childhood 2–4, 7, 13, 127, 140 juvenile labor 253, 274, 286–7, 289, 190
as educational subject 130, 144, 147, juvenile poor relief 276–7, 280, 283
151, 153, 155–7, 235
of literature 41, 61, 65 Kagan, Richard 74n34, 210, 211, 216, 236
of motherhood 23, 30 kingship
of sacred art 100 childhood and 11, 124, 126, 144–5,
of Spain 15, 145 156, 189, 196–7, 204
hospicio(s). See foundling home, during Carlos II’s minority 189–90,
orphanage 194–7, 204
House of Trade (Casa de Contratación) hereditary 72
282 practice of 69, 72, 76, 124, 149, 157
Spanish 72–5, 149, 157, 231
illegitimate knighthood 65–8, 72, 75, 77, 81, 88, 195
children 28, 176, 199, 225, 230,
233n46, 254 language
violence 250n5, 252, 261, 267, 268 body 56–8
immaculate conception education 146, 152–3, 155
of Jesus 28–9, 110 excessive 215, 218
of Mary 28, 100–103, 105, 107–8, legal 258
172 Latin
incest 34–6, 60 learning 146, 153, 154, 155, 216, 218,
infancy 80n47, 165, 167, 174, 183, 226 234–6
Infantado, Duchess of 223, 226, 228, 238 women learning 234–6
Infantado, Duke of 134, 178, 223, 226, 233 law
Inquisition 13, 94, 98, 100, 116, 253, abuse and 256–60, 264
257, 265 by-laws 282, 284, 288
Isabel, Empress of Portugal 46, 243 canon 53, 153, 235
Isabel of Borbón, Queen of Spain childhood and 7, 257
death of 165, 171 in Don Quixote 72, 76, 79, 80, 85
gender and 3, 56–7 maternal 12, 49, 59–61, 258

Roman 69 of music 178, 181
Spanish 69, 74n34, 77, 230, 257 passionate 47, 51, 52–3, 57
study of 80, 153, 216, 235 paternal 155, 180–81, 227, 228, 258
Lazarillo de Tormes 255, 267 of reading 66, 87
Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor romantic 82–3
Carlos II’s uncle 203 sororal 165
marriage of 181, 183, 192, 193 Luján, Pedro 67
Partition Treaty 192 Coloquios matrimoniales 9, 10, 53, 57,
in the succession 191–2 209–20
letters. See also literacy

of the alphabet 152, 216 Machiavelli, Niccolò 147
art and 75, 153 Madonna of Humility 110, 113, 116
burlesque 84–5 mancebía 66, 90. See also adolescence,
correspondence 154, 167, 171, 172, youth
173, 174, 177, 179, 181, 182, 193, Manfredi, Bartolomeo 249
202–3, 253 Margarita of Austria
Hebrew 97, 108 childhood of 174–82
instructional 76 Holy Roman Empress 191–2, 193
letter writing 29n29, 131–2, 179, 183 marriage of 191–2
Liang, Yuen-Gen 231, 237, 240 relationship with Velázquez 180–82
Linares, Duke of 232, 233n46 Spanish Infanta 166–7, 174–82
lineage in the succession 183, 191
in chivalric novels 42 Margarita of Austria, Queen of Spain 123,
convents and 48 125, 153n43, 166
in Don Quixote 82 court dress 127
honor and 259, 268 as grandmother 174
masculinity and 212 as mother 14, 124, 128, 136
mothers and 32 Margarita de la Cruz 19–20, 28–9,
noble 10, 12, 74n34, 201, 224–44 128, 132
royal 28, 125 María Antonia of Austria
literacy as Carlos II’s fianceè 199, 203
in convents 106 María of Austria 19
female 9, 45, 101, 103, 105–6, 117, in the succession 191
234, 236 Spanish Infanta 126–9, 131–2, 134,
male 10, 234 136, 145, 146
Lopez de Montoya, Pedro 258, 262 María Teresa of Austria
On the Good Education and childhood 1, 167–74, 183–5
Instruction of Noblemen 265 marriage 181
Los Toribios, Seville 281, 285, 286, 287 Queen of France 198n50
lottery 273 Spanish Infanta 165, 167–74, 177, 179,
Louis XIII, King of France 124, 166 182, 183–5
Louis XIV, King of France 167, 183, in the succession 191, 12, 172, 173–4,
191–2, 193n17 177, 182, 183
love 249, 262 Mariana of Austria
of art 181, 185 birth of Margarita María 174
filial 33, 35, 47, 48, 49, 59–61, 203 influence on court life 165, 173, 184
of God 79, 110, 217, 260 marriage 159, 165, 172
marital 36, 50, 52–3 Queen Regent 151, 196
Index 301
relationship with Carlos II 103, Medinaceli, Duke of 145, 200n60,

190–91, 199–203 224, 242
and the succession 177, 181 military
Marie Louise of Orleans 203 orders 194
Marina. See Spanish Navy service 72–3, 224, 237, 241–2
maritime employment 274, 275, 282, training 146, 155, 156, 281–2
285, 286 victory 150, 154
marriage 45, 51, 61, 211 women and 158, 244
abuse in 264, 266 Miranda, Countess of 234–6
arranged 4, 12, 54–5, 58, 70, 129, Montalbán, Count of 228
136–7, 183, 191, 203, 223–4, Montavlo, Rodríguez de

231–2, 237–44, 284 Amadis de Gaula 47, 52, 55, 60,
biblical 34 65, 131
ceremony 135, 193 moralists 10, 15, 42–6
compensatory 57 Moreno Caballero, Isabel 282
consummation 139 mother(s). See also Virgin Mary
contract 52, 127, 137 biblical 22–3, 25, 28, 31–5, 37
good 26 breastfeeding 256
love in 82–3 in chivalric novels 11, 41–61
negotiation 46, 49 cruel 15, 55–6
noble 223–4, 230–32, 237–44 death of 137, 165, 171, 184
royal 127, 129, 136–7, 158, 181, 183, doting 61
185, 191–2, 193, 199, 203–4 as educators 11, 14–15, 44–5,
sacrament 53 101–7, 116–17, 144, 155, 160,
second 267 210–12, 236
as sign of adulthood 139, 199, 203–4 as exemplars 136, 158–60, 210–12
unwanted 36, 54–5, 256 of Mary. See Anne, Saint
Martínez Góngora, Mar 212 murder of 60–61
Martínez Montañés, Juan 9, 93, 103 pensions 276
masculinities 9–10, 67, 212–13, 215, relationships with daughters 9, 41–61,
217, 220 101, 103–5
master-servant relations relationships with sons 10, 37, 195–6,
abuse and 252, 259, 260–61, 264, 199–204, 233, 240
267–8 single 56–8
in Don Quixote 74, 77–9, 84, 86 suppression of 41
nobility and 225 symbolic order of 43
royalty and 177 widowed 30, 43n14, 56–7, 59n53, 61
maternal instinct 46, 60 Murillo, Bartolomé Esteban 9, 93, 94, 98,
maternity 43, 51 103, 105, 117, 255
Biblical 23, 25, 29–30, 37
representations of 38 Nebrija, Antonio 211
virtuous 25, 29–30 De liberis educandis 210
maturity 2, 66 needlework 105, 108, 112. See also Virgin
Carlos II’s 191, 197–9, 201 Mary with
of royal children 126, 169, 179–80 nobility 230
Sancho Panza’s 84–5 against art 181
sexual 199, 278 careers and 74
mayorazgo 74n34, 230, 232. See also entail at court 145, 177, 196, 201
Medina de Ríoseco, Duke of 229, 238 death of 12, 228–9, 238, 242, 244
guardianship and 198 patriarch 84, 150, 258

military service and 73, 241–2 patriarchal
as parents 10, 11, 223–44 authority 268
records of 5 culture 42n5, 45, 46n16
secular 130 family 250, 258, 260, 269
novels of chivalry 8, 10, 41–61. See also figure 84
romances of chivalry hegemony 11, 41, 68
influence on Cervantes 65–9, 75, 77, inheritance system 15
81, 83–4, 88 political structure 70
Núñez de Reinoso, Alonso 51 society 3, 11, 51, 69
nuns. See also convent(s), women religious patriarchy 3, 70, 76, 211n8, 250
abuse and 268 abuse under 250, 260, 269
correspondence with 132, 171–2 in chivalric novels 41, 51
as readers 20–21, 28–9 in Don Quixote 8, 11, 68–9, 84, 268
royal 21, 28, 128, 131, 176 in fiction 45
writing 98, 117, 268 inheritance strategies and 15
nurse 46, 147, 263 legal 258, 260
wet nurse 45, 166, 167, 174, 176–7, penance 250, 253, 257, 260
232, 256 Perry, Mary Elizabeth 255, 265
Philip II, King of Spain 73, 100, 237, 263
objectification, women’s 57, 83 arranging marriages 243
Olavide, Pablo de 277 painting of 70–72
Old Testament, the 14, 19–23, 28, 30, as prince 85, 125
34–5, 37, 112 Philip III, King of Spain
Olivares, Gaspar de Guzmán y Pimentel, court of 12
Count-Duke of 14, 144, 145, death of 153
153–4, 160, 168 as father 14, 125, 128, 131, 138
fall from royal favor 148–9, 151, painting of 127
174, 184 Philip IV, King of Spain 156, 256
Olivares, Inés de Zúñiga y Velasco, death of 191
Countess of 144 education 129–33, 153
royal governess 146–7, 150, 167, father of Baltasar Carlos 143, 145, 150,
169–70, 171 154, 155
orphan(s) 10, 12–13, 14, 106, 233, 273–90 father of Margarita María 14, 15,
orphanage(s) 8, 10, 12–13, 273–90 174–82, 184
Osuna, Duchess of 225, 226 father of María Teresa 14, 15,
Osuna, Duke of 201, 226, 228, 232, 238 168–74, 183
Osuna, Francisco 209 marriage to Isabel of Borbón 158
marriage to Mariana of Austria 172
Pacheco, Francisco 9 in mourning 159
El arte de la pintura 94, 96–9, as prince 1, 11, 12, 125, 126–31,
106–8, 110 134, 135
Parent-child relations 5, 11, 82 theater enthusiast 151
parenthood 2, 14, 23. See also father(s), transition to adulthood 139
mother(s) Piarist Order 262
Partition Treaty 192–3 Pícaro 249
passion of Christ 112, 113 Pie de Concha, Juan de Isasi Idiáquez,
paterfamilias 69, 79 Count of 153
patria potestas 242 Pollock, Linda 3, 209, 210n3
Index 303
poorhouse 275–80, 283, 286. See also education in 224, 242–3, 264
foundling home, orphanage theater and 132–3, 144, 151–2
Portugal 159, 175, 184, 234, 243
pregnancy 33, 37, 48, 182 Saavedra Fajardo, Diego 147
primogeniture 33, 69, 74 Idea de un Príncipe político
procession christiano representada en cien
birth of Baltasar Carlos 145–6 empresas 156
funeral 273, 288, 290 sailors 13, 281
religious 128, 129, 136, 257 Sánchez de Arévalo, Rodrigo 210, 211
royal 150, 196, 201 Santillana, Íñigo López de Mendoza,
professions Marquis of 233, 237

choice of 80–82 school(s). See also charity homes,
Christian 213 orphanage(s), poorhouse
knighthood as 75 abuse and 252, 256, 262–3
religious 240 Beaterio de la Santísima Trinidad
soldier as 73 (BST) 282, 284–5, 287, 289
puer-senex 67, 68n13. See also books read in 218
adulthood boys 211, 216, 218, 219, 226, 252,
punishment 256, 286
corporal 13, 86, 249, 256, 261–4, 267, Colegio de Niñas Nobles (Niñas del
269, 278 Espíritu Santo) (Noble Girls
gender and 252, 287 School) Seville 12, 28, 284–5,
God’s 22, 258 287–90
reformatories and 281 Colegio de Niños de la Doctrina
religious penance as 257 (Schools of Christian Doctrine)
servants and 77, 259–61, 264 Seville 280
Colegio de San Ildefonso,
Quevedo, Francisco de 147, 148 Madrid 273
Qur’an 112 colegios de amigas 235
colegios de niñas 106
Rallo Gruss, Asunción 211, 214, discipline and 216
217n38, 218 girls 235–6, 284–5, 287–90
Real Colegio Seminario de San Telmo, Jesuit 168
Seville 275, 281–2, 285–7 orphans and 273–4, 280–90
reformatory 274, 281, 285, 287 Real Colegio Seminario de San Telmo
Ribadeneyra, Pedro de 98, 110 (Royal School of San Telmo)
Rodríguez, Pedro, Count of 281–2, 286
Campomanes 277 Virgin Mary and 99
Roelas, Juan de 9, 93, 101–3, 105, 107, 117 seclusion 46, 48
romances of chivalry 8, 43, 66, 72n26 self-control 87, 178, 212–13, 215
Rome 158 servant(s) 56, 256
as an example of discipline 216 abuse and 77, 252, 259–61, 264
royal court 1, 8, 10–15, 21, 47, 79 employment as 274
art and 100, 103, 180 noble 209, 225, 234
as career choice 74, 226 n15, 235, 236, royal 124, 126, 136, 144, 147–9, 160,
237, 242, 244 171, 177, 178, 180
children and 124–9, 132, 133–4, service
136–7, 139, 144–9, 166–75, 180, by the royal family 125, 130
183–5, 189–201, 204 by teachers 217
civic 285 Tapia y Salcedo, Gregorio de 153, 155

domestic 47, 49, 148, 225, 288–90 teachers 9, 11, 220, 279
military 73–5, 242 abuse and 13, 250, 252, 261–3, 268
religious 134–6, 286 female 45, 99, 106, 235
to the crown 73–5, 148, 231–2, mothers as 148, 170
242, 286 nobility and 234, 235
Seville royalty and 125, 129–30, 172, 183, 199n55
Archbishop of 240 selection of 216
art and 100–103, 255 of Virgin Mary 99
Immaculist Riots 105 wrath of 219
orphans and 10–14, 265, 273–90 Temple of Jerusalem 93, 94, 96, 100, 107
public execution in 256 Tendilla, Luis Hurtado de Mendoza, III
Sexto, Duke of 225 Count of 226, 238
Siete Partidas, The 258 Teresa of Ávila, Saint 167, 260
Silva, Feliciano de 51 theater
Amadís de Grecia 48 education through 10, 151, 160
Florisel de Niquea 43 in royal court 139, 151, 160, 171,
Lisuarte de Grecia 66 173, 182
sins of the flesh 215 Toledo, Archbishop of 235
Sociedad Económica de Amigos del País, Infante Fernando 126, 138
Seville 278 Pedro Gónzalez de Mendoza 241
son(s) 228, 238, 240. See also step-son transatlantic trade 274, 276, 282
abuse of 266–7
careers 74, 79–80, 240–43 Uceda, Duke of 135, 232
custody of 233, 256 Universidad de Mareantes 282
death of 72, 223, 226–7
education of 76, 79–80, 148, 151, Vargas, Moreno de 230
154–5, 160, 177, 210–14, 216, 220, Vega, Lope de 30, 144, 151
233–4, 240 El premio de la hermosura 132
as heirs 230–32, 239 Velasco, Toribio de 281
illegitimate 199, 225, 233n46 Velázquez, Diego de 10, 148, 153, 155n39,
royal 143–5, 148, 154–5, 159–60, 182, 165, 185
191, 199, 201–2 Las Meninas 174, 176, 179–81
Spanish fleet 73, 256, 276, 282 Vervins, peace of 158
Spanish Habsburg court 125, 189–90, 193, Villa Prieto, Josué 210
195–6. See also royal court Villafranca, Marquis of 227, 242
Spanish monarchy 12, 72, 143, 148, 149, Virgin Mary
152, 156, 166, 204. See also with book 105, 108–13, 117
Habsburg monarchy education of 1, 93, 97, 100–17
Seville and 277 as exemplar 22, 28, 37, 44, 94–9
succession to 159, 181, 183, 192 as mother 29, 44
Spanish Navy 154, 282. See also Spanish with needlework 107, 108, 112–16, 117
fleet in prayer 112–16
spousal abuse 253, 258 presentation of 94–9
step-children 258, 267, 268 sleeping 108–12
step-father 69, 85, 217 visions 103, 108–12
step-parent 13, 69, 252, 261, 267, 268 Vives, Juan Luis 45, 46n16, 50, 93, 168,
step-son 68, 88, 225 209, 219n51, 235
Stone, Lawrence 2, 254 Education of a Christian Woman 112
Index 305
war 8, 171 ambivalence toward 279–80

in Cataluña 156–7, 159, 165 biblical 26, 36
civil 191, 200, 204 in Don Quixote 8, 11, 66–7, 73, 83, 86
of Devolution (1667–1668) 193n17 ideal 212, 218–20
in Don Quixote 75 ill-behaved 86, 215, 278
against France 168, 185, 199n52 life cycle stage 2, 126, 197–8, 229, 268
against Portugal 185 male 281, 285–7
service in 74 poor 73
of the Spanish Succession (1701–1714) punishment of 263, 281
15, 185, 189 royal 126, 138, 173, 180, 190, 201
women and 158, 170

Ward, Bernardo 277 Zayas, María de 58
wills 8, 9, 12, 227–9 Zurbarán, Francisco de 9, 93, 94,
women religious 48, 274, 282, 284, 289. 98, 107–17
See also convent(s), nuns
youth(s). See also mancebía

abuse of 267

Grace E. Coolidge - The Formation of The Child in Early Modern Spain-Routledge (2014)

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Grace E. Coolidge - The Formation of The Child in Early Modern Spain-Routledge (2014)

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Downloaded by [University of Florida] at 15:55 14 February 2017

The Formation of the Child

Series editor: Anne J. Cruz

Masculinity and Queer Desire in Spanish Enlightenment Literature

Argentine Serialised Radio Drama in the Infamous Decade, 1930–1943

Canines in Cervantes and Velázquez

Reading Inebriation in Early Colonial Peru

Gendering the Crown in the Spanish Baroque Comedia

Published 2016 by Routledge

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

Copyright © 2014 Grace E. Coolidge and contributors

1988, to be identified as the editor of this work.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

ISBN 9781472428806 (hbk)

for Helen Nader

This page has been left blank intentionally

PART 1 Ideals of Childhood

1 Reproductive Genesis: Mothers and Children in Martín Carrillo’s

2 Mothers and Daughters in Chivalric Novels  41

3 Fathers and Sons in Don Quixote  65

4 Paintings of the Education of the Virgin Mary and the Lives

PART 2 Children at Court

5 Childhood and Royalty at the Court of Philip III  123

6 The Education of an Heir to the Throne: Isabel of Borbón

7 “My sister is growing up very healthy and beautiful, she loves

8 Growing Up Carlos II: Political Childhood in the Court of the

PART 3 Suffer the Little Children

9 Good Boys: The Fifth Dialogue in Pedro Luján’s Coloquios

10 Investing in the Lineage: Children in the Early Modern Spanish

11 The Castigation and Abuse of Children in Early Modern Spain  249

12 Containing Risk: The Integration and Isolation of Orphanage

3.1 Titian (Tiziano Vecellio) (1487–1557), Philip II, 1527–1598,

3.2 Héliodore Pisan, The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote of

3.3 Gustave Doré, Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes.

4.1 Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, Presentation in the Temple, 1680,

4.2 Juan de Roelas, St. Anne Teaching the Virgin, c. 1610–1615,

4.4 Francisco de Zurbarán, The Young Virgin, c. 1640–1650, oil on

4.5 Francisco de Zurbarán, The Young Virgin, 1658–1660, oil on canvas,

4.6 Francisco de Zurbarán, The Young Virgin, c. 1635–1640, oil

11.1 Bartolomeo Manfredi, Italian, 1582–1622, Cupid Chastised, 1613,

Edward Behrend-Martínez is interested in everyday life in early modern Iberia.

household. He is professor of History at Appalachian State University in Boone,

Grace E. Coolidge is associate professor of History at Grand Valley State

Anne J. Cruz is professor of Spanish and Cooper Fellow at the University of

Darcy Donahue is professor of Spanish and Women’s Studies at Miami University.

Alejandra Franganillo is completing her PhD at the Complutense University

Rosilie Hernández is associate professor of Early Modern Spanish Studies at

in Romance Languages and Literatures Series, University of North Carolina Press,

Martha K. Hoffman studied history at Yale and great books at the University of

Mª Carmen Marín Pina is associate professor of Spanish at the University

Silvia Z. Mitchell is assistant professor of European history at Purdue University.

She is currently working on a monograph on Mariana of Austria that advances

Valentina Tikoff is associate professor of History at DePaul University in

The recognition of childhood and children as valuable elements of society in

Historiography and Methodology

history.15 One of the groundbreaking works in this category is David Herlihy

and Christiane Klapisch-Zuber’s study of the Florentine Catasto that challenged

literature, poetry, drama, sermons, hagiographies, and Counter Reformation art.

allow contributors to analyze the role of violence in relation to childhood.

Moving from ideals of childhood to children to the experiences of children

In addition to a period of imagination or creativity, childhood was perceived

enable it to protect and enclose girls who were perceived to be endangered. By

2 Mothers and Daughters in Chivalric Novels 41

3 Fathers and Sons in Don Quixote 65

5 Childhood and Royalty at the Court of Philip III 123

11 The Castigation and Abuse of Children in Early Modern Spain 249