Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Editors
Advisory Board
volume 4
Edited by
Ana Simões
Maria Paula Diogo
LEIDEN | BOSTON
Research for this book was supported by the Portuguese Foundation for Science and Technology
under projects PTDC/IVC-HFC/3122/2014, UID/HIS/UI0286/2013, UID/HIS/UI0286/2019 and
UIDB/00286/2020.
Cover illustration: Engraving of the Praça do Comércio (Trading Square), Lisbon, in the late 19th century.
Courtesy of Museu de Lisboa (MC.GRA.1684).
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∵
Contents
List of Figures xi
Note on Contributors xiv
Part 1
The Fabric of the City
Introduction to Part 1 33
Maria Paula Diogo and Ana Simões
Part 2
Port City and Imperial Metropolis
Part 3
The Daily Life in the City
12 Intellectuals and the City. Private Matters in the Public Space 344
Daniel Gamito-Marques
Contents ix
Bibliography 421
Index 463
Figures
12.2 Atalaia Street in Bairro Alto, between 1898 and 1907 348
12.3 Members of the Cenacle in 1884. From left to right: Eça de Queirós, Oliveira
Martins, Antero de Quental, Ramalho Ortigão, and Guerra Junqueiro 353
13.1 Fialho de Almeida’s monumental bridge, 1906 367
13.2 The Faculty of Sciences of Lisbon 372
13.3a–b The headquarters of the Free University, Plaza Luís de Camões, Chiado;
Portuguese Popular University headquarters 377
13.4 Map of Lisbon with the location of the Faculty of Sciences and the Faculty of
Medicine, as well as the sections of the Free and Popular universities 383
14.1a–b Eduardo VII Park in 1934: Aerial view; Close-up of the roller coaster
Vertigo 398
14.2a–b Different advertisements at Luna Park 402
14.3a–b Fascist echoes and national grandeur in the urbanization of
Eduardo VII Park 406
14.4a–b The Exhibition of the Portuguese World. Maquette and map of the final
project including the amusement park 409
14.5a–b Sketches of the 1940 Exhibition of the Portuguese World: The projected
captive balloon and the mural decorations at the amusement park 410
14.6a–b Fun, technology, and diplomacy at the Feira Popular. New Circus (and new
mechanical rides) for the New State in 1943; Members of the Portuguese
government and ambassadors of allied powers right before the end
of WWII 415
Note on Contributors
Cláudia Castelo
holds undergraduate and master degrees in History by the New University of
Lisboa, and a PhD in Social Sciences (Historical Sociology) by the University of
Lisbon. Currently, she is a senior researcher at the Institute of Social Sciences
(University of Lisbon). Her research interests focus on knowledge, develop-
ment and migration in the Portuguese colonial empire (nineteenth and twen-
tieth centuries).
Lídia Fernandes
holds an undergraduate degree in Archaeology and a Master in Art History.
Since 1989 she has worked as an archaeologist at the Lisbon City Hall, and
since 2010 has been appointed coordinator of the current Lisbon Museum –
Roman Theater. She published several articles highlighting studies on archi-
tectural elements of Roman times, ceramics, urban archaeology, sites where
mathematical games have been carved in stone in Lisbon and Portugal, and
especially on the Roman theatre of Lisbon. She has curated several exhibitions
in Lisbon and authored catalogues on Olisipography.
Note on Contributors xv
Daniel Gamito-Marques
has a background in biology and holds a PhD in History of Science History,
Philosophy and Heritage of Science and Technology from the NOVA University
of Lisbon (2015). His PhD thesis focuses on the foundation and consolidation
of the first natural history museum of Lisbon. Currently he holds a position as
junior researcher in the H2020 project InsSciDE – Inventing a Shared Science
Diplomacy for Europe. He is member of Interuniversity Centre for the History
of Sciences and Technology (CIUHCT) since 2011. He has published articles on
the interactions between naturalists, scientific institutions, and nineteenth-
century Lisbon.
Carlos Godinho
is a PhD candidate in History and Philosophy of Science at the University of
Lisbon. He has been researching on the history of the celestial and armillary
sphere, as an in-between cosmological model. Crossing astronomy, philoso-
phy, and religion, he studies the model’s role in the political culture from early
modern times, more specifically as a national symbol of Portugal. He has been
a researcher in the project “Visions of Lisbon – Science, technology and medi-
cine (STM) and the making of a techno-scientific capital (1870–1940)”.
Inês Gomes
holds a PhD in History and Philosophy of Science from the University of Lisbon
(2015). She held a postdoctoral position at the Interuniversity Centre for the
History of Sciences and Technology (CIUHCT) and collaborated with the
Institute of Contemporary History (IHC), doing research in the areas of urban
history of science and environmental history. Currently, she is a postdoctoral
researcher at the University of Coimbra at CEIS20-Center for Interdisciplinary
Studies, participating since June 2019 in the European Research Council
funded project ReSEED. Rescuing seed’s heritage: engaging in a new framework
of agriculture and innovation since the eighteenth century.
João Machado
works in the field of history of science and technology since 2012, joining the
Interuniversity Centre for the History of Science and Technology (CIUHCT)
as a research fellow in 2015. In 2019 he started his PhD project at the NOVA
School of Science and Technology, “Computing was the solution, what was the
problem?,” focusing on emerging computer technologies and their effects in
Portugal during the 1980s, supported by a four-year scholarship from FCT-IP
(SFRH/BD/145338/2019).
xvi Note on Contributors
Antonio Sánchez
is Assistant Professor of History and Philosophy of Science at the Autonomous
University of Madrid. He was a member of the Interuniversity Centre for the
History of Science and Technology (CIUHCT) and is now a senior researcher in
the ERC project “RUTTER – Making the Earth Global: Early Modern Nautical
Rutters and the Construction of a Global Concept of the Earth”, led by Henrique
Leitão at CIUHCT. He is interested in early modern Iberian science, especially
in the production of artisanal knowledge related to cosmography and mari-
time culture. He has published books and articles about this topic in inter-
national journals such as Imago Mundi, Nuncius, Early Science and Medicine,
History of Science, Journal of the History of Ideas, and Centaurus, among others.
Jaume Sastre-Juan
is Serra Húnter Fellow at the Center for the History of Science (CEHIC) and
the Department of Philosophy of the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona.
His main research interests are the politics of display in museums of science
and technology, the political history of “interactivity”, and the history of inter-
national science popularization policies. He has taught history of science
and technology at the Universitat de Barcelona, the Universitat Oberta de
Catalunya and the Universidade de Lisboa, where he was postdoc researcher at
Note on Contributors xvii
the Interuniversity Center for the History of Science and Technology (CIUHCT)
from 2015 to 2019.
Ana Simões
is Full Professor of History of Science at the Faculty of Sciences, University of
Lisbon, Portugal, and she was (co-)coordinator of the Interuniversity Centre
for the History of Science and Technology (CIUHCT), from 2007 to 2019. She
was President of the European Society for the History of Science (2018–2020).
She has published extensively in subjects including the history of quantum
chemistry, and history of science in Portugal (eighteenth-twentieth centuries),
ranging from popularization of science and science in the press, to entangle-
ments between science and politics, science and the universities, and urban
history of science, focusing on Lisbon. She is a founding member of the inter-
national group STEP and of the journal HoST. She participates in research
projects and networks, and regularly organizes meetings, both nationally and
internationally.
M. Luísa Sousa
is researcher and assistant professor (adjunct) at the Interuniversity Centre
for the History of Science and Technology (CIUHCT), Department of Applied
Social Sciences, Faculty of Sciences and Technology of NOVA University of
Lisbon (Portugal). She was Chief Editor of HoST and she is a member of T2M’s
Executive Committee. Her publications include works on history of technol-
ogy, mobility, and urban planning in Portugal and former colonies of Angola,
and Mozambique, such as (with Álvaro Ferreira da Silva) “The ‘script’ of a new
urban layout: mobility, environment, and embellishment in Lisbon’s streets
(1850–1910)” (Technology and Culture, 60.1, 2019).
Ignacio Suay-Matallana
is Assistant Professor of History of Science at the University Miguel Hernández
(Spain), and researcher at the “López Piñero” Interuniversity Institute. He has
been a long-term postdoctoral fellow at the Chemical Heritage Foundation/
Science History Institute of Philadelphia (2014–2015), and a postdoctoral fel-
low at the Interuniversity Centre for the History of Science and Technology
(CIUHCT) (2015–2017). He also serves as secretary of the EuChemS Working
Party on History of Chemistry. His research has been published in journals like
Annals of Science, Journal of Chemical Education or Dynamis. His main research
interests are related to history of science and chemistry (1850–1950), especially
customs laboratories, sites of chemistry, material culture, textbooks, experts,
and regulations.
xviii Note on Contributors
Jaume Valentines-Álvarez
is a researcher at the Interuniversity Centre for the History of Science and
Technology (CIUHCT) and adjunct professor at the Nova University of Lisbon
(FCT NOVA). He has recently been a visiting fellow at the University of Geneva.
His main interests are the tensions between scientific authority and political
authority, having studied junction points of engineering thought, artefacts and
politics in twentieth-century Iberian Peninsula (especially around the crises
of 1929 and 1973). Concerning technology and urban landscapes, he has pub-
lished on the visible geographies of amusement parks in Barcelona, the invisi-
bilized architectures of urban nuclear reactors, the underground emotions of
the antinuclear movement, and the underground practices in anti-raid shel-
ters during the Spanish Civil War.
Introduction: Science, Technology and Medicine
in the making of Lisbon (1840–1940)
“Lisbon Still”
Lisbon has no kisses or hugs
no laughter or esplanades
no steps
nor girls and boys holding hands
has squares full of nobody
it still has sun but
does not have either Amália’s seagull or canoe
no restaurants, no bars, no cinemas
it is still fado it is still poems
closed within itself it is still Lisbon
open city
it is still the Lisbon of Pessoa both happy and sad
and on every deserted street
it still resists
20 March 2020
Manuel Alegre1
∵
Why Lisbon? As historians, and in keeping with the golden rule voiced by Marc
Bloch in 1949, in his Apologie pour l’Histoire,2 our introduction could hardly
proceed in any other way than with a question that entails three interrelated
issues: Why write an urban history of science in Lisbon? Why choose this time-
line? How to write it?
1 Manuel Alegre was born in 1936. He is a Portuguese writer and politician, member of the
Socialist Party. He resisted the dictatorship and was in exile from 1962 to 1974, first in Paris,
then in Algiers. Free translation by editors.
2 Marc Bloch, Apologie pour l’Histoire ou Métier d’Historien (Paris: Armand Colin, 1949).
The first of these questions will certainly cross the mind of many readers. This
would not probably be the case if, say, this book was about Berlin. As a mat-
ter of fact, the historical period addressed in this book (1840–1940) approxi-
mates the timeframe used by Dieter Hoffmann in his “Physical Tour of Berlin”
(1870–1930). As Hoffmann reminds his readers, this is a period bookmarked by
Hermann Helmholtz and Erwin Schrödinger, respectively; a period when the
history of physics was intimately linked to Berlin’s history, institutions, urban
spaces, and historical actors.3 However, the same cannot be said generally of
the city of Lisbon. There are no Helmholtzs or Schrödingers tied to its long his-
tory, and no scientific institutions of international relevance that stand out in
the mind of the average non-Portuguese reader. And yet, it is precisely because
of this apparent drawback that an urban history of Science, Technology and
Medicine (STM) in Lisbon is especially necessary. Berlin is no longer the disci-
plinary norm but its exception, Lisbon is the rule.
Over the past several decades, research into the history of STM shied away
from singular differences in the service of discovering historical common-
alities. Attention has been paid to a variety of people, from less well-known
scientists to mediators and go-betweens, to scientific institutions away from
mainstream ones, to state, private, regional, and local bodies. Attention has
similarly been given to gatherings, whether formal or informal, enduring or
ephemeral, and to a myriad of spaces, while not scientific in essence, that were
part and parcel of the scientific enterprise broadly conceived. In the process
locality has become central, while circulation is viewed both as a means of
connecting different localities and agents and as constitutive of knowledge
production itself.4
3 Dieter Hoffmann, “Physics in Berlin: A Walk Through the Historical City Center,” Physics
in Perspective 1 (1999): 445–454; Dieter Hoffmann, “Physics in Berlin: Walking tours in
Charlottenburg and Dahlem and Excursions in the Vicinity of Berlin,” Physics in Perspective 2
(2000), 426–445; reprinted in John S. Rigden and Roger H. Stuewer, eds., The Physical Tourist:
A Science Guide for the Traveler (Basel, Boston, Berlin: Birkhäuser, 2009), 81–90, 91–110.
4 Among the extensive literature on the topic we highlight: Kapil Raj, Relocating modern
science. Circulation and the construction of knowledge in South Asia and Europe 1650–1900
(Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan 2007); Simon Schaffer, Lissa Roberts, Kapil Raj, and James
Delbourgo, eds. The brokered world. Go-betweens and global intelligence 1770–1820 (Sagamore
Beach: Science History Publications, 2009); Kapil Raj, “Introduction: circulation and locality
in early modern science,” British Journal for the History of Science, 43, 4 (2010): 513–517; Lissa
Roberts, “Situating Science in Global History: Local Exchanges and Networks of Circulation,”
Itinerario, 33, 1 (2009): 9–30; and more recently Robert Mayhew, and Charles Withers, eds.,
Introduction 3
Moreover, the past two decades have seen historians of science come to
terms with the agency of cities in shaping STM following the publication of
Sven Dierig, Jens Lachmund and J. Andrew Mendelsohn’s seminal volume,
Science and the City.5 While historians have typically treated cities as the stage
upon which the drama of history unfolds, cities are now often perceived as
actors in their own right. Yet, the urban history of STM began by concentrating
its focus on mainstream cities such as Berlin, London, or Paris to the detriment
of cities such as Lisbon6 – an approach that follows in the footsteps of urban
historians who have contrasted first and second cities.7 That said, it is to the
merit of urban historians and historians of STM to have dedicated studies to
other metropoles such as Madrid, or more recently Vienna, which furthermore
were imperial central nodes.8 Going on the opposite direction, they have dedi-
cated also studies to Europe’s so-called second cities, the majority of which
focuses on South and Central European cities, whether as the historical object
to be studied or as part of a larger set of interurban connections, as is the case
in cities such as Barcelona, Buda, Milan, Moscow, Prague, Warsaw, and Zagreb
among others.9 Historians of these so-called second cities have been critical of
Geographies of Knowledge, Science, Scale and Spatiality in the Nineteenth Century (Baltimore:
John Hopkins University Press, 2020). For the creative role of circulation see the foundational
paper by James Secord, “Knowledge in transit,” ISIS 95 (2004): 654–672, and more recently
Pedro M.P. Raposo, ed., Moving Localities, HoST 8 (2013); Pedro M.P. Raposo, Ana Simões,
Manolis Patiniotis, and José Ramon Bertomeu-Sánchez, “Moving Localities, and Creative
Circulation: Travels as Knowledge Production in eighteenth century Europe,” Centaurus, 56
(2014): 167–188.
5 Sven Dierig, Jens Lachmund, and J. Andrew Mendelsohn, eds., Science and the City, Osiris, 18
(Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2003).
6 Illustrative of work on major European capitals are: David Harvey, Paris, Capital of Modernity
(New York and London: Routledge, 2006); Miriam Levin, Sophie Forgan, Martina Hessler,
Robert Kargon, and Morris Low, eds., Urban Modernity. Cultural Innovation in the Second
Industrial Revolution (Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press, 2010).
7 M. Umbach, “A tale of second cities,” The American Historical Review 110 (3) (2005): 659–
692; Blair A. Ruble, Second Metropolis: Pragmatic Pluralism in Gilded Age Chicago, Silver Age
Moscow, and Meiji Osaka (Woodrow Wilson Center Press with Cambridge University Press,
2001); Jerome I. Hodos. Second Cities: Globalization and Local Politics in Manchester and
Philadelphia (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2011).
8 Antonio Lafuente, and Tiago Saraiva, “The Urban Scale of Science and the Enlargement of
Madrid (1851–1936),” Social Studies of Science, 34 (4) (2004): 531–569; Tiago Saraiva, Ciencia
y Ciudad. Madrid y Lisboa, 1851–1900 (Madrid: Ayuntamiento de Madrid, Area de Gobierno
de las Artes, 2005); Mitchell G. Ash, ed., Science in the Metropolis: Vienna in Transnational
Context 1848–1918 (New York/Oxford: Routledge/Taylor and Francis, 2020).
9 For individual cities see Oliver Hochadel, and Agustí Nieto-Galan, eds., Barcelona. An Urban
History of Science and Modernity, 1888–1929 (London: Routledge, 2016); Agustí Nieto-Galan,
and Oliver Hochadel, eds., Urban histories of science. Making Knowledge in the City 1820–1940
4 Simões and Diogo
(London: Routledge, 2019); Tiago Saraiva, and Marta Macedo, eds., Capital Científica. A
Ciência Lisboeta e a Construção do Portugal Contemporâneo (Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências
Sociais, 2019): Tanya O’Sullivan, Geographies of City Science. Urban lives and origin debates
in late Victorian Dublin (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh, 2019). For a focus on inter-
urban connections see Eszter Gantner, Heidi Hein-Kircher, and Oliver Hochadel, eds.,
Interurban Knowledge Exchange in Southern and Eastern Europe 1870–1950 (NY and
London: Routledge Advances in Urban History, 2020).
10 Eszter Gantner, and Heidi Hein-Kircher, “‘Emerging Cities’: Knowledge and Urbanization
in Europe’s Borderland, 1888–1945 – Introduction,” Journal of Urban History 43(4) (2017):
575–586.
11 Representative examples are: Kostas Gavroglu, Manolis Patiniotis, Faidra Papanelopoulou,
Ana Simões, Ana Carneiro, Maria Paula Diogo, José Ramón Bertomeu Sánchez, Antonio
Garcia Belmar, and Agustí Nieto-Galan, “Science and Technology in the European
Periphery. Some historiographical considerations,” History of Science 46 (2008): 153–175;
Kostas Gavroglu, “The STEP (Science and Technology in the European Periphery) ini-
tiative: attempting to historicize the notion of European science,” Centaurus 54 (2012):
311–27; Manolis Patiniotis, “Between the local and the global. History of science in the
European Periphery meets Post-colonial studies,” Centaurus 55 (2013): 361–84; Maria
Paula Diogo, Kostas Gavroglu, and Ana Simões, eds., “FORUM STEP Matters,” Technology
& Culture, 57, 4 (2016): 926–997.
Introduction 5
12 Ana Simões, “Looking back, stepping forward. Reflections on the sciences in Europe,”
Presidential Address, Centaurus 61 (2019), 254–67.
13 Georges Basalla, “The spread of Western Science. A three-stage model describes the intro-
duction of modern science into any non-European nation,” Science 156 (1967): 611–622.
14 Oliver Hochadel, and Agustí Nieto-Galan, “How to write an urban history of STM on the
‘Periphery’,” FORUM Step matters, Technology and Culture 57(4) (2016): 978–88.
15 The STEP rationale was the starting point for Hochadel, and Nieto-Galan, Barcelona; and
Nieto-Galan, and Hochadel, Urban histories of science.
6 Simões and Diogo
power relations are deeply uneven. All encounters change the world, but never
flatten it metaphorically speaking. The world keeps on being bumpy, but the
nature of its bumps changes and evolves in the process. Therefore, we disagree
that periphery has reached its limits as a historiographical concept, and there-
fore should be abandoned altogether. However, the still persistent misconcep-
tions behind the use of periphery as a historiographical concept makes it at
present a minefield for the historian, who may decide to voice equivalent per-
spectives walking a different route. This is what we propose to do in this urban
history of STM in Lisbon.
When STEP members turned their attention to the urban history of STM,
beginning with Barcelona, they shied away from using the category of periph-
ery, and explored alternative avenues. They emphasised the importance of
rendering explicit the conflicting notions of modernity present during turn
of the century Europe,16 for these competing visions of modernity informed
the work of urban planners in their designs for various cities across Europe.
Recognizing that there has never been a single urban model to be followed; that
the inspiration for certain designs have always been dependent on both sub-
ject and context regardless of the notoriety of certain figures; that both influ-
ence and inspiration have always gone in multi-directional ways, Nieto-Galan
and Hochadel characterize the nuances of urban dynamics as a dynamic of
competing visions of modernity and thus reject the historian’s essentialis-
ing gesture via the notion of a single modernity. Inspired by the suggestion
of the sociologist Shmuel Eisenstadt,17 Nieto-Galan and Hochadel underscore
the role of multiple modernities. In tandem with the emphasis on a plural-
ity of urban modernities, often entangled,18 this volume points to hybridity
of characteristics as the common ground uniting many cities such as Lisbon
and recognize simultaneously that the specifics of Lisbon’s hybridity account
for its unique outlook. Furthermore, we stress the hybridity of urban actors
working in and for Lisbon, the manifold and often transient character of both
institutions and spaces, to argue that these characteristics are the rule, and
not the exception, in the urban history of STM. It is in this sense that Lisbon is
both the norm and unique.
By stressing hybridity as an historical dynamic, we shied away from com-
monly employed distinctions – first and second cities; centre/imperial
16 Oliver Hochadel, and Agustí Nieto-Galan, “Urban Histories of Science. How to Tell the
Tale,” in Nieto-Galan, and Hochadel, Urban histories of science, 1–15, on 4–7.
17 Shmuel N. Eisenstadt, “Multiple modernities,” Daedalus 109(1) (2000), 1–29, on 1–2.
18 The sociologist Goran Therborn has suggested instead to look at entangled modernities in
“Entangled modernities,” European Journal of Social Theory, 6(3) (2003), 293–305.
Introduction 7
19 Annemarie Jordan Gschwend, K.J.P. Lowe, eds., The Global City: On the Streets of
Renaissance Lisbon (London: Paul Holberton Publishing, 2015).
20 Saraiva, and Marta Macedo, Capital Científica; Ana Simões, “From Capital City to Scientific
Capital. Science, Technology, and Medicine in Lisbon as Seen through the Press, 1900–
1910,” in Agustí Nieto-Galan, Oliver Hochadel, eds., Urban Histories of Science. Making
Knowledge in the City 1820–1940 (London: Routledge, 2019), 141–163.
8 Simões and Diogo
21 This was the slogan of a poster by Henrique Galvão (1934) which can be accessed easily
at the internet. It features all Portuguese African colonies mapped onto Europe to show
that they occupy all the continent. It became iconic and has been the leitmotiv for many
reflections.
22 José Augusto França, Lisboa: Urbanismo e Arquitectura (Livros Horizonte, 2005), 63.
23 Bruno Latour, Science in Action. How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society
(Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1987).
Introduction 9
The pace of Lisbon’s transformation was in tune with the national policies for
infra-structuring the country and was strongly influenced by both national and
international political turmoil and economic and financial opportunities
and vicissitudes. Recent historiography on the Portuguese economy in
nineteenth-century has pointed out that, in addition to the long held view of
the country’s economic backwardness – the cornerstone of more traditional
economic analysis – Portugal demonstrated considerable growth in economic
activities, mainly agriculture and industry, and economic variables (use of the
available resources, work force and capital).25 However, this new approach
does not conceal the fact that from the mid nineteenth-century onwards the
Portuguese state faced serious financial problems, which deeply affected the
available resources for STM, and thus their degree of influence on urban devel-
opment as well as the career’s paths of main experts.
Between 1840 and 1940, Lisbon underwent profound transformations, even-
tually becoming a modern and cosmopolitan city that was shaped to serve an
emerging middle class. Hidden infrastructures (e.g. sewage, lighting, water
supply), visible infrastructures (e.g. gardens, new avenues, pavements, trans-
port, entertainment and consumption areas), and regulations concerning
public health and hygiene were at the core of this urban renewal driven by a
24 Including the Liberal Revolution and the civil war, several outbursts of epidemics, the
Scramble for Africa and the British Ultimatum.
25 Jorge Pedreira, “Introdução,” in História Económica de Portugal, ed. Pedro Lains and Álvaro
Ferreira da Silva (Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências Sociais, 2005), vol. II, 27–41.
10 Simões and Diogo
select group of experts. Over the course of this century, scientists, engineers,
and physicians assumed the role of leading policy makers, while advocating for
the use of new technologies considering the challenges posed by the moderni-
sation of Lisbon – central among these challenges was the city’s population
growth and the 1850s sanitary crisis (outbreaks of cholera, yellow fever, and
diphtheria between 1854 and 1859). Time and again, experts and policy mak-
ers would find inspiration from various foreign examples, which most urban
experts had personally experienced, such as the Haussmannian transforma-
tion of Paris and the development of urban sanitation in London.
26 Paulo Jorge Fernandes, “Política Económica,” in História Económica de Portugal, ed. Pedro
Lains and Álvaro Ferreira da Silva (Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências Sociais, 2005), vol. II,
393–419.
Introduction 11
backed by the standard value in the Portuguese market of gold. However, grow-
ing international and imperial political tensions combined with Portugal’s
economic and financial turmoil that marked its last quarter of the nineteenth-
century led to a financial crash that forced a partial bankruptcy in 1892. The sit-
uation was so difficult that Eça de Queirós – one of the main historical actors
analysed in chapter 12 and one of the most reputed writers at the time – said: “I
believe that Portugal is over. Just by writing these words tears come to my eyes
as I am almost certain that the disappearance of the kingdom of Portugal will
be the great tragedy of the end of the century.”27
Despite Eça’s understandable pessimism, it is by virtue of Portugal’s
Regeneration policies, which signalled the end of the Ancien Régime and the
beginning of industrial capitalism, that a properly modern, European, and
bourgeois Lisbon was created. With the 1836 Administrative Code, Lisbon
established a set of procedures concerning the management of public spaces.
However, and despite tensions between state and municipal authorities being
quite common – even dating back to medieval ages28 – the growth of the city
exacerbated these conflicts. In 1840, the Lisbon City Council sought to pro-
vide a more efficient answer to this growth in urban needs, and reorganized its
administration procedures and practices to ensure its capacity for managing
the various areas of public, urban, life – e.g. cleaning to gardens, from streets
and sidewalks to public order, and from markets to stray animals. This agenda
of urban restructuring aimed at empowering the city’s municipal government
to implement the changes required for the modernisation of Lisbon’s urban
infrastructure. In the following decades, the City Council’s reorganization of
1840 would be reinforced by a succession of key reforms in 1864, 1874, and 1887.
Perhaps the best examples of the kind of modernisation particular to
Lisbon are the “artefact/objects” of the Passeio Público (Public Promenade)
and the Avenida da Liberdade (Avenue of Liberty). Created in 1760, dur-
ing the Portuguese Enlightenment and contemporaneous with the founding
of the Academy of Sciences of Lisbon (1779), the Passeio Público was extended
in the 1830s as part of a beautification project catering to Lisbon’s growing
bourgeoisie. Its official perimeter was completed in 1840 with a large water-
fall situated atop a garden, which featured a view of the whole of downtown
Lisbon and the river Tagus. Transformed into a public space catering to bour-
geois sensibilities, the Passeio hosted musical performances in the evening,
an event made possible by the introduction of public gas lighting. This urban
27 Alfredo Campos Matos, Eça de Queirós. Uma Biografia (Lisboa: INCM, 2017).
28 Humberto Baquero Moreno, “O poder central e o poder local: modos de convergência e de
conflito nos séculos XIV e XV,” Revista de História 8 (1988): 53–68.
12 Simões and Diogo
29 Álvaro Ferreira da Silva, and M. Luísa Sousa, “The ‘Script’ of a new urban layout: Mobility,
environment, and embellishment in Lisbon’s streets (1850–1910),” Technology and Culture
60, 1 (2019): 65–97.
Introduction 13
32 Nuno Valério, “The Portuguese economy in the inter-war period,” Estudos de Economia 2
(1985): 143–151.
Introduction 15
particularly of Angola and Mozambique. With the 1930 Colonial Act, Lisbon
became the sole decision making centre with respect to the Angolan and
Mozambican economies. The empire was a cornerstone of a strong central-
ized regime supported by an intense campaign around the idea of a multi-
continental empire.
Portugal remained “neutral” during the Second World War, allowing the
country to increase national production and stabilise the national budget via
exports of textile, metal, and wolfram, and thereby further developing the
Portuguese economy. Opposing the traditional idea that Portugal was a purely
agrarian economy, recent historical analyses demonstrate how processes of
development, and the modernisation of certain industrial and technological
sectors played a key role in the Estado Novo’s economic expansion. Moreover,
these processes of modernisation were furthered in the 1950s via the invest-
ment of foreign capital, a key part of the country’s economic stimulus pack-
age – chemical and metalworking industry, tourism, transport, energy, and
public works projects, such as infrastructure, bridges, roads, and dams.33 The
existence of these processes of modernisation and development within a
national economy long held to be agricultural in essence, therefore, suggests
that the practices of science, engineering, and medicine were also placed at
the service of the Portuguese dictatorship.
Of the most important sites for the production of knowledge under Salazar’s
dictatorship, three particular laboratories – the Agronomical Station (1936),
the National Laboratory of Civil Engineering (1946), and the Laboratory of
Nuclear Physics and Engineering (1961) – are the clearest expression of the
importance of science and technology for autarky.34 As such, this view is far
from the commonly accepted narrative within Portuguese historiography,
whose arc begins with the political formation of an illuminated First Republic
and ends with an Estado Novo devoid of techno-scientific content. To the con-
trary, draconian censorship laws (such as the extended purges in the universi-
ties in the 1930s and 1940s) existed alongside the creation of state laboratories
33 Fernando Rosas, O Estado Novo nos Anos Trinta (1928–1938) (Lisboa, Editorial Estampa,
1986).
34 Tiago Saraiva, ed., The Fascistization of Science, HoST 3 (2009); Tiago Saraiva, Fascists Pigs.
Technoscientific Organisms and the History of Fascism (MIT Press, 2016); Sousa, Maria
Luísa. A Mobilidade Automóvel em Portugal, 1920–1950 (Lisboa: Editora Chiado, 2016);
Quintino Lopes, A Europeização de Portugal entre guerras. A Junta de Educação Nacional
e a Investigação Científica (Casal de Cambra: Caleidoscópio, 2017); Júlia Gaspar, Percursos
da Física e da Energia Nucleares na Capital Portuguesa: Ciência, Poder e Política, 1947–1973
(Lisboa: Edições Colibri, 2019); Saraiva, and Macedo, Capital Científica; Diogo and Saraiva,
Inventing a European Nation.
16 Simões and Diogo
and state departments to fund research paradoxically under the Estado Novo
dictatorship. Nevertheless, even the significant economic growth during and
after the Second World War did not change the peripheral status of Portuguese
economy. By the end of the 1960s, Portugal was still one of the European coun-
tries with the lowest income per capita.
As the regime itself, the changes in Lisbon during the Estado Novo bore
a strong propagandistic mark led by the municipality perfectly tuned with
the national policy objectives. Such changes were designed to showcase this
imagined lineage between past and present, establishing a direct link between
the Portuguese Golden Age (fourteenth and fifteenth centuries) to the colo-
nial empire of the twentieth century and its eventual entrance into European
modernity via public works projects. The 1940 Exposição do Mundo Português
(Portuguese World Exhibition) – the event that concludes the historical period
analysed in this volume – celebrated two major events in Portuguese history:
the foundation of the country in 1140, and the restoration of independence
after the period of Spanish rule in 1640. They attested to the robustness of the
Portuguese nation and “race” enhanced by its empire. With the support of
Duarte Pacheco, the engineer, and eventual President of Lisbon’s Municipality,
the 1940 Exposição do Mundo Português took place in the riverside neighbour-
hood of Belém – the site from where Vasco da Gama embarked on an expedi-
tion to India in late fifteenth-century. For the Estado Novo, Belém only further
justified the dictatorship’s colonial agenda and was used as the pretext for
reconstructing Portugal’s history as a multiracial and multi-continental nation
since its birth. Despite the propagandistic function of the exhibition, its pavil-
ions showcased the novel particularities of Portuguese history (to the point
that the Discoveries pavilion was shaped in the form of the armillary sphere)
alongside designated areas for leisure, such as a Luna Park and small boats for
public use along the river. Both then and now, the 1940 Exposição do Mundo
Português exhibition grounds completely transformed the neighbourhood of
Belém and Lisbon’s relationship to the river and its coastal area.
Chapter nine focuses precisely on the armillary sphere during and beyond
the Exposição do Mundo Português, particularly considering its role as an
aesthetic and political symbol of the dictatorship’s imperial rhetoric during
this period of urban development. Considering the Estado Novo’s economic
dependency on its colonies, chapter 8 interrogates how the Colonial Garden
and the Colonial Agricultural Museum were mobilised as fundamental insti-
tutions for the colonial production of knowledge and education, while rein-
forcing hierarchies of power between the imperial metropole and its colonial
periphery. Parallel to its use of national history, notions of modernity were at
the core of the dictatorship’s attempt to delegitimise the criticisms that por-
trayed Portugal as not-yet freed from its, alleged, historical backwardness. The
Introduction 17
construction of the Lisbon-Cascais coastal road and the Luna Park – covered
in chapters four and fourteen – epitomised the dictatorship’s brand of mod-
ernisation although directed to different publics. While the costal road was a
tourism road targeting the wealth of foreign and domestic elites, the Luna Park
was part of the general strategy of framing popular culture deployed by the
Secretariado de Propaganda Nacional (National Propaganda Board).
The one hundred years of Portuguese history covered in this book (1840–
1940) reveals a complex mosaic of continuities and discontinuities. At first
glance, it is seemingly easy to identify the chief discontinuities, whether they
pertain to changes in politics – the monarchy vs. the republic, the republic
vs. the dictatorship – or economics – debts and chaos vs. financial balance
and budgetary control. Such obvious discontinuities, however, obscure the
complex dynamic of tradition and novelty that is present in, for instance,
the building and consolidation of a modern central state during the latter
half of the nineteenth-century or the recurrent financial instability up until
the 1930s. That said, it is true that historical continuities persist throughout
this period of Portugal’s history: the role of the colonies in the construction of
national identity and for political and economic policy; the attempt to rival the
economic growth of its Western European counterparts; as well as the growing
importance of cities, infrastructures, and experts for the vision of European
modernity at the turn of the century.
It is the city, however, that serves as the point of contact for both the conti-
nuities and discontinuities of Portuguese history. As such, we approach Lisbon
as a specific unit, as an historical and self-contained subject, and conditioned
by a national and international context. Lisbon’s agency is revealed by way
of its urban landscape (real and imaginary), its inhabitants (from people to
germs, from dogs to trees and plants), and its policy makers (politicians, urban
experts, scientists, engineers, and physicians).
works addressed the urban history of STM in Lisbon.36 In 2005, Tiago Saraiva’s
comparative history of Madrid and Lisbon in the latter half of the nineteenth-
century, demonstrates the profound impact of STM with respect to the evolu-
tion of these cities. Saraiva’s history responds to the historian’s dismissal of
STM as an historical actor by tracing STM in the evolution of the key Iberian
metropoles of Madrid and Lisbon. Saraiva’s research gives the lie to the empha-
sis placed on the scientific backwardness of peripheral countries – e.g. Spain
and Portugal – in both the popular, historical, imaginary, and the national and
international literature.37 More than a decade later, in a paper co-authored
with Ana Cardoso de Matos and in a volume edited jointly with Marta Macedo,
Saraiva and Macedo undertook a study of a select group of STM institutions
over the course of three successive political regimes (Liberal constitutional
regime, First Republic and Estado Novo), revealing the ways in which STM
institutions and experts were central to the construction of contemporary
Lisbon.38 Moreover, in 2019, Álvaro Ferreira da Silva and Maria Luísa Sousa
offered an historiographical analysis of the importance of technical infra-
structures for the city.39 Included in the seminal collection of essays, Urban
Histories of Science (2019), Ana Simões – co-editor and contributing author of
the present volume – revealed the centrality of STM for Lisbon during the first
decade of the twentieth-century. By attending to the circulation of STM related
news and its corresponding coverage in the widely read newspaper, Diário de
36 Pre-dating the first exercises at an urban history of STM in Lisbon, we highlight an internet
database project: Ana Luísa Janeira, “Projecto: ‘Marcas das ciências e das técnicas pelas
ruas de Lisboa com Cesário Verde à descoberta de Lisboa,” Circumscribere, 3 (2007): 43–53
and a scientific tour in Lisbon, see Ana Simões, Maria Paula Diogo, and Ana Carneiro,
“Physical Sciences in Lisbon,” Physics in Perspective, 14, 3 (2012): 335–367, and visit the
site https://www.google.com/maps/d/edit?mid=1xAE021k4esfDqgYFbn-ntJtsjTo&ll=38.7
22717532487835%2C-9.160686949999981&z=14.
37 Saraiva, Ciencia y Ciudad.
38 Tiago Saraiva, and Ana Cardoso de Matos, “Technological Nocturne: The Lisbon Indus
trial Institute and Romantic Engineering (1849–1888),” Technology and Culture, 2017, 58
(2): 422–458; Saraiva, and Macedo, Capital Científica. The following institutions were
discussed in Capital Científica (Scientific Capital): the Polytechnical School of Lisbon,
the Army School, the Astronomical Observatory of Lisbon, the Geological Services,
the Industrial Institute of Lisbon, the Rilhafoles Hospital for alienated people, the
Bacteriological Institute Câmara Pestana, the Faculty of Medicine and the Faculty of
Sciences, the Institute Bento da Rocha Cabral, the Free and Popular universities for
the working classes, the Technical Institute of Lisbon, the National Laboratory of Civil
Engineering, the Portuguese Institute of Oncology and the Laboratory of Nuclear Physics
and Engineering. Chapters by several members of the project VISLIS in the context of
which this edited volume was prepared (see Post Scriptum).
39 Silva, and Sousa, “The script”.
Introduction 19
Notícias (Daily News), Simões successfully traces the various ways in which
representations of STM reached a highly illiterate population.40
These examples constitute the first step to counteract the still pervasive
view among experts, non-experts, and general audiences alike, with respect
to the role played by STM in shaping contemporary Lisbon and Portugal’s
landscapes.41 This has been a common justification for taking for granted the
country’s consistent STM backwardness, following the so-called Golden Age of
Discoveries. The present volume stems from an approach to the urban history
of STM in Lisbon, which is based on three methodological axes: the perspec-
tive of invisibilities, the role of socio-technical imaginaries, and urban con-
nections. This framework allows us to account for the effects of STM in the
making of Lisbon, insofar as its main sites of knowledge production diverge
from the institutions typically addressed in standard works of the urban his-
tory of STM – e.g. technical schools, universities, academies, societies, research
laboratories, natural history museums, botanical gardens, and zoos. Thus, we
attend mostly to the less recognisable, predictable, and grandiose places to
show the pervasiveness of STM in the construction of Lisbon, which can be
traced from its most iconic works of infrastructure to its most mundane ele-
ments of public life. If STM profoundly shaped Berlin, London, and Paris, the
same can be said of Lisbon.
3.1 Invisibilities
Due to advances in post-colonial and global studies, as well as approaches to
Europe evidencing a multiplicity of regions, spaces and entities unaddressed
in the past, recent attempts in the history of STM have been made to render
visible the actors (human and non-human), institutions and spaces that have
formerly remained invisible. The effects of this recent set of trends have also
co-construction of STM and Lisbon beyond the institutions and spaces typi-
cally studied in the history of STM.
Following former uses of actor-network theory in urban history, from the
work of Bert de Munck to its recent application to the streets of Lisbon,45
we take seriously Lisbon’s agency and recognize that it shapes how human
and non-human actors interact in urban space, thus establishing complex and
unavoidable relationships among various actors. Moreover, while we acknowl-
edge the role of Lisbon as a node in a dynamic and complex interurban net-
work, we underscore its situated agency within the highly asymmetrical power
relations that inhere in this interurban network as well as within the city itself.
The urban context reveals deep asymmetries of power both among human and
non-human animals, as well as among humans themselves. Even acknowledg-
ing the equal standing of technology, humans, animals, or other non-humans
as historical actors, the power of each actor to shape STM in the urban context
is deeply asymmetrical.
To capture the city’s agency, we purposely shied away from the more tradi-
tional emphasis on well-known major scientific, technical and medical institu-
tions, and focused on lesser known sites: the lazaretto, its customs’ laboratory
and health station, all of which formed part of the renewal of Lisbon’s port
in the late nineteenth- and early twentieth century (chapters five, six, and
seven, respectively); the Colonial Agricultural Museum, whose invisibility
emerges when contrasted to other museums such as the National Museum of
Lisbon’s rich zoological section on African fauna (chapter 8); the Estrela gar-
den and the Colonial Garden (chapters ten and eight); the itinerant spaces that
hosted working-class university courses and lectures by STM experts; the 1940
Portuguese World Exhibition, a short-lived Luna Park, and other amusement
parks (chapters thirteen, nine, and fourteen respectively); the Lisbon-Cascais
Coastal Road and related infrastructure projects such as pavements, afforesta-
tion, tree-alignments, and working-class neighbourhoods (chapters 4, 1, 2, and
3 respectively).
Moreover, these studies address urban experts other than the hegemonic
class of engineers, as well as a multitude of other city actors, including not only
intellectuals, often critical and/or visionary of the urban question (chapter 12),
but also anonymous craftsmen (chapter 1) and non-human actors that shaped
the city’s approach toward public health (chapters 11, 5, and 7 respectively).
In each of the examples studied here, we demonstrate how STM played a
45 Bert de Munck, “Re-assembling actor-network theory and urban history,” Urban History 44,
1 (2017): 111–122; Silva, and Sousa, “The ‘Script’.”
22 Simões and Diogo
encounter between the editors of this volume with the urban history of STM in
Lisbon was mediated by these two techno-scientific urban utopias in particu-
lar. However, Matos and Almeida’s utopias are of interest for our purposes, not
as “objects of study” per se, but insofar as they reveal the agendas of visionaries,
and ultimately reveal how they “have interpreted their present … with an eye
into the future.”48 This initial impression of the significance of these imaginar-
ies was eventually corroborated in light of the fact that the majority of the pro-
posed projects for the modernisation of Lisbon – most of which never came to
fruition – included central ingredients of the 1906 utopias.
Matos and Almeida both praised the road to industrialization and envi-
sioned modernisation considering advances in the productive capacities of
techno-science. Therefore, their vision of modernity emphasised the (long-
awaited) renewal of Lisbon’s port, the renovation of the (east-west) riverside,
and its expansion along Lisbon’s eventual imperial (north-south) axis, bor-
dered by the “Hill of the Sciences” to the west and the “Hill of Medicine” to the
east. Constitutive aspects of the port and the imperial axis of the city, as well
as of the new scientific capital, are the urban protagonists discussed in various
chapters in this volume.49
In his illustrated paper, Fialho de Almeida depicted a monumental bridge
over the new Haussman-like boulevard, Avenida da Liberdade, the most
emblematic avenue of the renewed city, which connected the “Hill of the
Sciences” to the west and the “Hill of Medicine” to the east – names that stem
from their concentration of scientific and medical institutions, respectively,
and helpfully illustrate how much modernization trends at work in Lisbon in
the second half of the nineteenth century were profoundly shaped by STM.
Besides part of an utopia, the monumental bridge, to give just an example,
was also suggested in urban projects elaborated by P.J. Pézerat, the French
architect, professor of the Polytechnic School and municipal engineer, or by
48 Michael D. Gordin, Helen Tilley, and Gyan Prakash, “Introduction. Utopia and Dystopia
beyond Space and Time,” in Michael D. Gordin, Helen Tilley, and Gyan Prakash, eds.,
Utopia and Dystopia: Conditions of Historical Possibility (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 2010), 1–17, 3.
49 Simões, “From Capital City to Scientific Capital.” If one contrasts these two utopias to
the British contemporary environmental garden city vision of Ebenezer Howard it is
possible to go beyond their apparent conflicting perspectives to find that they shared a
vision of the urban-natural dichotomy, which reduces nature to a resource for humans
to explore at their will. This is the argument suggested in the paper Ana Simões, and
Maria Paula Diogo, “Urban Utopias and the Anthropocene,” in Maria Paula Diogo, Ana
Simões, Ana Duarte Rodrigues, and Davide Scarso, eds., Gardens and Human Agency in the
Anthropocene (London, Routledge, 2019), 58–72.
24 Simões and Diogo
the military engineer Miguel Correia Pais.50 But it was never implemented,
although the relevance of the Hills of the Sciences and of Medicine was rein-
forced with time.
Between Almeida and Matos, it was the latter’s futuristic and techno-
scientific utopias that underscored Lisbon’s port as the mediating site linking
its imperial past to its modernist present. It was for this reason that Matos pro-
vided a new vision for the port of Lisbon, which included new piers, ware-
houses, and a transport and communications network linking Lisbon to other
parts of Portugal and to the world at large. This was a vision that reflected sev-
eral aspects of the various proposals discussed by Pierre-Joseph Pézerat and
Miguel Carlos Correia Pais, the French engineer, Thomé de Gamond, and the
architect and city council consultant, Miguel Ventura Terra.51 Almeida’s and
Matos’s utopias also included plans for a new industrial Lisbon located on the
south side of the river Tagus, replete with airy/healthy neighbourhoods for
the working class and easy access to Lisbon via a two-platform bridge (Almeida)
and an underground tunnel (Matos). Sixty years after “Monumental Lisbon,”
amidst the dictatorship of the Estado Novo, Almeida’s vision of a bridge con-
necting Lisbon to the south side of the river would finally come to fruition.
To be sure, these utopias were not the only imaginaries that reflected on the
potential for Lisbon’s modernisation: several official reports, papers, and books
addressed issues of urban planning, and proposed projects that were only par-
tially implemented, if implemented at all. These contemporaneous proposals
materialised different imaginaries, harbouring different visions for the future,
and established guidelines for their construction. Regardless of their utopian
function, it was the city of Lisbon that served as their referent. Various sorts
of reasons account for their non-realization, including the stringent financial
conditions in which the Lisbon city council and the country found themselves
by the end of the nineteenth century.
In sum, the three classes of socio-technical imaginaries highlighted above –
Lisbon as an imperial metropolis; Lisbon as the gateway to Europe; and
Lisbon as the scientific capital of Portugal – were grounded on the capacity of
STM and its experts in transforming Lisbon into the nation’s scientific capital52
and renewing its port’s status as the gateway of Europe. This was a vision that
was shared by successive political regimes, such that the connection to the
56 Carole Hein, Port Cities. Dynamic Landscapes and Global Networks (NY: Routledge: 2011).
57 Saskia Sassen distinguishes cities which held in the past strong connections with the
world at large, and which she calls world cities, from contemporary global cities. Saskia
Sassen, “The Global City. Introducing a Concept,” Brown Journal of World Affairs, 11, 2
(2005): 27–43.
58 Barata, Lisboa ‘caes da Europa’, 70.
59 The terms are now part of the mainstream vocabulary and are often used in blogs and
newspaper articles. For a recent academic review of the terms see Y. Depietri, and
T. McPhearson, “Integrating the Grey, Green, and Blue in Cities: Nature-Based Solutions
for Climate Change Adaptation and Risk Reduction,” in N. Kabisch, H. Korn, J. Stadler, and
A. Bonn, eds. Nature-Based Solutions to Climate Change Adaptation in Urban Areas. Theory
and Practice of Urban Sustainability Transitions (Springer, 2017), 91–109.
60 Jean-Marc L’Anton, “L’arbre comme réseau: de l’hygiénisme à l’écologie,” in Michel
Audouy et al., Le Grande Pari(s) d’Alphand. Création et transmission d’un paysage urbain
(Paris: Éditions de la Villette, 2018), 271–272.
Introduction 27
61 Hein, Port Cities; Patrick O’Flanagan, Port Cities of Atlantic Iberia, c. 1500–1900 (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 2008).
62 Raposo et al., “Moving Localities;” Raposo, Moving Localities.
63 Hochadel, and Nieto-Galan. “How to write an urban history of STM on the ‘Periphery’.”
28 Simões and Diogo
4 Tripartite Organization
64 John Pickstone, Ways of Knowing. A New History of Science, Technology and Medicine
(Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000); John Pickstone, “Working knowledges
before and after circa 1800. Practices and disciplines in the history of science, technology
and medicine,” ISIS, 98 (2007): 489–516.
Introduction 29
here accounts for the city as a network in which multiple actors intervene and
interact, shaping it and in turn being moulded by it. We centre our analysis on a
set of heterogeneous artefacts that embody the use, management, and control
of the city and its inhabitants, by using a set of variable discursive and non-
discursive elements that interact in a plastic way to enhance and exercise
power.65 Taken separately, the book’s fourteen chapters provide readers with
an engaging picture of Lisbon and its relation to STM and its experts. But it is
the dialogue established across the chapters of this volume and enhanced by
the virtual map available to readers (see Supplement), which highlights the
spatial and temporal intersections, continuities, and discontinuities, that tes-
tify to the interwoven dynamics of the complex and often contradictory city
that is Lisbon.
5 Post-scriptum
The last stages in the preparation of this volume caught us, as the poet Manuel
Alegre, amidst a pandemic of devastating, and global, consequence: it has
left a trail of death with no clear end in sight, upended the lives of everyone
to a greater or lesser extent, and promises to drastically alter forms of life we
once took as “normal.” This volume began during this pre-pandemic period as
part of a research project funded by the Portuguese Foundation for Science
and Technology called “Visions of Lisbon. Science, technology and medi-
cine and the making of a techno-scientific capital (1870–1940)” (VISLIS). The
initial research project began in the latter half of 2016, lasted for three and
a half years, and involved mostly members of the Interuniversity Centre for
the History of Science and Technology (CIUHCT).66 Moreover, among the out-
comes from this research project,67 this book occupies a special place. Profiting
from a lively research environment and its lines of research, the book’s outline,
organization, and contents were discussed among authors and benefitted from
the guidance of the project’s leader and consultants. Each chapter was pre-
pared via a process that began with the circulation of early drafts, which were
then collectively discussed and revised accordingly. The final organization of
this book also profited from the input of the editors of Brill’s series Cultural
Dynamics of Science.
Benefitting from the information gathered from the VISLIS project and
the methodologies developed by digital humanities scholars, an interactive
virtual map supplements the research presented in this volume and serves as
an inestimable contribution to the practice of historical urban cartography
(See Supplement and map at http://ciuhct.org/vislis-map/). The main STM
sites in Lisbon discussed in the various chapters of this book are identified via
their name and historical date, which allows for a fine analysis of their inter-
connections and relation to successive stages of urban renewal and expansion.
Readers and online visitors can search for specific STM place markers accord-
ing to their type or year and will be able to see them in their historiographical
context through a series of overlaid, high-resolution, geo-referenced maps.
30 May 2020
Part 1
The Fabric of the City
∵
Introduction to Part 1
Maria Paula Diogo and Ana Simões
What is the fabric of a city? In this part of the book, we explore some of the
“hard” structures that make urban spaces recognizable and usable.
In comparison to other European port cities connecting different loca-
tions within Europe as well as linking Europe with other continents, Lisbon
at the end of the nineteenth century was a relatively small city, and not only
in number of inhabitants but in terms of geographical area as well. Following
the Regeneration period’s modernization program driven by technological
advances, Lisbon went through a visible process of urban requalification from
the 1870s onwards.
Resulting from increasing, albeit mild, industrialization and migratory
influxes, the geographical expansion of Lisbon during the nineteenth century
took place along two axes: east-west and north-south. Thus, the city’s eastward
and westward expansion took place along the Tagus River (east-west axis),
which served as the centre of the capital’s main industrial site, was comple-
mented by the northward expansion outwards from the nation’s political, finan-
cial, and commercial centre, Praça do Comércio (Plaza of Commerce). It was
accompanied by an overall urban and aesthetic transformation, in which new
ample rectilinear avenues were built inspired in the boulevards of Haussman’s
public works and beautification projects (1853–1869) that have since become
synonymous with the city of Paris itself. Such projects aimed at reconciling
the ease of circulation, urban embellishment, and proper hygienic conditions,
the most prominent facets of the ideal mid-nineteenth century European city.
Moreover, this new city was shaped by technological developments mate-
rialized in grey and green infrastructures – both above and below ground –
and modern trends in medical theories and hygienic practices. The modernist
gap between Lisbon and its European counterparts began to disappear with
the addition of large technological systems such as pipelines, gas and electric
lighting, and improvements in sewage systems. Now, equally important though
less visible to historians, were the green infrastructures that accompanied such
large-scale projects as described above. These green infrastructures refer to
the novel combination of gardens, parks, tree-lined streets, as well as public
squares and boulevards, that resulted from the urban expansion of a newly
modernized Lisbon.
Together with new transports and communications, profiting from the intro-
duction of novel solutions for paving city streets and implementing updated
Lídia Fernandes
1 Norbert Elias, Über den Prozeß der Zivilisation (Basel, 1939). English version: The Civilizing
Process (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994).
2 António Maria de Fontes Pereira de Melo (1819–1887) was a Portuguese statesman and engi-
neer and a leading figure of his time (the Regeneration period). He was six times Minister
of Finance and Minister of Public Works. From 1871 to 1886, he served three times as Prime
Minister of Portugal, for a total of 11 years. His policy of favouring industrial and public infra-
structures became known as Fontismo (after his name).
3 José Augusto França, Lisboa. História Física e Moral (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte, 2008); Tiago
Saraiva, Ciencia y Ciudad. Madrid y Lisboa, 1851–1900 (Madrid: Ayuntamiento de Madrid, Area
de Gobierno de las Artes, 2005).
4 Tiago Saraiva, and Marta Macedo, eds., Capital Científica: A Ciência Lisboeta e a Construção do
Portugal Contemporâneo (Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências Sociais, 2019).
5 Decree dated 31 December 1864 and published in the Diário da República on the 13 January 1965,
Part III, section 1, articles 34 to 49.
38 Fernandes
11 Oliver Hochadel, and Agustí Nieto-Galan, “How to write an urban history of STM on
the ‘Periphery’,” FORUM Step matters, Technology and Culture 57(4) (2016): 978–88;
Agustí Nieto-Galan, and Oliver Hochadel, “Urban Histories of Science. How to Tell the
Tale” in Agustí Nieto-Galan, and Oliver Hochadel, eds., Urban histories of science. Making
Knowledge in the City 1820–1940 (London: Routledge, 2019), 1–15.
12 Diederick Raven, “Artisanal Knowledge,” Acta Baltica Historiae et Philosophiae Scientiarum,
1 (2013): 5–34, 8.
40 Fernandes
2 Made in Portugal
13 Sven Dierig, Jens Lachmund, and J. Andrew Mendelsohn, eds., Science and the City, Osiris,
18 (2003).
14 Nicholas Shrady, The Last Day: Wrath, Ruin, and Reason in the Great Lisbon Earthquake of
1755 (New York, London: Viking/Penguin Books, 2009), 152–155.
15 José Augusto França, Lisboa Pombalina e o Iluminismo (Lisboa: Bertrand Editora, 1977),
307.
Paving the City and Urban Evolution: 41
16 Linda Clarke, Building Capitalism: Historical Change and the Labour Process in the
Production of Built Environment (Abingdon, New York: Routledge, 1992).
17 Miguel Pais, Melhoramentos de Lisboa e seu Porto (1882), 415.
18 The study of archaeological sites dating from the sixteenth- and seventeenth centuries
confirms this. See Lídia Fernandes, Jacinta Bugalhão, and Paulo Almeida Fernandes, eds.,
Debaixo dos nossos pés, Pavimentos Históricos de Lisboa (Lisboa: ML/EGEAC, 2017).
19 Augusto Vieira da Silva, O Castelo de S. Jorge em Lisboa (Lisboa: Tip. Empresa Nacional de
Publicidade, 1937), 110–112.
42 Fernandes
To circumvent the lack of workers and funds, Furtado used prisoners (known
as “shackles” (“grilhetas”) of the oldest and nearby prison in the city (Limoeiro
Prison), which was already in charge of some public works in the neighbour-
hood. Moreover, Furtado petitioned for the support of the city council in bor-
rowing some pavers (calceteiros) to teach and train them.20 The motif Furtado
used was a simple zigzag design, which gave the pavement its striking and novel
aesthetic. The unusual motif and morphology of the stones arouse both great
admiration and critical comments. In O Arco de Sant’Ana (1845, 1850), Almeida
Garrett referred to this pavement as “candid pebbles and fine Eusebian arts,”21
denouncing his criticism of the governor’s work and emphasizing its excep-
tional and unusual features. In the poem “Cristalizações” (1887), Cesário Verde
described the bustle of city life and the hardships of the working class, and
especially its pavers: “Squatting, pavers in line,/Slowly, earthy and coarse,/Pave
the long street from side to side.”22 In other accounts, Lisboners were said to
have organized informal excursions with the sole objective of seeing and
walking on this pavement.23 Later, the visual impact of pavers was such that
they would eventually become protagonists in the cartoons and political satire
of the famed Portuguese caricaturist Rafael Bordalo Pinheiro, and published
in Pontos nos ii in 1890. That the pavers became a culturally significant symbol
was not lost on Bordalo Pinheiro, who criticized the king’s ignorance regarding
the needs of the people by comparing the government’s actions to protect the
crown with the work of levelling and covering the pavement done by pavers.24
Recognising the quality and novelty of Furtado’s approach, Lisbon’s city
council soon ordered their use in several streets and squares. These civil engi-
neering decisions would eventually lead to Portuguese pavement becoming
one of Lisbon’s chief symbols of urban identity. The newly paved sidewalks
first materialized in Rua de Santa Cruz do Castelo, a street near the castle,
23 Pais, Melhoramentos, 416. José de Monterroso Teixeira et al., “Tapetes de Pedra, redes
viárias, pavimentos, incorporações artísticas,” Tapetes de pedra. Stone carpets (Rio de
Janeiro: 19 Design e Editora Lda, 2010): 71.
24 Rafael Bordalo Pinheiro, “Hoje,” Pontos nos ii, 23 Out (1890), 390–391.
46 Fernandes
but rather than the original zigzag design, the motif chosen featured scales,
and was also used, in 1844, for the paving of Calçada do Marquês de Tancos.25
Moreover in April 1848, the city council took the decision to use Portuguese
pavement to coat Praça D. Pedro IV (Square of Pedro IV), which is today a large
public square known as Rossio; the National Theater D. Maria II located on one
of the sides of the square with its main entrance facing both the square and the
river had been inaugurated two years prior to its re-paving.
In 1847, when the circulation of vehicles and horseback riding was prohib-
ited within the central square itself, the problem of how best to find a digni-
fied solution to the now empty square became, once more, the most urgent of
matters. However, on 31 December 1849, the mosaic pavement of Rossio finally
coated the square, whose grandiosity was equal to that of the imposing build-
ing of the National Theater (see chapter 2 in this volume). The job fell to none
other than Furtado himself. As Júlio de Castilho recounts, Furtado proposed
“to the city council an original and bold solution of black and white waves, the
Wide Sea (Mar Largo), so that in July 1848 the council approved the project,
requesting that he ordered the wooden moulds as well as the necessary funds
for the work.”26
With a surface area of 8,712 square meters (158,4 m × 55 m), the pavement of
the square embodied a visionary decision on the part of the city council execu-
tives, not only on account of the area involved but also due to the emblem-
atic status of this city square. Construction work began on 17 August 1848
and ended on 31 December 1849, a period (sixteen months) that did not go
without criticism. Involving a very time-consuming work, Furtado once again
employed prison-labour, paying each prisoner 40 reis per day, alongside addi-
tional workers paid for by the municipality. Having in mind that the total bud-
get involved amounted to 300,000 reis (that is 100 reis per day, and 37 reis per
square meter), total labour costs were unbeatably cheap, whose total price, it
was said, wouldn’t “be matched in the future by any city council.”27
Catherine Charlotte Jackson, an Englishwoman who visited Lisbon in 1873,
recalled the originality of the pavement, whose motif formed “a kind of undu-
lating bands that produce a strange effect due to the regularity of their con-
tours on such a large area.”28
25 Synopse das pricipaes actos administrativos da Câmara em 1844, Lisboa. CML. 1845, p. 12.
26 Júlio de Castilho, Lisboa Antiga – Bairros Orientais, Vol. IX (Lisboa: Câmara Municipal de
Lisboa., 1937), 111.
27 Castilho, Lisboa Antiga, 111; Pais, Melhoramentos, 417.
28 Catherine Charlotte Jackson, A Formosa Lusitânia. Portugal em 1873 (Lisboa: Caleidoscópio,
2007), 38 (1st Edition, Porto: Livraria Portuense Editora, 1877).
Paving the City and Urban Evolution: 47
Figure 1.4 Wide Sea Portuguese Pavement at Plaza Dom Pedro IV-Rossio, 1977
Estúdio Mário Novais, PT/AMLSB/CMLSBAH/PCSP/004/MNV/001832
With the pavement work of Rossio far from finished, in December 1848, offi-
cials approved plans for the paving of the Square of Romulares, or what is the
present-day Square Duque da Terceira. However, the work on the square would
only begin in 1850. Notable among the planned renovations was the inclusion
of the “Romulares Meridian” – a sundial placed atop a plinth and located in
the centre of the square itself.29 Despite the cost of renovation approximating
four times the average cost for ordinary pavement work, it was met with such
29 In 1872, the municipality removed the sundial, replacing it by the statue of the Duke of
Terceira. See Eduardo Bairrada, Empedrados artísticos de Lisboa (Vila da Maia: Gráfica
Maiadouro, 1985), 232.
48 Fernandes
admiration that the square “was reproduced in various books and newspapers
abroad.”30
Soon, a succession of pavement renovations was implemented: in 1863,
Largo do Carmo was paved with a Portuguese pavement; in 1870, Portuguese
pavement was used on the sidewalks of Jardim do Príncipe Real (Garden of
Principe Real); in 1876, this mosaic pavement was chosen for the planned reno-
vation of in Praça do Município (Plaza of the Municipality); and once more, in
1882, for the Jardim da Graça (Garden of Graça).
Then, in 1886, plans were put in place for the paving of Praça Luís de
Camões (Square Luís de Camões), located in Chiado, one of the most emblem-
atic plazas of late nineteenth-century Lisbon. According to an extant illustra-
tion, dated 23 August 1886, it was composed of a central medallion that framed
the statue of the poet Camões, and a lattice motif covering the entire square
topped by a border of stylized finials.31 With an unexpectedly striking visual
effect, the completed project was a demonstration of the mosaic pavement’s
capacity for adapting to any surface. For instance, the asymmetrical plan of the
square did not cause any inconvenience and was accommodated into a design
that managed to cover the entirety of the public square. This factor accounts
for the leading position of mosaic pavement in Lisbon during the late nine-
teenth and early-twentieth century.
Still in 1886, the pavement of Rua Nova do Almada was carried out, as well as
that of Largo de São Julião. They were followed, in 1887, by the sidewalks of Rua
Augusta, and by those of Rua Garrett. In 1889, the southern part of Avenida da
Liberdade (Liberty Avenue) was also paved, up to the intersection with Rua das
Pretas, completed, from 1900 to 1908, until Praça Marquês do Pombal (Plaza
Marquis of Pombal). Many more were to follow.
In 1895, almost fifty years after Furtado first used Portuguese pavement to
coat the central parade of Castle of Saint George, the city council took the
decision to standardize the pavement used for the sidewalks of Lisbon’s main
streets and public squares, stating that “from now on the use of Portuguese
stone pavement shall be mandatory.”32
30 Pais, Melhoramentos 412, 417: It amounted to 2,500 reis per m2 including material and
labor, compared with 600 reis per m2 for ordinary pavements.
31 AML, PT/AMLSB/CMLSB/UROB-PU/11/829.
32 “Empedrados e Mosaicos,” Arte Portuguesa: revista de archeologia e arte moderna 2
(1895): 42.
Paving the City and Urban Evolution: 49
Despite its being more expensive than other paving materials that were being
experimented with abroad (e.g. limestone plaques,33 natural asphalt,34 or
cement mass with granitic powder35), mosaic pavement presented certain
practical advantages: durability and ease regarding application, maintenance,
and repair, even when involving the installation or repair of water, gas, elec-
tricity, and sewage pipelines. To these were added its aesthetic advantage of
clearly demarcating urban space. As the author of the seminal work from
1882, Melhoramentos de Lisboa e do seu Porto (Improvements of Lisbon and of
its Port), and military engineer/urban expert, Miguel Pais, confided: “Asphalt,
masses/mixtures, tiles, or plaques of various materials can be found on the
streets and passages of the main cities in Europe and America: limestone
33 Limestones’ plaques were expensive, slippery, difficult to repair, and were unconge-
nial to the application of water and gas pipelines, repair of the sewage system. Pais,
Melhoramentos, 411.
34 Experiments with natural asphalt existing in the country did not result due to the deform-
ability of the pavement, cracking easily and wearing quickly. Pais, Melhoramentos, 411.
35 Portland cement mass with granitic powder imported from England also brought disad-
vantages in the repairment of pipes. Pais, Melhoramentos, 413.
50 Fernandes
plaques and mosaic sidewalks are only to be found on the sidewalks of Lisbon’s
streets. Let us then disseminate this true national system.”36 Portuguese pave-
ment was domestically produced as an historically innovative solution to an
equally historical, and longstanding, problem of urban design. For these rea-
sons, Portuguese pavement became a symbol of the new urban landscape of
nineteenth-century Lisbon; a symbol that was made more iconic since it was
not to be found in any other country.
author’s name and rank can still be found in magazines39 and the Armazéns de
Moldes da Câmara Municipal de Lisboa (The City Hall of Lisbon’s Warehouse
of Moulds/Casts), which houses the city’s collection of preserved sketches.40
Although it is possible to trace Portuguese pavement back to the seventeenth-
century “embrechados” – decorative sets of shells/whelks encrusted in grouts,
fountains, or Roman mosaics composed of small rectangular tesserae and dec-
orated with intricate designs and patterns – I argue that Portuguese pavement
is not directly related to either the decoration of grouts and fountains or to
their use in Roman mosaics. Portuguese pavement provided an original solu-
tion, different from its predecessors, but which appropriated former coating or
paving experiences.41
In the process of producing Portuguese pavement, craftsmen pavers (calce-
teiros) used a technique that was akin to older methods employed in the laying
down of pebble pavements. Thus, the workers prepared a bed of gravel upon
a well-compacted trench of argillaceous materials, which accommodated the
tessera stones, and acted in a manner like cement. Prior to their placement,
watering, and compression, each stone would be cut according to the specific
dimensions required by a given pattern, the majority of which were cut into
cube-shaped pieces, with the cutting of other geometrical shapes appearing
with less frequency.42 Regardless of their variety in shape, the paving stones
themselves were exclusively cut from black and white limestone (with the
39 Século Ilustrado, 22 September 1945. Commenting on the engineer and minister of Public
Works Duarte Pacheco’s decision of applying Portuguese pavement systematically in
the urban plan to expand Lisbon, the magazine mentioned that “the works have been
directed by master Joaquim Rodrigues who has been for forty-five years – almost half a
century – a pave artist.”
40 Examples: “Pave artist officer Armindo Loureiro” or “drawn by Armindo Marques
Loureiro.” Armazéns de Moldes da Câmara Municipal de Lisboa (Unidade de Intervenção
Territorial Oriental).
41 In 1826, in the city of Horta, in the Azorean island of Faial, the military officer and gov-
ernor of the island, Lieutenant Colonel Diogo Tomás Rexelebém ordered the residents
to pave the sidewalks right in front of their houses. The result was so pleasing that the
Municipality of Faial restricted their use to pedestrians, prohibiting their use by ox carts,
for instance, in order to prevent their damage. Teixeira, Tapetes de Pedra, 72; R.C. Teixeira,
S.G. Costa, and V.G. Moniz, Grupos de Simetria. Identificação de Padrões no Património
Cultural dos Açores (Associação Ludus/Apenas Livros, 2015). It is probable that Furtado
heard about it while stationed in Azores at the same period, and part of the same military
circles and was inspired by this experience. As the Azores are rich in black volcanic stone,
the chromatic scale of the pavement was/is inverted when compared with the Lisbon
pavement (white motifs against a black background vs black motif against white back-
ground) and it was laid using the malhete technique, that is an irregular application of
stones with wide space between them.
42 Henriques, Moura, and Santos, Manual, 42–55.
52 Fernandes
rare exception of the use of basalt), due to the limestones’ proximity to Lisbon
(black and white limestone was easily found and accessed in quarries on the
outskirts of Lisbon) and for the stone’s relative softness, making it ideal for
the paving of a variety of urban landscapes.43 These qualities of black and
white limestone gained an added significance given the fact that the instru-
ments used for the entirety of the paving process were very traditional, manual
and low-tech tools – e.g. fork, pick, hammer, shovel, watering can, mallet, and
tamper.
While Portuguese pavement is typically composed of intricate arrange-
ments of black and white stone cubes, the paving stones themselves may be of
other geometrical forms and may have upwards of five colours, such as rose or
two hues of grey. Regardless of their difference in colour, the arrangement of
the paving stones produces the visual experience of the repetition of a particu-
lar geometric design or figurative motif, and with various symmetries.
Except for the brief period during which craftsmen would simultaneously
lay down both the pavement and its pattern, moulds were used to mark spe-
cific areas reserved for different colours and the repetition of motifs in linear
sequences (friezes) or in two dimensions (patterns or rosettes). While different
application techniques largely depended on the artistic style used, the stan-
dard procedure was to work around the mould’s border, beginning with the
placement of stones of a given colour and completing the process by filling
the mould’s interior.44 Moulds were initially made in wood, and later in iron.
Independent of any city-backed program of formal training, whether pri-
vately or publicly funded, this labour-intensive low-tech process of the laying
of paving stones remained a highly artistic craft. The quality of a calceteiros’
work was time-consuming but also long-lasting, involving a specific order of
steps to be performed sequentially, and in accordance with a pre-established
division of tasks. Over time, the craft underwent refinements, while increasing
specialization, and was supported by the visionary urban experts involved in
leading the city council’s approach to the challenges posed by the modernisa-
tion of nineteenth-century Lisbon. These urban planners were visionary inso-
far as they were able to see beyond the immediate expenses incurred by a city
council always struggling to make ends meet and take suitable decisions on a
broad range of techno-scientific questions to create one of Lisbon’s most mes-
merizing features.
43 António Miranda, “As novas pavimentações na Lisboa dos séculos XIX e XX,” in Debaixo
dos nossos pés, Pavimentos Históricos de Lisboa, eds. Lídia Fernandes, Jacinta Bugalhão,
Paulo Almeida Fernandes (Lisboa: ML/EGEAC, 2017), 36–39.
44 Henriques, Moura, and Santos, Manual, 58–66.
Paving the City and Urban Evolution: 53
45 Classic examples are stained glass windows, but there are also various examples of
rosettes in Lisbon’s pavements. One such example can be found at the Avenida da
Liberdade (Liberty Avenue). Jorge Nuno Silva, “Geometria a seus pés. A Calçada,” in Lídia
Fernandes, Jacinta Bugalhão, and Paulo Almeida Fernandes, eds., Debaixo dos nossos
pés, Pavimentos Históricos de Lisboa (Lisboa: ML/EGEAC, 2017), 58–61; Ana Cannas Silva,
Calçadas de Portugal. Simetrias passo a passo (CTT, 2016).
46 A recent work by young Portuguese students, encouraged by the Portuguese Mathematics
Society (www.spm.pt), registered 5 types of friezes and 12 types of patterns on the Lisbon
sidewalks. A project between Lisbon Municipality and the Society is underway that aims
to increase the geometric richness of the Lisbon sidewalk, completing it with the missing
types of symmetries. Silva, “Geometria a seus pés,” 60.
Paving the City and Urban Evolution: 55
program led by a city hall under the influence of Haussman’s renovated Paris
and Davioud’s innovations regarding urban furniture. With equally modern
designs for Lisbon’s urban furniture, another form of sociability and bour-
geois culture began to emerge and would take the form of literally “inhabit-
ing the street.”47 Social aspects were indeed decisive in these transformations,
often illustrated in various publications, engravings, and paintings. The use of
streets and public squares for the organization of parties, games, and meetings,
embodied new forms of sociability, which were at times encouraged and some-
times restricted due to the kind of pavements Lisboners stepped on. Pavements
reflected specific urban organizational and hierarchical dimensions.
The modernization trends at work in nineteenth-century Lisbon gave rise
to not one but several “Lisbons,” each of which was defined by a particular set
of publics, and sociabilities.48 This is perhaps best seen in the construction
and use of the Liberty Avenue. While Liberty Avenue was, in principle, acces-
sible to the entirety of Lisbon’s social strata, its predominance within the new
urban landscape caused the growth of other elitist urban centres that were
intentionally located away from Liberty Avenue and its surrounding public
spaces. For this new urban elite, there was only “Baixa (Downtown), Chiado
and the rest.”49 As Chiado became the epitome of what José Augusto França
has called the “mundane street,”50 the mosaic pavement of the square Luís de
Camões (described above) signalled a vision of urban space corresponding
to Lisbon’s newly emergent elites. Thus, Chiado became the privileged place
where intellectuals, journalists, artists, and politicians could enjoy an evening
stroll, engage in lively debates on a variety of pressing issues, or frequent any of
the neighbourhoods’ recreational spaces and theatres or “clubs” (see chapter 12
in this volume).
Chief among the aesthetic consequences of this renewal and renovation of
Lisbon’s urban landscape was the desire for similarly novel kinds of ornamen-
tation. The mosaic pavement was accompanied with decoration of building
facades with colourful tiles that have since become synonymous with Lisbon
47 Pedro Bebiano Braga, Mobiliário Urbano de Lisboa (1838–1938), (MA Dissertation, FCSH/
NOVA, 1995), 4.
48 Maria Alexandra Lousada, “Uma cidade em mudança: população e sociabilidades em
Lisboa, finais do século XVIII – início do século XX”, in Lídia Fernandes, Jacinta Bugalhão,
and Paulo Almeida Fernandes, eds., Debaixo dos nossos pés, Pavimentos Históricos de
Lisboa (Lisboa: ML/EGEAC, 2017), 40–7, 40.
49 José Augusto França, O Romantismo em Portugal. Estudo de factos socio-culturais (Lisboa:
Livros Horizonte, 1999), 843.
50 José Augusto França, Lisboa: Urbanismo e Arquitectura (Lisboa: Biblioteca Breve, 1980),
157.
56 Fernandes
but were, themselves, originally used only within religious spaces and the
homes of Portuguese nobility.51 However, the drive to modernise Lisbon gave
way to the use of mosaic pavement and traditional tilework outside of the tra-
ditional sites of religious or secular power, thereby replacing the old smooth
facades of monotonous colours.
The overall effect of this combination of tile and pavement was one of
renewed appreciation for, and new modalities of experiencing, the every-
day social life of the city itself. Moreover, new norms of sociability began to
take hold, insofar as the function and utility of the city’s streets was no longer
reduced to its utilitarian function as a medium of passage. Streets would now
become urban localities in their own right; spaces to be literally “inhabited,”
to live in, to socialize, to see and be seen. What is more, these changes in the
meaning and function of Lisbon’s public spaces would also be redefined, given
that spaces outside the home were now experienced as one element in a con-
tinuum that included one’s living room, the halls of social clubs, and even the
carpets used in literary associations. Thus, it is no coincidence that the artistic
designs characteristic of mosaic pavements is reminiscent of the designs used
in the textiles used in the objects of one’s private life – e.g. carpets, lace embroi-
deries, and napkins.
Here we return, once more, to the striking example set by Praça Luís de
Camões in Chiado. An attentive look at the mosaic pavement surrounding the
statue of the poet Camões is enough to notice its intimate and homely dimen-
sion. In fact, mosaic pavements reproduced, after all, ingredients typical of tra-
ditional mores, appropriated and moved from interior and private spaces to
exterior, public and open spaces.52
Being “a true national system,” Portuguese pavement became during the
Estado Novo a nationalistic symbol. This is particularly evident in the mon-
umental entrance of the Instituto Superior Técnico (Technical Institute) in
Lisbon. The Instituto Superior Técnico is an architectural complex designed
by the influential, modernist, architect Porfírio Pardal Monteiro, built in 1930
to host Lisbon’s first school entirely dedicated to engineering. Commissioned
by Duarte Pacheco – the Institute’s inaugural director and the future Minister
of Public Works under the dictatorship of the Estado Novo – the Instituto
Superior Técnico was itself an example of this use of designs and materials
that historically were reserved for spaces of domesticity. For instance, the
Institute’s large access ramp leading to each of its main buildings is paved with
Portuguese calçada, and features an art-deco inspired, triangular, motif that is
itself repeated in terms of the aesthetic design of its windows.
The Portuguese pavement was also used in a strong nationalist context in
the urbanization of the riverside area in the neighbourhood of Belém, near the
Jerónimos Monastery, symbol of the so-called golden age of Portuguese explo-
rations. Both the construction of the permanent Praça do Império (Empire
Square), and the temporary Exposição do Mundo Português (Portuguese World
Exhibition) used the Portuguese pavement for ideological purposes, that is to
glorify the Estado Novo (New State) dictatorship. The motif used was a large
armillary sphere framed by the Cross of Christ. The armillary sphere was an
astronomical object which became the symbol of Portugal used on the sails of
the Portuguese ships involved in the Portuguese discoveries during the Age
of European Exploration and was incorporated in the Portuguese flag since
1911 with the onset of the Republic. Its symbolic appropriation was in total har-
mony with the authoritarian nationalistic agenda of the regime (see chapter 9
in this volume).53
53 The use of the Portuguese pavement in relevant public spaces in Lisbon to be enjoyed
by passers-by continued along the twentieth century and until today. One of the most
striking examples of more recent uses are the sidewalks and major squares of the Expo 98
(1998 Lisbon World Exposition), the World’s Fair held in Lisbon in 1998, now part of the
new neighborhood of Parque das Nações.
54 The bibliography on circulation is immense and addresses different instances of this com-
plex process. Examples are: James A. Secord, “Knowledge in transit,” ISIS 95 (2004): 654–
72; Kapil Raj, Relocating Modern Science: Circulation and the Construction of Knowledge in
South Asia and Europe 1650–1900 (Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007); Lissa Roberts,
“Situating Science in Global History: Local Exchanges and Networks of Circulation,”
Itinerario, 33(1) (2009): 9–30; Simon Schaffer, Lissa Roberts, Kapil Raj and J. Delbourgo,
eds., The Brokered World: Go-Betweens and Global Intelligence, 1770–1820 (Sagamore
Beach: Watson Publishing International – Science History Publications, 2009); Kapil Raj,
“Beyond Postcolonialism … and Postpositivism: Circulation and the Global History of
Science,” ISIS, 104(2) (2013): 337–347.
58 Fernandes
The Portuguese pavement’s appearance resulted from the shift from its use
within interior spaces to public spaces of a modernised and urban Lisbon.
From both an engineering and an aesthetic point of view, Portuguese pave-
ment played a key role in the renewal of Lisboner’s everyday experience of
urban life, and, with every new sidewalk, plaza, and public square, these lime-
stone pavements laid the foundations for newly emerging forms of sociability
and leisure. Moreover, and during this period of Lisbon’s hierarchical reorgan-
isation of public space, cities in both Portugal and abroad began using mosaic
pavement for their own plans for modernising urban space, a process whose
chief consequence was the global circulation of Portuguese pavement itself.
This global process of circulation continues into our present, wherein the use
of Portuguese pavement has become common practice in Lisbon and abroad.
That said, and with respect to Lisbon, mosaic pavement has come full circle,
and is increasingly used for the interiors of commercial spaces, company build-
ings, and even the private homes of the city’s wealthy citizens.
In 1895, Portuguese pavement was used in Barcelona following the proposal
of the Portuguese businessman Júlio César Augusto Cordeiro, who presented
a technical report to the Municipality of Barcelona praising the resistance of
this pavement solution, much higher than those previously used, as well as
its low cost.55 Cordeiro suggested testing the Portuguese pavement on the
sidewalks of Salón San Juan (currently Passeig Lluís Companys), thus cover-
ing around 500 m². Despite the pavement’s success, it was considered to be a
temporary, rather than permanent, solution due to its reliance upon a foreign
(i.e. Portuguese) labour force whose availability could not be guaranteed by
Barcelona’s Municipality. In 1906, Barcelona introduced its “panot” or “baldosa”
project, which was a program to produce small cement tiles or “hydraulic tiles.”
This new solution preserved the decorative aspect of its Portuguese counterpart
with the “flower of Barcelona” and the four-tablet panot serving as the design
for most cement tiles produced. When compared with Portuguese pavement,
the two main advantages of these cement tiles were pedestrian safety and the
relative ease of locally accessing raw materials and expertise. While the former
case was a consequence of the exact levelling of the cement tiles to a given
terrain, by using local raw materials and expertise, the Municipality benefitted
from weather resistant materials fit for the city’s weather conditions.56
55 Antoni Remesar, and Danae Esparza, “Una identidad en reconstrucción. La calçada a por-
tuguesa,” Revista de História da Arte 11 (2014): 305–317.
56 Danae Esparza, Barcelona a ras de suelo (Barcelona: Univesitat de Barcelona Edicions,
2017).
Paving the City and Urban Evolution: 59
It was only after Ventura Terra’s exhibition for the 1900 Universal Exhibition
in Paris that mosaic pavement would confirm its status as a globally circulated
commodity. Included as part of its Portuguese pavilion were depictions of typi-
cal Lisbon sidewalks and thereby officially introducing the world to a series of
innovations – equal parts technical, aesthetic, engineerable, design-oriented,
and adaptable – that only Portugal could rightly claim as its own.57
Brazil, once a Portuguese colony, was particularly receptive. In 1900, and
following the strong urbanization triggered by the exploitation of rubber,
Portuguese pavement was used as part of the modernisation of Amazonia’s capi-
tal, Manaus. In addition to the durability of its raw material, Amazonia’s newly
renovated urban landscape demonstrated the engineerable and aesthetic
potential of Portuguese pavement. This is perhaps best seen in Manaus’ repro-
duction of the emblematic Wide Sea pattern, first used in Lisbon’s Rossio
Square, and consisting of alternating black and white bands echoing the
rhythm of waves. In 1904, Rio de Janeiro soon followed suit following the pro-
posal of then-mayor, Pereira Passos, regarding the use of Portuguese pavement
and his eventual hiring of 33 Portuguese pavement workers. In less than a year,
one 170 more Lisboners emigrated to Rio de Janeiro for the construction of
1,800 meters of sidewalk for the Avenida Central (Main Avenue), and officially
inaugurated in November 1905.58
Decades later, in 1970, the Brazilian architect, Burle Marx, appropriated the
original Wide Sea pattern of the Main Avenue, in what came to be known as
the famous Calçadão of Copacabana. Presently, 1,218 million square meters of
Portuguese pavements decorate the city. In the city of São Paulo, the Avenida
Paulista (the “Fifth Avenue of Brazil”) was inaugurated in 1891, the first in the
city to have asphalt, and also the first to become known for its sidewalks of
mosaic pavements, dating from the early 1970s. That said, mosaic pavement
was already being experimented upon by the local artist Mirthes Bernardes,
whose mosaic pavement designs were selected for several São Paulo’s side-
walks. Moreover, while planning the construction of Brazil’s new capital of
Brasília, artists were employed to design calçadas according to the original,
Portuguese, style while retaining an overall contemporary feel.
The Wide Sea pattern has also been used in Macau, a former Asian
Portuguese colony until 1999. It was applied by Portuguese pavers in its urban
centre, the Leal Praça do Senado (Loyal Senate Square) (1992). Other patterns
During the second half of the nineteenth century the paving of the city’s
streets and roads was regularly discussed in the meetings of the Municipal
Commission. Discussions ranged from issues of durability to considerations
regarding their sanitary and functional properties. In 1860, José Tedeschi, a city
councilman stated:
Almost all streets are dangerous both for walking people and for those
who travel on horses or in carriages! Pedestrians not only get a soft mass
under their feet, which bogs them down and dirties them up to their
knees but are also in great danger of falling due to slippery lanes; those
who use carriages, in addition to witness their animals falling, get also
dirty with the mud accumulated on the outer walls of the carriages which
they clean with their suits upon getting out.59
59 AML, Actas das Sessões da Comissão Municipal, (1860–1861) (Minutes of the Sessions of the
Municipal Commission), April 1861, 3.
Paving the City and Urban Evolution: 61
to stones no larger than 7.5 centimeters; the upper 5-centimeter layer of stones
was limited to 2 centimeters size (the stones of this layer needed to be much
smaller than the c.10 centimeters width of the iron carriage wheels); the small
surface stones should be spread on the surface over a sizeable space, one
shovelful at a time. A solution was eventually reached by field testing differ-
ent materials and comparing their performance. And yet, city council sessions
continued to be mired in debate, this time about the kind of stone that should
replace the surface of macadam roads and resulting in a split between those
in favour of limestone and those championing basalt. Thus the municipality
sought out scientists from the Polytechnic School of Lisbon and urban experts
from the Conselho de Obras Públicas (Public Works Council) for consulta-
tion purposes. While no answer ever arrived from the former institution,64 the
reply from the Public Works Council was no more of an assurance: although
they were in support of the use of limestone with preference to basalt, the
Council was forced to admit that they could not provide any evidence in sup-
port of their opinion since no “experiments had been done so far by squeezing
the crushed stone with a large diameter and then compact it with a compres-
sor roller,”65 so that they could not “support their preference.”
By the early 1880s, the deterioration of macadam roads became a pressing
issue for the municipality. Thus, a “total amount of 657,000 réis”66 was allo-
cated for the reconstruction of macadam roads in specific locations. At the
same time, the city council increased the number of roadmen (from 26 to 34)
while acquiring new rollers to meet the technical demands given the proposed
renovation.67
Contemporaneous with the issues presented by macadam roads was the
urgent need for improving the sanitation conditions of urban life, and par-
ticularly with respect to the offensive odours that were natural by-products
64 Pedro José da Cunha. A Escola Politécnica de Lisboa: Breve Notícia. Lisboa. Faculdade de
Ciências da Universidade de Lisboa, 1937.
65 AML, Actas das Sessões da Comissão Municipal, (1860–1861) (Minutes of the Sessions of the
Municipal Commission), April 1861, 669,
66 AML, Actas das Sessões da Comissão Municipal, (1880) (Minutes of the Sessions of the
Municipal Commission), 1880, 249. Parecer nº 701. Three of the streets were near the
river Tagus (Rua da Esperança, Calçada do Castello Picão and Travessa das Izabeis) and
Travessa dos Inglezinhos is in the upper part of Lisbon. As for the budget involved in 1881
a metallurgical industry worker earned a salary of 800 réis per day (average), i.e. 24,000
réis per month and 288,000 réis per year (Maria Filomena Mónica, “Indústria e democra-
cia: os operários metalúrgicos de Lisboa (1880–1934)”, Análise Social, Vol. XVIII (72-72-74),
1982 (3, 4, 5): 1231–1277.
67 AML, Actas das Sessões da Comissão Municipal, (1880) (Minutes of the Sessions of the
Municipal Commission), 1880, 258–259. Parecer nº 701.
Paving the City and Urban Evolution: 63
of streets and sidewalks alike. Thus, in 1880, the city council called for the use
of phenol, an aromatic organic compound, as the preferred means of improv-
ing Lisbon’s sanitation and public health.68 In the end, experts, technicians,
and city councillors would request a budget of 5,480,000 réis to reconstruct
the “… Rua Aurea [currently Rua do Ouro] between the intersection of streets
Conceição Nova and Victoria, using granite parallelepipeds from Porto, and to
replace the sidewalks by asphalt sidewalks such as those in Chiado.”69 Other
materials such as asphalt or cobblestones were tested not only for streets but
also for sidewalks.
Of all the materials tested, asphalt was, and continues to be, decisive with
respect to Lisbon’s urban landscape.70 Asphalt (bitumen) is a natural product
that is derived from petroleum, heated to procure asphalt’s most liquid state,
which is the state in which asphalt can be used (compared to its solid state
when cooled). Asphalt concrete pavement mixes are typically composed of 5%
asphalt cement and 95% aggregates (stone, sand, and gravel) and are applied
at high temperatures so asphalt can mix with the aggregates.71 The addition of
a layer of asphalt on former “macadam” pavements made them suitable to car
traffic, preventing dust to rise from the macadam roads’ surfaces.
Cobblestone pavements of different materials (granite, black basalt, or
stoneware) had been under discussion by the municipality for two decades.72
Their application was subjected to various delays. Finally, a technical report
justified the choice of stoneware cobblestones in some streets in downtown
Lisbon.73 Comparatively to the other cobblestone pavements, the durability
and low maintenance costs of the stoneware cobblestone pavements compen-
sated for the initial higher investment.
By the end of the nineteenth-century, Lisboners were forced to share urban
space with their modern and non-human, machinic, counterparts: whether
animal-drawn modes of transportation, known as “omnibus” and “Americans,”
68 AML, Actas das Sessões da Comissão Municipal, (1880) (Minutes of the Sessions of the
Municipal Commission), 1880, 464–465.
69 AML, Actas das Sessões da Comissão Municipal, (1880) (Minutes of the Sessions of the
Municipal Commission), 1880 607. Parecer nº 791.
70 Clay McShane, “Transforming the Use of Urban Space: A Look at the Revolution in Street
Pavements, 1880–1924,” Journal of Urban History 5, 3 (May 1979): 279–307.
71 The first extant record of an asphaltic road is the one connecting Paris to Perpignan,
France. It dates from 1852, and used modern macadam construction with Val de Travers
rock asphalt; the first stretch of asphalt roadway in London was laid at Threadneedle
Street in 1869, also using Val de Travers rock asphalt.
72 AML, Actas das Sessões da Comissão Municipal, (1860–1861) (Minutes of the Sessions of the
Municipal Commission), April 1861. 696.
73 Rua de S. José, Rua de Santa Martha, Calçada da Bica Pequena, Rua dos Romulares.
64 Fernandes
4 Final Remarks
In line with the European wave of urban modernisation led by the most recent
developments in science and technology, Lisbon gave priority to issues con-
cerning public hygiene, the city’s water supply, sanitation conditions, improve-
ments to both housing and movement; and all of this was accomplished via
a reorganization of the city’s spatial hierarchy housing and circulation. By
being Haussmanized by a technocracy of urban experts who were trained and/
or influenced by the Saint-Simonianism of the École des Ponts et Chaussées
and the École Politechnique, Lisbon embraced the concept of infrastructure-
driven urbanism.
Pavements were part of this new urban regularization and as such they are
part of a wider scientific and technological rationale. In most cases, and par-
ticularly as far as the process of macadamization is concerned, foreign techni-
cal practices, mostly from France and the UK, were adopted in Portugal with
minor changes mainly dependent on the availability of materials. However,
when it comes to the Portuguese pavement, one of the main characteristics
of Lisbon’s urban landscape, a reverse process occurred. The Portuguese pave-
ment is a local invention that travelled around the world, thus contradicting
the standard reductionist opposition between centres and peripheries, and
highlighting the complexity of the processes of circulation. Moreover, the
Portuguese pavement, a nineteenth-century urban object, brings to the stage
80 Álvaro Ferreira da Silva, and Maria Luísa Sousa, “The ‘Script’ of a New Urban Layout
Mobility, Environment, and Embellishment in Lisbon’s Streets (1850–1910),” Technology
and Culture, 6 (2019): 65–97.
66 Fernandes
Acknowledgments
1 Introduction
1 On tree-lined streets see Mark Johnston, Trees in towns and cities: a history of British Urban
Arboriculture (Bollington: Windgather Press, 2015), pp. 112–149. And for the Spanish case see
A. Collantes de Terán, R. Gutiérrez, A.J. Albardonedo, S. Carazo, M. Fernández, J. Jiménez,
A. Moreno, P. Nieto, and M. Torres, Las Alamedas, Elemento urbano y función social en ciu-
dades espanolas y americanas (Seville: Ediciones del Serbal, 2019).
2 Although without any clear meaning or unique design/layout, major streets were usually
named as “avenues” or “boulevards,” “promenades,”, “allées,” or “esplanades” in Sweden or
Finland; and “alamedas” in Spain. Thomas Hall, Planning Europe’s Capital Cities. Aspects of
Nineteenth Century Urban Development (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 300.
3 The terms gray and green infrastructures are commonly used in history of technology,
environmental history, and urban history, as well as in blogs and newspaper articles. See,
for instance, John Talberth and Craig Hanson, “Green vs. Gray Infrastructure: When Nature
Is Better than Concrete,” Blog of the World Resource Institute (June 19, 2012) or John
Talberth, Erin Gray, Logan Yonavjak, and Todd Gartner, “Green vs. Gray: Nature’s Solutions
Lisbon’s modernisation involved, not only hydraulic and sewage systems and
secure public lighting via gas and electricity, but the introduction of green
spaces as well. To do so, the reform of the Lisbon municipality was brought
about in 1840, including the creation of the Department of Gardens and Green
Grounds, together with other departments indispensable to the construction
and management of modern Lisbon. Prior to the 1800s, the streets of Lisbon
contained neither pavements nor curbs that separated pedestrians from vehic-
ular traffic.
With modernisation projects such as these came new ways of circulating
within urban space and new ideas on hygiene, street lighting, the systematic
house numbering, regulating architectural norms for the facades of buildings,
and, of course, the prominence of tree-lined streets. Orchards, olive groves and
kitchen gardens became things of the past due to an increased number of pub-
lic gardens, parks and tree-lined streets. The unprecedented scale of Lisbon’s
modernisation projects, which involved fundamentally transforming both nat-
ural and human-made landscapes, shaped the bourgeois way of life.4
This chapter aims at interweaving the boundaries between the urban his-
tory of science and gardens and landscape studies. It does so by addressing
the emergence of tree-lined streets in Lisbon, during the mid-nineteenth
century, and their initial appearance against the political backdrop of the
Liberal regime. This chapter focuses on what is known as the Regeneration
period (circa 1851), the reform of the Lisbon City Council, and the creation of
the Department of Gardens and Green Grounds, in which agronomists and
gardeners appear as urban experts. Just as urban historians have addressed
the genesis of a myriad of public spaces and urban amenities,5 historians
of science and technology have studied gardens and green spaces from a
techno-scientific perspective.6 Moreover, while the discipline of Gardens and
to Infrastructure Demands,” Blog of the Ecology Global Network (March 14, 2013). For a
recent academic review of the terms see Y. Depietri, and T. McPhearson, “Integrating the
Grey, Green, and Blue in Cities: Nature-Based Solutions for Climate Change Adaptation and
Risk Reduction,” in N. Kabisch, H. Korn, J. Stadler, and A. Bonn, eds. Nature-Based Solutions
to Climate Change Adaptation in Urban Areas. Theory and Practice of Urban Sustainability
Transitions (Springer, 2017), 91–109.
4 Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the Observer: on Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century
(Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1990).
5 Peter C. Baldwin, Domesticating the Street: The Reform of Public Space in Hartford, 1850–1930
(Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1999); Victoria Kelley, “The streets for the people:
London’s street markets 1850–1939,” Urban History (2015): 391–411.
6 Antoine Picon, “Nature et ingénierie: Le parc des Buttes-Chaumont.” Romantisme 150, 4 (2010),
35–49; Oliver Hochadel, and Laura Valls, “Civic Nature: The Transformation of the Parc de la
Trees, Nurseries, and Tree-lined Streets 69
Ciutadella into a Space for Popular Science,” in Oliver Hochadel, Agustí Nieto-Galan, eds.,
Barcelona. An Urban History of Science and Modernity, 1888–1929 (London: Routledge, 2016),
25–45; Ana Duarte Rodrigues, “Greening the city of Lisbon under the French influence
of the second half of the nineteenth-century,” Garden History, 45, 2 (2017): 224–250; and
chapter 10 in this book.
7 George Chadwick, The Park and the Town (London: Architectural Press, 1966); Hazel
Conway, People’s Parks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), Public Parks
(Princes Risborough: Shire, 1996); R. Rosenzweig and E. Blackmar, The Park and the
People (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992); Françose Le Cunff, Parques e Jardins de
Lisboa, 1764–1932. Do Passeio Público ao Parque Eduardo VII (Master thesis on Art History,
Faculdade de Ciências Sociais e Humanas. Lisboa, 2000).
8 On Regeneration see: Vítor Quaresma, A Regeneração: Economia e Sociedade (Lisboa:
Dom Quixote, 1988); Joel Serrão, Da ‘Regeneração’ à República (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte,
1990); David Justino, Fontismo: liberalismo numa sociedade liberal (Alfragide: D. Quixote,
2016.) On the construction of the techno-scientific nation by engineers, military men,
and politicians see Tiago Saraiva, “Inventing the Technological Nation: the example of
Portugal (1851–1898),” History and Technology, 2007, 23: 263–271; Marta Macedo, Projectar e
Construir a Nação. Engenheiros, Ciência e Território em Portugal no século XIX (Lisbon: ICS
Imprensa de Ciências Sociais, 2012); Maria Paula Diogo, Ana Cardoso de Matos, “Going
Public: The First Portuguese National Engineering Meeting and the Popularization of the
Image of the Engineer as an Artisan of Progress (Portugal, 1931),” Engineering Studies, 2012,
4 (3): 185–204.
9 On the techno-scientific agenda of the Liberal regime see Tiago Saraiva, “Inventing the
Technological Nation: the example of Portugal (1851–1898),” History and Technology, 23
(2007): 263–271; Marta Macedo, Projectar e Construir a Nação. Engenheiros, Ciência e
Território em Portugal no século XIX (Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências Sociais, 2012); Maria
Paula Diogo, and Ana Cardoso de Matos, “Going Public: The First Portuguese National
Engineering Meeting and the Popularization of the Image of the Engineer as an Artisan
of Progress (Portugal, 1931),” Engineering Studies, 4, 3 (2012): 185–204.
10 For discussions on urban afforestation see City Trees: A historical geography from the
Renaissance through the Nineteenth Century (Charlottesville and London: University of
70 Rodrigues
Virginia Press, 1995); Cecil C. Konijnendjik, The Forest and the City: The Cultural Landscape
of Urban Woodland (Springer, 2008); and Johnston, Trees in towns and cities.
11 Sven Dierig, Jens Lachmund, and J. Andrew Mendelsohn, eds., Science and the City,
Osiris 18 (2003). Besides urban expertise, they highlight the following topics: science in
the city as local practice, science and the representations of the city, places of knowledge
and their urban context, and knowledge from the street.
12 Agusti Nieto-Galan, and Oliver Hochadel, eds., Urban Histories of Science. Making
Knowledge in the City 1820–1940 (London: Routledge, 2019), 141–163.
13 Dierig, Lachmund, and Mendelssohn, 6.
Trees, Nurseries, and Tree-lined Streets 71
Figure 2.1 Map of Lisbon with tree lined streets and boulevards
1. Avenida da Liberdade; 2. Avenida 24 de Julho; 3. Rua do Século; 4. Rua da
Estefânia; 5. Rua de Sta. Bárbara; 6. Rua dos Anjos; 7. Rua Pascoal de Melo; 8. Rua
Nova do Palma
Courtesy of José Avelãs Nunes
14 On the transformation of the Public Promenade into the Avenue of Liberty see Raquel
Henriques da Silva, “O Passeio Público e a Avenida da Liberdade”, in Irisalva Moita, ed., O
Livro de Lisboa (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte, 1994), and Le Cunff, Parques e Jardins de Lisboa.
15 David P. Jordan, Transforming Paris: The Life and Labors of Baron Haussmann (New York:
Free Press, 1995); Michel Carmona, Haussmann: His Life and Times and the Making of
Modern Paris (Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 2002); David Harvey, Paris, Capital of Modernity (New
York and London: Routledge, 2006); Stephanie Kirkland, Paris Reborn. Napoléon III, Baron
Haussmann, and the Quest to Build a Modern City (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2014);
Rupert Christiansen, The making of modern Paris. City of Light (New York: Basic Books,
2018).
Trees, Nurseries, and Tree-lined Streets 73
expansion, but via the reorganizing of its historical site.16 For the proponents
of reorganisation, development via northward expansion was seen as three
counts of betrayal: a betrayal of Lisbon’s older areas, a betrayal of the heart of
the city, and ultimately a betrayal of the history of Lisbon itself.17 For them a
boulevard-like avenue parallel to the river fulfilled the long-dreamed marginal
road from East (Santa Apolónia) to West (Belém), and should be accompa-
nied by the transformation of the banks of the river into public promenades.
For those who discarded this hypothesis, the only solution for the population
growth – Lisbon’s inhabitants increased from 169,823 in 186018 to 356,009 in
190019 – was the expansion of the city. The struggle for the construction of the
Avenue of Liberty as an axis that pushed the city to the north was recounted by
a former City Councillor on the date of its inauguration in 1886. According to
the former councillor, the avenue was conceived to be “the great communica-
tion artery to the north of the city,” replacing the streets of S. José, Santa Marta
and S. Sebastião, which were “very narrow and dangerous,” and inhibited the
establishment of rails for trams.20
The need to embellish Lisbon and enhance its position as a leading
European capital was the concern for both politicians and urban experts
during the nineteenth-century. Following the victory of the Liberals over the
Absolutists in 1834, Lisbon’s City Council put an end to the old administra-
tive system and instituted the practice of the direct election of municipal
bodies modelled on the French system of legislation and its administrative
reforms.21 In this context, the first thirteen councillors were elected to the
Lisbon City Council, which was divided into five committees – Works, Meat,
Administration, Reform and Health. Moreover, following the reorganization of
1840 several departments were created, each specialising in a particular form
of urban infrastructure, for the purposes of modernising Lisbon and improving
the overall living conditions of its citizens: the Department of Sidewalks was
established to cater to the need for paving the city; Department of Gardens
16 This question will be widely debated by Abel Botelho, “A apologia da curva,” Arquitectura
Portuguesa, 5 (1908).
17 Botelho, Arquitectura Portuguesa.
18 Serrão, Da ‘Regeneração’ à República: 203.
19 Olegário Ferreira and Teresa Rodrigues, “As cidades de Lisboa e Porto na viragem do
século XIX – características da sua evolução demográfica: 1864–1930,” Revista de História,
XII, JNICT (Porto: Centro de História da Universidade do Porto, 1993), 301.
20 Francisco Simões Margiochi, Duas palavras acerca da avenida da Liberdade (Lisboa: Typ.
Portugueza, 1886).
21 Eduardo Freire de Oliveira, Elementos para a Historia do Município de Lisboa (Lisboa:
Typographia Universal, 1887), vol. I: 39–40.
74 Rodrigues
and Green Grounds, to create public gardens and secure the city’s afforesta-
tion; the Department of Lighting dealt with the illumination of public space;
the Department of Cleaning was in charge of clearing away the filth and detri-
tus that accumulated in Lisbon due to the lack of piped water and sewage;
the Department of Water was in charge of supplying water to the population
and curbing water shortages; the Department of Markets regulated the sale of
food products; the Department of Cemeteries faced the serious public health
problem created by the lack of proper burials; the Slaughterhouse Department
regulated meat sales; the Firefighting Department answered to incendiary
actions against mostly wooden built neighbourhoods; the Department of
Health and the Hospital of S. Lázaro cared for the sick and lepers; and, finally,
the Department of the Treasury supervised and regulated the budgets of all the
other departments.22
From 1840 onwards, many government officials and municipal experts felt
the growing need for a general plan for the city’s improvement. At issue was
the need to decide on what had to be demolished, preserved, and perfected,
or built, to endow the city with the appearance fit for a national European
capital and the metropole of an extended empire. Convinced that “the public
buildings of any nation are a mirror of its values and state of civilization,” both
the government and municipal powers held a strict obligation to deliver such
works for the public’s general comfort.23
Several attempts to materialize a general plan took place over time. In 1855,
a City Councillor insisted that the general plan of the city should be a guide
for the opening of new streets, squares, sidewalks and gardens.24 However, the
inexistence of such a plan did not deter the implementation of partial improve-
ments. Tree-lined streets were included in these plans, signalling urban growth
to the north, while their planting accompanied successive discussions. While
there were 2,791 trees in Lisbon in 1858,25 this number increased by a factor of
ten over the next fifty years with 20,000 trees in 1907.26
36 elm trees.31 The greening of the Hill of Medicine’s surrounding area con-
tinued in the 1870s and 1880s, following the inauguration of the Hospital D.
Estefânia – the first hospital exclusively dedicated to children – in 1877 and the
renewal of the Anjos and Arroios neighbourhoods. Linked to the Hospital and
the Travessa do Pintor via Rua da Estefânia, begun in 1861,32 the Arroios neigh-
bourhood was afforested in 187833 and in 1884.34 Santa Bárbara Street, near
Anjos Street, received tree-lined lanes of mulberries, beech trees, and ashes in
1858.35 Moreover, in 1884, 228 tree pits were opened in Anjos, evidence that the
same number of trees were to be planted.36
In the Hill of the Sciences – where the Polytechnic School of Lisbon was
established since 1837 and occupied the premises of the eighteenth-century
College of Nobles for the purpose of education in the sciences – new trees
were planted, while plans for an associated botanical garden, which began in
1843, would only be completed in 1873. In 1833, the city hall inherited a nearby
piece of land37 where it planned to build the Erário Régio (ancient Ministry
of Finances in Portugal), and where the garden square of Príncipe Real took
shape. In 1864, 54 trees of different species were planted.38 A lake sat in the
centre of the garden and a magnificent Cedar-of-Buçaco, today one of the
centennial trees in Lisbon, was planted in 1869.39 Moreover, near the garden
of Príncipe Real, trees were planted for the beautification of Formosa Street –
i.e. present-day Século Street – ending at the Academy of Sciences of Lisbon
in 1858.40
50 Disagreements between the Technical Division and the Department of Gardens and
Green Grounds.
51 Disagreements between the Technical Division and the Department of Gardens and
Green Grounds.
52 Chiara Santini, “Construire le paysage de Paris. Alphand et ses équipes (1855–1891),” in
Michel Audouy, and Jean-Pierre Le Dantec, Yann Nussaume, and Chiara Santini, eds., Le
Trees, Nurseries, and Tree-lined Streets 81
grand Pari(s) d’Alphand – Création et transmission d’un paysage urbain (Paris: Éditions de
la Villette, 2018), 33–37.
53 AHP, Parliamentary Debates, Câmara dos Pares do Reino, nº 083, 18 July 1850, p. 1262.
54 Letter of Aires de Sá Nogueira, 13 December 1855, in Le Cunff, Parques e Jardins de Lisboa,
142; Law-Decree of 31 December 1864.
55 Annaes do Municipio de Lisboa, 1858: 190.
56 Le Cunff, Parques e Jardins de Lisboa, 176.
82 Rodrigues
57 Committee’s opinion on the species to grow at the Avenue of Liberty. On João Francisco
da Silva see chapter 10 in this book.
58 Committee’s opinion on the species to grow at the Avenue of Liberty.
59 See, for example, Jules Nanot, Guide de l’ingénieur pour l’établissement et l’entretien des
plantations d’alignement sur les voies publiques (Paris: Librairie Centrale d’Agriculture et
de Jardinage, 1885), 97.
60 Committee’s opinion on the species to grow at the Avenue of Liberty.
Trees, Nurseries, and Tree-lined Streets 83
Figure 2.3b View from the Park of Liberty towards the Avenue of Liberty and the
river Tagus
in Occidente, 1914, p. 102
84 Rodrigues
the second half of the nineteenth century. Contrary to the French model, a
huge variety of trees adapted to a Mediterranean climate were planted on the
Avenue of Liberty,61 coming from municipal and commercial nurseries.
As we have seen, over the course of several decades the decision on key
green infrastructures of Lisbon – the Public Promenade and the Avenue of
Liberty – was dependent on the expertise of gardeners, agronomists, horticul-
turists, and botanists. However, their primacy was about to end. The profile of
the urban experts affiliated with the City Council changed with the growing
influence of the engineer Ressano Garcia, giving way to a clear dominance of
engineers vis-à-vis other experts. As chief-engineer of the Technical Division
associated with the General Plan for the Improvement of the City, Ressano
Garcia was increasingly interested in urban gardening projects. Following the
death of Pezerat, he was appointed to head the Technical Division in 1874, con-
tributing to the empowerment of the Technical Division and its impact on the
city’s improvement. In the 1870s, the Technical Division regulated buildings
and sidewalks’ construction,62 and with the completion of the boulevard-
like Avenue of Liberty, Ressano Garcia became as one of Lisbon’s hegemonic
experts and politicians. While the project to transform the Public Promenade
into a boulevard dated far back, Ressano Garcia led its long-awaited con-
struction. He was the perfect choice to build all the infrastructures needed.
However, as the boulevard also required planting new trees and included
some garden areas, the collaboration with the Department of Gardens and
Green Grounds was mandatory, giving rise to a situation wherein two differ-
ent services of the City Hall were taking decisions on the same issues. From
1884 onwards, Ressano Garcia started to interfere in the management of the
Department of Gardens and Green Grounds to such an extent that the council-
lor of the Department, Viscount of Carriche, no longer knew if he continued
to direct the works of his Department or if, instead, this was the purview of
the Technical Division.63 Despite the fact that the president of the City Hall
considered the seat of authority to rest with the Councillor of the Department
of Gardens and Green Grounds, he was no longer able to transmit his orders
directly to the gardener-in-chief: The president, now, had to transmit his
orders to the Technical Division or an engineer, who, in the meantime, was
allocated to the Department of Gardens and Green Grounds.64
The clash between the two services reflected a clash between two differ-
ent classes of urban experts, with the engineers taking the Department by
storm. Their decision-making power over the city’s gardens is best exempli-
fied by the jury of the competition for the Park of Liberty in 1887, which was
almost entirely composed of engineers, save one architect, and Jules Daveau,
the Chief-gardener of the Polytechnic School’s Botanical Garden. Engineers
included Ressano Garcia as the chief-engineer of the Technical Division, as
well as a forest engineer, an especially novel specialization in engineering.65
This change was aligned with the French model. The contrast between the
composition of this committee to those appointed in 1858 and 1882, to decide
on matters concerning the greening of the city, highlights the rise of experts
on grey infrastructures to the detriment of experts on green infrastructures
following Ressano Garcia’s actions.
Ressano Garcia was trained at the École des Ponts et Chaussées in Paris when
Haussmann’s urban renewal was already underway. Haussmann’s public works
projects took into consideration not only the façades and thoroughfares but
also the location of green grounds, from the local to the urban scale, from the
layout of green grounds above ground – squares, parks, gardens, tree-lined
plantings along avenues – to the underground space housing tree roots and
sustaining trees. In Paris, prior to Haussmann’s action, tree-lined boulevards
were handed over to entrepreneurs, a fact widely criticized by Haussman’s close
associate, Alphand, in charge of the construction and maintenance of public
gardens.66 He criticized their focus on the initial planting and maintenance of
public gardens without giving any consideration to the trees’ longevity, which
required constant and sustained care over long periods of time. For Alphand,
this sustained care and attention was a task for the municipality. Accordingly,
he advocated that the planting of rows of trees on public thoroughfares should
be supervised by the Department of Gardens and Green Grounds.67
Trees provide shade, temper the climate by cutting off winds and thus cooling
streets, reduce noise, and, above all, improve the city’s air quality. That said,
trees were recent additions to Lisbon during the nineteenth-century and they
often fell victim to acts of vandalism and mal-practice, both above and below
ground. In 1855, on the “Hill of Medicine” – in the area around the Convent
of Santa Ana, where there was a curtain of trees to delimit the Campo de
Santana – 46 trees were found severed with several others damaged.69 Above
ground, trees could be damaged by the public or by stray dogs and goats roam-
ing around the city.70 To avoid such situations the presence of guards, gate-
keepers, and police in public gardens and the city’s parks was required (see
chapter 10 in this book), alongside a variety of public measures including leg-
islation, the condemnation of tree harvesting, and City Council budgets, each
serving as clear testimony regarding the concern of the City Council towards
acts of vandalism.
68 List of books and engravings that were borrowed by the Department of Gardens and
Green Grounds to the Technical Division, 1879, AML, Correspondence received by the
Division of Public Works, Gardens and Groves, 1865–1881, PT/AMLSB/AL/CMLSB/
UROB-E/23, Cx. 49 do SGO, 1879, doc. 13.
69 AML, Correspondence received by the Division of Public Works, 1834–1864, PT/AMLSB/
AL/CMLSB/UROB-E/23, Cx. 48 do SGO, 1857, doc. 6.
70 AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 5 May 1873. Francisco Simões Margiochi, the
Department of Gardens and Green Grounds councillor, wanted to prohibit stray dogs and
goats in the city. On this topic see also chapter 10 in this book.
Trees, Nurseries, and Tree-lined Streets 87
71 Archivo Municipal de Lisboa, nº 17, April 1860, 130. The department councillor solved such
issues by requesting that clay pipes be replaced by others made from cast lead.
72 Jean-Marc L’Anton, “L’arbre comme réseau: de l’hygiénisme à l’écologie,” Le Grande Pari(s)
d’Alphand, 271–272.,
88 Rodrigues
the limited dimensions of the two municipal nurseries and the city’s increased
demand, in 1863, another nursery was built in the northeast neighbourhood of
Picoas. By the 1880s, the Picoas nursery played a key role in the battle against
the threat of phylloxera (see chapter 5 in this volume), a threat that arose fol-
lowing the City Council’s decision to establish a nursery of American strains
for later distribution, either free of charge or at a low price.78
As greening the city became a municipal priority, trees from Lisbon’s munic-
ipal nurseries were freely supplied both to city institutions as well as to pri-
vate owners.79 Every year, hundreds of trees were offered by the Department
of Gardens and Green Grounds to military barracks, hospitals, religious
enclosures, citizens, and other municipalities and even to Portugal’s colonies.
However, by the late 1880s, the practice of tree donations by Lisbon’s nurseries
would come to an end after the Department’s councillor proposed to establish
prices for each tree in order to mitigate the costs incurred by the nurseries.80
The commercialization of trees was eventually made official when the City
Council drafted a tree price table for potential clients.81 This trend does not
mean that the municipality alienated its public functions and rather strove
to make ends meet by turning trees into commercial objects. Ultimately, this
move toward the commercial sale of trees helped circumvent the worst effects
of the city’s mounting financial crisis (though it could not avoid declaring
bankruptcy in 1891).
Despite these measures, alignment streets in Lisbon still took a consid-
erable amount of time to be implemented, and in part due to geographic
reasons. Lisbon is a hilly city, and its streets, besides being narrow and wind-
ing, had steep inclines and were sometimes interrupted by stairs.82 The first
Portuguese Administrative Code, enacted on the last day of 1836,83 already
foresaw “the need for municipalities” to regulate the façade of buildings and
institute the alignment of streets.84 However, it was only with the decree of
31 December 1864, which regulated the General Plan of Improvements of the
city, that the specified specific proportion between the width of streets and
Such were the rules that were common to most European capitals during this
period. Thus it was common practice for the residential streets of European
capitals to range anywhere from 16 to 23 meters in width; and on a 20 meter
street, the pavement’s width was usually less than 5 meters, still allowing for a
92 Rodrigues
observation and involvement with urban life given their orientation toward
the most active nearby public area. Therefore, in addition to the relation already
established by Nieto-Galan and Hochadel between technology and the urban
history of science and recreation, this chapter shows how tree lined streets
connected urban science and everyday life, not only in what relates to circula-
tion but also to people’s use of public open spaces.96 The alignment of trees
attracted inhabitants to hygienic walks, guaranteed by newly cleaned streets,
which were prepared to provide comfort to citizens while ensuring access to
the various attractive storefronts that showed their products in a major com-
mercial city. Streets became central to the new way of life in which consumer
culture expanded to urban middle classes. The separation of space for traffic
and for passers-by, paved with Portuguese pavement, and including benches to
rest, lamps to illuminate the night and lined trees that created shade, all made
this new street experience possible. Associated with tree lined streets and bou-
levards, a new practice of walking around the city arose, linked to the new
social attitude of “seeing and being seen,” to such an extent that the famous
French intellectual Baudelaire argued that new types of passers-by appeared:
the flâneur and the flâneuse (see chapter 12 in this book). Their performance
on the streets totally transformed the concept of walking understood as circu-
lation to walking as an act of fruition and recreation.
5 Final Remarks
Lisbon was depicted by nationals and foreigners, alike, as a modern city where
nothing was quite what it had previously been; a city in which “new neigh-
bourhoods, comprising wide avenues” were built to make the “capital more
beautiful and more hygienic.”97 While tree-lined streets became a feature of
modern cities in the nineteenth century, in Portugal, this took place in the spe-
cific context of Liberalism, which profoundly reformed Lisbon’s municipality
with the creation of the Department of Gardens and Green Grounds and other
departments responsible for ensuring a seamlessly articulated urban network
of gray and green infrastructures for the modernisation and beautification of
the Portuguese capital.
Thus, besides the planning and construction of gardens and parks, the city’s
afforestation was the main task of the Department of Gardens and Green
Grounds. Consequently, the tree itself was no longer viewed as a specific
Acknowledgments
I thank Ana Simões and Maria Paula Diogo for their suggestions and revisions. I
also thank the National Library of Portugal and Lisbon’s Municipal Archive for
their support throughout research. This work was supported by the Portuguese
Foundation for Science and Technology under the research projects VISLIS –
PTDC/IVC-HFC/3122/2014 and UIDB/00286/2020 and UIDP/00286/2020.
Chapter 3
1 Introduction
In the last years there has been a growing interest in crossing urban social
history and history of science, technology and medicine (STM) encompass-
ing different typologies of cities in Europe and other continents.1 Within this
framework, Lisbon poses a particularly challenging case study as it allows for
exploring both the general characteristics attributed to modern cities and the
specificities of urban peripheries.2
As extensively discussed by historians of economy and historians of tech-
nology alike, Portugal was a latecomer to the industrialization process.3 It was
1 The foundational work is undoubtedly Sven Dierig, Jens Lachmund, and J. Andrew
Mendelsohn, eds., Science and the City, Osiris, 18 (2003). For mainstream cities see: Miriam
Levin, Sophie Forgan, Martina Hessler, Robert Kargon, and Morris Low, Urban Modernity.
Cultural Innovation in the Second Industrial Revolution (Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press,
2010). For a review of literature see: Michael Hard, and Thomas Misa, eds. The Urban
Machine. Recent Literature on European Cities in the twentieth century. A Tensions of Europe
electronic publication (July 2003) www.iit.edu/~misa/toe20/urban-machine/. Examples of
works addressing cities other than mainstream ones include Oliver Hochadel, and Agustí
Nieto-Galan, eds., Barcelona. An Urban History of Science and Modernity, 1888–1929 (London:
Routledge, 2016); Agustí Nieto-Galan, and Oliver Hochadel, eds., Urban histories of science.
Making Knowledge in the City 1820–1940 (London: Routledge, 2019).
2 Challenging the contrast between urban centers and peripheries, the following authors
show how scientific experts and engineers played a leading role in the modernization of
Lisbon, turning the city into the scientific capital of the country. Tiago Saraiva, Ciencia y
Ciudad. Madrid y Lisboa, 1851–1900 (Madrid: Ayuntamiento de Madrid, Area de Gobierno de
las Artes, 2005); Tiago Saraiva, and Marta Macedo, eds., Capital Científica: A Ciência Lisboeta
e a Construção do Portugal Contemporâneo (Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências Sociais, 2019); Ana
Simões, “From capital city to scientific capital. Science, technology and medicine in Lisbon
as seen through the press, 1900–1910,” in Agustí Nieto-Galan, Oliver Hochadel, eds., Urban
Histories of Science. Making Knowledge in the City 1820–1940 (London: Routledge, 2019),
141–163.
3 Portuguese historians have used the concept of surto industrializador (industrial outbreak)
to characterize the limited industrialization attempts (in time and efficacy) prior to the
not until the mid-nineteenth century that Fontes Pereira de Melo, an engineer
and leading figure of the phase of the Portuguese Liberal regime known as
Regeneração (Regeneration) put forward an ambitious program of material
improvements largely based on a network of railway lines that aimed to indus-
trialize the country as a whole.
In the transition of the nineteenth to the twentieth century Portugal’s capi-
tal was being reshaped along Haussmanian lines. Lisbon expanded towards
the north and away from the river Tagus, backed by investments from capital-
ists who lived in the city’s newly constructed neighbourhoods for the elites.4 At
the same time, a steady industrialization process, accompanied by the migra-
tion of workers from the countryside into the city, led the new capitalist city
to grow. These two processes of industrialization and the migration of labour
eventually gave rise to two industrial areas, one situated to the west, in the
Alcântara valley, and the other to the east, in the Xabregas/Beato axis.5 By the
end of the century, a new industrial area – Almada and Barreiro – acquired
prominence on the south side of the river Tagus, opposite central Lisbon.6 As
7 José Augusto França, Lisboa: Urbanismo e Arquitectura (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte, 2005),
63, 68, 72, 83. See also Miriam Halpern Pereira, Demografia e desenvolvimento em Portugal
na segunda metade do século XIX (Lisboa: Associação Industrial Portuguesa, 1963); Teresa
Rodrigues, Nascer e Morrer na Lisboa Oitocentista. Migrações, mortalidade e desenvolvim-
ento (Lisboa: Edições Cosmos, 1995).
8 The situation was so worrisome that statistical comparisons were voiced in a high circula-
tion daily newspaper – Diário de Notícias. In 1 July 1910, it offered a comparison of mortal-
ity rates per 1000 inhabitants in various cities: Amsterdam, 13,8; Brussels, 14,5; London,
15,6; Hamburg, 15,6; Buenos Ayres, 15,9, and Lisbon, 24,0.
9 Nuno Teotónio Pereira, “Pátios e vilas de Lisboa, 1870–1930: a promoção privada do aloja-
mento operário,” Análise Social, 29 (1994): 509–524.
10 For a list of international meetings on this topic attended by Portuguese representa-
tives see Gerbert Verheij, The Aesthetics of Lisbon: Writing and Practices during the early
20th century, PhD Dissertation, University of Barcelona, School of Fine Arts, 2017. See
also Nicholas Bullock and James Read, The Movement for Housing Reform in Germany and
France, 1840–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), particularly the exten-
sive bibliography and sources on this topic.
98 Diogo and Simões
for building new cheap housing facilities for the working class, integrated in
various typologies of airy neighbourhoods that were, generally speaking, free
from disease, and tuberculosis in particular.11 Despite the lobbying efforts of
citizens and politicians alike, no laws were passed before 1918.12
11 Maria Antónia Pires de Almeida, “As epidemias nas notícias em Portugal: cólera, peste,
tifo, gripe e varíola, 1854–1918,” História, Ciências, Saúde – Manguinhos, 21, 2 (2014):
687–708.
12 A review of the various attempts can be found in Caeiro da Mata, Estudos Económicos
e Financeiros, Habitações Populares vol. III (Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade, 1909),
174–235.
Working-Class Neighbourhoods in Lisbon 99
13 Maria Antónia Pires de Almeida, Saúde Pública e Higiene na Imprensa Diária em Anos de
Epidemias, 1854–1918 (Lisboa: CIUHCT/Edições Colibri, 2013).
14 Ana Simões, and Maria Paula Diogo, “Urban utopias and the Anthropocene,” in Gardens
and Human Agency in the Anthropocene, ed. Maria Paula Diogo, Ana Duarte Rodrigues,
Ana Simões and Davide Scarso (London: Routledge Environmental Humanities Series,
2019), 58–72.
15 See also Manuel C. Teixeira, “As estratégias de habitação em Portugal, 1880–1940,”
Análise Social 27 (1992): 65–89; Manuel C. Teixeira, “A história urbana em Portugal.
Desenvolvimentos recentes,” Análise Social, 28 (1993): 371–90.
100 Diogo and Simões
16 José Maria Melo de Matos, “Lisboa no anno 2000. I. O Porto de Lisboa,” Ilustração
Portuguesa, 5 (1906): 129–133; “Lisboa no anno 2000. II. Os cais de Alcântara e os armazéns
de Lisboa,” Ilustração Portuguesa, 6 (1906): 188–192; “Lisboa no anno 2000. III. A estação
de Lisboa-Mar,” Ilustração Portuguesa, 7 (1906): 220–223; “Lisboa no anno 2000. IV. O tunel
para a outra banda,” Ilustração Portuguesa, 8 (1906): 249–252. Fialho de Almeida, “Lisboa
Monumental. I e II,” Ilustração Portuguesa, 36 (1906): 396–405; 39 (1906): 497–509.
17 G.E. Marcus, ed., Technoscientific imaginaries. Conversations, profiles, and memoirs
(Chicago: CUP, 1995); Sheila Jasanoff, and Sang-Hyun Kim, “Containing the Atom:
Sociotechnical Imaginaries and Nuclear Power in the United States and South Korea,”
Minerva, 47, 2 (2009): 119–146; Sheila Jasanoff, and Sang-Hyun Kim, eds. Dreamscapes
of Modernity. Sociotechnical imaginaries and the fabrication of power (Chicago: Chicago
University Press, 2015).
Working-Class Neighbourhoods in Lisbon 101
Given the historical and scholarly remit set out above, 1906 is unique for the
richness of the events that would transpire. On the one hand, the Lisbon city
council was reorganized, taking seriously the role of urban experts (engineers,
scientists, technical personnel, etc.), and thereby providing the appropriate
conditions for the elaboration of a plan of urban improvements.19 On the other
hand, the inauguration of various buildings, including the Medical School, and
the National Assistance to those Afflicted with Tuberculosis, uphill at Campo
de Santana, which came to be known as the Colina da Medicina (“Hill of
Medicine”), on the east side of the recent Haussmannian Avenida da Liberdade
18 For the Portuguese case see Maria Paula Diogo, Ana Simões, and Ana Carneiro, “Political
entanglements and scientific hegemony. Rectors-Scientists at the University of Lisbon
under the I Republic and the Dictatorship (1911–1974)”, in Cultural Hegemony in a Scientific
World. Gramscian Concepts for the History of Science, eds. M. Badino, P.D. Omodeo
(Leiden: Brill, 2020), pp. 274–293. For Saint-Simonianism see Antoine Picon, Les saint-
simoniens (Paris: Belin, 2002) and Pierre Musso, Télecommunications et philosophie des
réseaux (Paris: PUF, 1998).
19 I. Morais Viegas, and A.A. Maia Tojal, eds., “Lisboa, entre a monarquia e a República,
no seu contexto urbanístico – administrativo,” Levantamento das Plantas da Cidade de
Lisboa, 1904–1911 (Lisboa: CML, 2005).
102 Diogo and Simões
(Liberty Avenue), signalled the modernization of the city and its response to
hygiene and medical problems. At the same time, the organization of the inter-
national congress of medicine on the premises of the new building assumed
a variety of social functions: it aimed at boosting the aspirations of physicians
who were pushing forward an experimentally based medicine able to legitimize
their socio-professional group, and it also aimed at enhancing their credibility
abroad. Finally, the foundation of the Sociedade de Propaganda de Portugal
(Society for the Promotion of Portugal) aimed at the intellectual, moral, and
material development of the country, and at propagandizing abroad its natural
and urban landscapes with a view to attract tourists.20
Matos and Almeida firmly grounded their visions on scientific and techno-
logical breakthroughs.21 Both envisioned Lisbon as a metropolis deeply shaped
by a growing industrial economy, with a new geographical profile anchored in
the river Tagus. This was a Lisbon that upheld the Saint-Simonian celebration
of the rhythm of newly introduced transport and communication technol-
ogy. Both used utopias as a way of criticizing simultaneously past and pres-
ent, and pointing out solutions for a better future, following a well-established
European tradition, much alive during the nineteenth century. That the uto-
pias of Matos and Almeida also deal with industrialization, mobility, the circu-
lation of goods and people, and the development of infrastructure – not only
bear traces of techno-scientific utopianism, since they evidence Matos and
Almeida’s proximity to two other, important, utopian works that, too, belong
to the Saint-Simonian tradition: Prosper-Barthelemy Enfant’s Mémoires d’un
industriel de l’an 2440 (1828), and Ebenezer Howard’s To-Morrow: A Peaceful
Path to Real Reform (1898).22
In fact, Matos and Almeida’s imagined scenarios reflected pressing prob-
lems faced by the city of Lisbon at the beginning of the twentieth-century, so
that the boundaries between reality and prophecy were purposefully blurred,
and the vivid style of copiously illustrated fictional narratives was convened
20 Ana Cardoso de Matos, and Maria Luísa F. N. dos Santos, “Os Guias de Turismo e a
emergência do turismo contemporâneo em Portugal (dos finais do século XIX às pri-
meiras décadas do século XX,” Scripta Nova, 8, 167 (2004), http://www.ub.edu/geocrit/
sn/sn-167.htm, accessed on 2 April 2014; Maria Luísa Sousa, A mobilidade automóvel em
Portugal 1920–1950 (Lisboa: Chiado Editora, 2016).
21 Paul Alkon, Science Fiction before 1900: Imagination discovers technology (University of
Michigan: Twayne, 1994); Mark Bold, A.M. Butler, Adam Roberts, and Sherryl Vint, eds.,
The Routledge Companion to Science Fiction (London: Routledge, 2009); Ana Simões,
“From capital city to scientific capital.”
22 Prosper-Barthelemy Enfant, Mémoires d’un industriel de l’an 2440 (1828); Ebenezer
Howard, To-Morrow: A Peaceful Path to Real Reform (1898).
Working-Class Neighbourhoods in Lisbon 103
23 Michael D. Gordin, Helen Tilley, and Gyan Prakash, “Introduction. Utopia and Dystopia
beyond Space and Time,” in Utopia and Dystopia: Conditions of Historical Possibility, eds.
Michael D. Gordin, Helen Tilley, Gyan Prakash (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
2010), 1–17, 3.
24 He also projected modifications to the port of Aveiro. See José Maria Melo de Matos,
“Memória sobre a arborização das Dunas de Aveiro,” Revista de Obras Públicas e Minas 23
(1892), 268–270.
25 Matos, “Lisboa no anno 2000. III,” 221.
26 He referred explicitly to the Agricultural Bank (Caixa Geral Agrícola), Industrial
Credit (Crédito Industrial) and General Construction Cooperative (Cooperativa Geral
Edificadora).
104 Diogo and Simões
Figure 3.2a A view of industrial Lisbon at the other side of the river Tagus
In Melo de Matos, “Lisbon in the year 2000,” 1906
30 Fialho de Almeida, Os Gatos (Lisboa: Livraria Clássica Editora, 1927, first published
1889–94).
31 Fialho de Almeida, “Lisboa Monumental. II.”
32 Fialho de Almeida, “Lisboa Monumental. I,” 199.
33 Fialho de Almeida, “Lisboa Monumental. II,” 498.
Working-Class Neighbourhoods in Lisbon 107
Figures 3.3a–b The two-platform bridge connecting the two Lisbons of the future and
working-class neighbourhood of the hygienic type
In Fialho de Almeida, “Monumental Lisbon,” 1906
108 Diogo and Simões
conflicts, extend the southern network of the railway from Barreiro to Cacilhas
and Almada, and then build a fluvial terminal close to the customs’ buildings
(see chapter 6 in this volume), to the left of Terreiro do Paço.34 The monu-
mentality of the new “industrial city” was derived from its “furnaces and ham-
mers;” a cityscape of factories and chimneys emanating heavy smoke that took
London for its model. Routinely visited by a “labyrinth of steamers,”35 a monu-
mental bridge with a platform for people and another for trains connected the
two cities of Lisbon.36
Both in the new “industrial city” and in reconstructed “poor Lisbon,” espe-
cially where factories and industrial sites were located, proletarian neighbour-
hoods of the “modern hygienic type”37 were to be constructed with appropriate
materials, free from contagious diseases, including tuberculosis. In accordance
with modernity’s hygienic model, the neighbourhoods should have proper
ventilation, water and sewage infrastructures, and be surrounded by gardens
and green spaces where families and workers could spend their leisure times
(see chapters 2 and 10 in this volume). They embodied the “republican and
proletariat Lisbon.”38 Inspired by traditional rural one-floor houses of the
southern regions of Portugal, they were surrounded by a small garden and were
in rows in large and airy streets with sidewalks filled with trees. The rents
were cheap and included an annuity enabling tenants to become owners of
their houses after a certain number of years.39 Streets radiated from a common
large rotunda, which was the heart of the neighbourhood. Amply illuminated
and filled with trees, it could accommodate concerts and outdoor activities. It
included the public library, the church, a free bathhouse, facilities for children,
including a kindergarten and lactario, a conference hall, and finally the public
school, occupying the richest building of all, and materializing the importance
of moulding the new republican working-class citizen. On the opposing side of
the radiating streets a square boulevard delimited the neighbourhood’s bound-
ary. Filled with trees it included at its corners playgrounds for children and
fields for adults to practice physical exercise and to play collective games.40
For both Matos and Almeida, the rise of a “new poor Lisbon,” filled with
working-class neighbourhoods, should merge the advantages of city and
41 For more on the question of gardens and green spaces see Simões and Diogo, “Urban
utopias and the Anthropocene.”
42 Pereira, “Pátios e vilas de Lisboa;” Teixeira, “As estratégias de habitação.”
43 Fialho de Almeida, “Lisboa Monumental. II,” 503.
44 Fialho de Almeida, “Lisboa Monumental. II,” 509.
110 Diogo and Simões
49 José Maria Melo de Matos, “Da ação da mutualidade contra as habitações insalubres.
Papel do cooperativismo na construção de casas higiénicas e baratas,” Conferência apre-
sentada no congresso nacional da mutualidade (Lisboa, 1910), 14.
50 João Mário Mascarenhas, ed. Grandella, o Grande Homem (Lisboa: Câmara Municipal
de Lisboa, 1994); A.H. de Oliveira Marques, Dicionário de Maçonaria Portuguesa (Lisboa:
Editorial Delta, 1986). Grandela also published a journal called A Cidade e os Campos (City
and Countryside), in which various activities in which he was involved were advertised,
including the store and the neighbourhood.
51 Luanda-Ambaca (1876) and Zaire River-Zambeje (1894). Prado was also a member of the
Sociedade dos Makavenkos (Makavenkos Society), founded by Grandela to host male par-
ties, but one of the sites where eventually the Republican revolution was prepared, as
many of its members were republicans and Freemasons.
112 Diogo and Simões
55 Inquérito Industrial de 1881 (Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional, 1881); Inquérito aos Pátios exis-
tentes em Lisboa (1905); Inquérito de Salubridade das Povoações mais importantes de
Portugal. MOPCI, Conselho dos Melhoramentos Sanitários (Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional,
1903). Physicians also published several works discussing the living conditions of the
working class and the propagation of contagious diseases such as tuberculosis in filthy
neighbourhoods.
56 Álvaro Ferreira da Silva, “Fuschini, Augusto Maria (1843–1911),” in Maria Filomena Mónica,
ed., Dicionário Biográfico Parlamentar, 1834–1910, vol. II (Lisboa, Coleção Parlamento,
2005), 262–268, 267.
57 A review of the various attempts can be found in Mata, Estudos Económicos.
58 Decreto nº4137, Diário do Governo, I Série – Número 87, 25 April 1918, 451–457.
Working-Class Neighbourhoods in Lisbon 115
59 Saint-Simon, Nouveau Christianisme (1821). For the relation of Saint-Simonianism and the
proposal of a unifying framework substituting that provided by traditional religions see
Richard Wittman, “Space, Networks, and the Saint-Simonians,” Grey Room 40 (2010), 24–49.
For the relation with market-driven guidelines see Michel Bellet, “Saint-Simonism and
Utilitarianism: the history of a paradox. Bentham’s Defence of Usury under Saint-Amand
Bazard’s Interpretation,” Working paper GATE 2011–35. 2011. <halshs-00654847>, 2011.
60 The minimum 10% corresponded to salaries of the best-paid workers, that is those work-
ing at metallurgical industries. Due to such high rents, in practice just middle class fami-
lies, not the working class ones, could afford them. Inquirição às Associações de Classe,
Boletim do Trabalho, 49 (1910); A. Castro, A Revolução Industrial em Portugal no Século XIX
(Porto: Limiar, 1978 (4ªed.), 194–95.
61 Fialho de Almeida, “Lisboa Monumental. II,” 505.
116 Diogo and Simões
4 Concluding Remarks
In this chapter we opted to look at a less visible face of the work of experts in
reshaping the urban landscape during a period in which engineers, physicians,
architects, and scientists were vying for the recognition of their professional sta-
tus and their role as urban experts. By taking working-class neighbourhoods as
urban objects of study, we challenge the exclusive association of experts to major
techno-scientific and medical institutions of education, training and research.
It is only by accounting for urban spaces as objects belonging to the history of
science and technology that we can understand how and why the problem
of housing for the working class became one of their central concerns.
Their socialist, republican, and Saint-Simonian inclinations enable to
understand how their commitment to techno-scientific visions of the meta-
morphosed capital and of the other Lisbon, which came to be materialized in
mid-twentieth century and cannot be disentangled from their commitment
to secure proper living conditions for incoming workers. For these experts,
affirming progress and modernity as primarily dependent on industrialization
and its attendant infrastructures of transports and communication implied
a concern for the potentially negative effects of migratory fluxes of workers
into urban settings. As such they took seriously the impact of migrations on
the living conditions for the working class and discussed the means for their
improvement by attending international conferences or by promoting parlia-
mentary debates on the topic. It is in this context that we assessed the socio-
technical imaginaries of Almeida and Melo, and the discussions in various fora
by Matos. At the same time, we looked at singular cases in which these imagi-
naries were materialized in the Grandela neighbourhood and the two building
cooperatives highlighted by Matos. While of limited impact and predating a
consistent discussion of the role of the welfare state they reveal how individu-
als or groups of individuals took the matter in hand.
At the macro-level, their utopian visions depended on steam, industry,
infrastructures of mobility and global scales. But at the scale of working-class
neighbourhoods extensively discussed there was an attempt to enforce hygien-
ist policies within the framework of republican and Saint-Simonian ideologies
concerning the well-being of the masses, and the role of financial institutions,
credit, and capital in the improvement of their living conditions.
Grounded on comparisons with other cities in Europe and the United States,
the sharp criticisms voiced by Almeida and Matos concerning recent devel-
opments in “poor Lisbon,” and the discussions for an imagined “poor Lisbon,”
ranging from housing conditions to organizational and financial means of
their construction, reveal how their Saint-Simonian visions to alter the periph-
eral status of Lisbon depended on techno-scientific expertise, hygienist poli-
cies and fluxes of capital.
Working-Class Neighbourhoods in Lisbon 119
Acknowledgements
Research for this chapter was supported by the Foundation for Science and
Technology, under projects PTDC/IVC-HFC/3122/2014, UID/HIS/UI0286/2013,
UID/HIS/UI0286/2019 and UIDB/00286/2020 UIDP/00286/2020.
Chapter 4
M. Luísa Sousa
1 Introduction
This chapter builds on the historiography that asserts the necessity for treating
infrastructures such as roads as technological artefacts and cultural objects.
Therefore it interprets them as such.1 The example given by Langdon Winner
of New York’s parkways planned by Robert Moses, which supposedly excluded
by design “poor people and black [people]” from accessing the wealthier areas
of Long Island, although controversial, remains a classical text that defends
the view that “artefacts have politics” – i.e., that artefacts “can embody specific
forms of power and authority.”2 The case presented in this chapter focuses on
the construction of a tourist infrastructure – the Lisbon-Cascais coastal road –
and its connection to the changes in Lisbon’s urban planning in the 1930s and
1940s. It privileges the study of the relation between artefacts and politics,
namely the analysis of values inscribed in artefacts3 – their material charac-
teristics and limitations, regulation, and embedded envisioned uses – and the
relationship between technical and political actors, with an emphasis on the
relation between expertise and the regime’s political agenda.
The then recently institutionalised right-wing dictatorship of Portugal’s
Estado Novo (New State 1933–1974) aimed at bringing about the “regenera-
tion” of the nation by promoting a new social and political order – e.g. state
corporatism, single party, censorship and repression. This “regeneration” was
branded as a new form of nationalism that reinforced its imperial vocation
and aided in the construction of the “new man” based on the imagined virtues
1 Thomas Zeller, Driving Germany: The Landscape of the German Autobahn, 1930–1970 (New
York/Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2007), 239, 240.
2 Langdon Winner, “Do artifacts have politics?,” Daedalus 109, 1 (1980): 121–136, quotations
from 121, 24. For a discussion on the controversy raised by this article see, for instance, Steve
Woolgar and Geoff Cooper, “Do Artefacts Have Ambivalence? Moses’ Bridges, Winner’s
Bridges and Other Urban Legends in S&TS,” Social Studies of Science 29, 3 (1999): 433–449.
3 Susan Leigh Star, “The Ethnography of Infrastructure,” American Behavioral Scientist 43, 3
(1999): 377–391, 388, 389.
of the catholic rural family and country’s poor lifestyles.4 Alongside these
“moral” elements, this “regeneration” of the nation also possessed a material
and technological dimension (see also chapter 14 in this volume). In spite of
the regime’s strong rural-driven rhetoric against urbanization, mechanization
of agriculture, and industry in general, important investments in urban plan-
ning, public works, and industry featured among the policies developed dur-
ing the period of the New State’s consolidation of power in the 1930s.5 This
was epitomised in the Centennial Commemorations (1940), announced by
the president of the Council of Ministers, António de Oliveira Salazar, in 1938,
and aimed at showing the regime’s “work on moral and material renewal and
resurgence,” and sought “to make public and private services accelerate the
pace of their activity,” thereby affirming “the fulfilling capacity of Portugal.”6
To achieve this “fulfilling capacity,” events like exhibitions, conferences, and
processions were planned, as well as a program of public works that focused
mostly on the two main cities of mainland Portugal – Lisbon and Porto – and
their surrounding areas, and which included tourism roads, and other works
broadly framed in the new urban plans.7
These works were launched by the Ministry of Public Works and Commu
nications (created in 1932), headed by the minister, Duarte Pacheco, an electri-
cal engineer who supported the regime’s agenda. In a speech given at one of
the several Centennial Commemoration events in 1940, Pacheco emphasised
the “heroic efforts of our people through its eight centuries of history,” and the
“fulfilling capacity, patriotic and Christian spirit of the generation of the 1940s,”
which was a “symbol of historical continuity of [the] New State – underpinned
by Salazar’s knowledge and fervent patriotism.”8 Pacheco was adamant that
these nationalist commemorations held the unanimous and enthusiastic
applause of all Portuguese people, and that all who contributed to Portugal’s
imperial vocation – including artists, technicians, and workers – should be
glorified.
4 Fernando Rosas, “O salazarismo e o homem novo: ensaio sobre o New State e a questão do
totalitarismo,” Análise Social 35, 157 (2001): 1031–1054.
5 Fernando Rosas, O New State nos anos trinta: elementos para o estudo da natureza económica
e social do Salazarismo (1928–1938) (Lisboa: Editorial Estampa, 1986), 152–155.
6 “Oito Séculos de Nacionalidade. A Fundação de Portugal e a Restauração da Independência
serão comemoradas com o maior relevo em 1939 e 1940,” Diário de Lisboa, 27 March 1938.
7 Decreto-lei nº 28797, in Diário do Governo, Ministério das Obras Públicas e Comunicações
(MOPC) (1938): 1044, 1045.
8 Duarte Pacheco, “Sessão solene de encerramento da Exposição do Mundo Português,” Revista
dos Centenários 24(1940): 21.
122 Sousa
9 On the exceptional characteristics of the investment and the construction process of this
road see Sousa, “Roads for the 1940 Portuguese Nationality Commemorations”; M. Luísa
Sousa, A mobilidade automóvel em Portugal, 1920–1950 (Lisboa: Chiado Editora, 2016).
10 In the 1980s the modal split for commuting travels between the area covered by the
coastal road and Lisbon was almost equally divided between private (automobiles) and
collective transport. In the 1990s, automobility became increasingly dominant. Margarida
Pereira, “O processo de decisão na política urbana: o exemplo da Costa do Sol” (Ph.D.
dissertation, Universidade Nova Lisboa, Faculdade de Ciências Sociais e Humanas, 1994),
75, anexos AI-5, AI-6 and AI-7. On mobility justice see Mimi Sheller, Mobility Justice. The
Politics of Movement in an Age of Extremes (London; Brooklyn, NY: Verso, 2018).
11 Stephen Graham and Simon Marvin, Splintering urbanism: networked infrastructures tech-
nological mobilities and the urban condition (London; New York: Routledge, 2001), 12.
Crossing Urban and Transport Expertise 123
12 Tiago Saraiva, “Laboratories and Landscapes: the Fascist New State and the Colonization
of Portugal and Mozambique,” HoST – Journal of History of Science and Technology 3(2009):
35–61; Maria Paula Diogo and Ana Cardoso de Matos. “Going Public: The First Portuguese
National Engineering Meeting and the Popularization of the Image of the Engineer as
an Artisan of Progress (Portugal, 1931),” Engineering Studies 4, 3 (2012): 185–204. This
professional affirmation was present since the nineteenth century and continued in
the twentieth century. Maria Paula Pires dos Santos Diogo, “A construção de uma iden-
tidade profissional: a Associação dos Engenheiros Civis Portuguezes, 1869–1937” (Ph.D.
dissertation, Faculdade de Ciências e Tecnologia da Universidade Nova de Lisboa, 1994),
278–94; Jorge Borges de Macedo, “A problemática tecnológica no processo da continui-
dade República-Ditadura Militar-New State,” Economia III, 3 (1979): 427–453, 451; Marta
Macedo, Projectar e Construir a Nação. Engenheiros, ciência e território em Portugal no
século XIX (Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências Sociais, 2012); Maria de Lurdes Rodrigues, Os
Engenheiros em Portugal: Profissionalização e Protagonismo (Oeiras: Celta Editora, 1999),
92–95.
13 Nuno Luís Madureira, A Economia dos Interesses. Portugal entre as Guerras (Lisboa: Livros
Horizonte, 2002), 109–16; Diogo, “A construção de uma identidade profissional,” 149, 50,
63, 76–78, 218–21, 32, 68–70; Rodrigues, Os Engenheiros em Portugal, 96, 97.
14 João Fagundes, “Obras Públicas – a grande fachada do ‘New State’,” in História de Portugal –
dos tempos pré-históricos aos nossos dias. New State: o ditador e a ditadura, ed. João Medina
(Alfragide: Ediclube, 1998), 365–385, 365. Rosas, O New State, 202, 258. Cláudia Ninhos and
M. Luísa Sousa, “The nationalization of the Portuguese landscape: Landscape architec-
ture, road engineering and the making of the New State dictatorship,” in Closing the Door
on Globalization: Internationalism, Nationalism, Culture and Science in the Nineteenth
and Twentieth Centuries, ed. Cláudia Ninhos and Fernando Clara (Abingdon, New York:
Routledge, 2017), 107–143.
15 Mitchell Ash, “Science and politics as resources for one another: rethinking a relational
history” (paper presented at the ESHS in-between meeting. Rethinking the history of the
124 Sousa
The improvement of national roads was carried out by the JAE.16 Founded
in 1927 under the Military Dictatorship that preceded the New State, and origi-
nally created as a temporary body for the improvement of transport and auto-
motive infrastructure, the JAE became one of the most important organs of the
New State’s Ministry of Public Works that helped in the elaboration and execu-
tion of the regime’s infrastructure policy. In addition to this role as political
consultant, the JAE helped to improve the administration’s oversight and man-
agement of national territory via both building materialities and designs able
to represent order and hierarchy.17 In this way a discourse on material achieve-
ments, order, and “resurgence,” emerged with respect to the JAE, thus closely
mimicking the discourse of the regime and its support groups and institutions.
As with other technoscientific institutions created or consolidated by the New
State regime, the JAE and its engineers embodied an engineering practice at
the service of Salazar’s New State (see Introduction to this volume).
The construction of the coastal road between Lisbon and Cascais demon-
strates another set of characteristics particular to JAE’s road engineers: the
development of engineering knowledges and practices appropriated from
foreign countries – namely by testing new materials and construction tech-
niques, following, for instance, the experience in road construction in Nazi
Germany18 – and the expanded remit of their expertise regarding urbanism.
This road had multiple (political) purposes, all of which were carried out
by the JAE engineers, ranging from the technical to the propagandistic, and
including the promotion of automobile tourism and the outline for Lisbon’s
westward urban expansion.19
One of the authors of the preliminary project of the Lisbon-Cascais coastal
road, and who would later become its supervisor, JAE’s engineer Paulo Marques,
stated the symbolic importance of the coastal road in the Boletim da Ordem
dos Engenheiros (Bulletin of the Association of Engineers). For Marques, the
coastal road was to be an achievement of both the engineers and the regime,
following the tone of the discourse that emphasised the material “regenera-
tion” promoted by New State:
The superior tact of His Excellency the President, the wise, prudent and
persistent governance of His Excellency the President of the Council
[Salazar], the clear vision, interest and dynamism of the Minister of
Public Works and Communications [Pacheco], the organization and
activity of the Autonomous Board of Roads [JAE], the working qualities
and adaptation by all who took part in the study and execution of the
works, including engineers, architects, contractors and workers, were
the base elements on which it was possible to consolidate the work
described. Apart from its direct economic purpose, this work represents
a proof of how much it is worth the union, discipline, organization and
fulfilling capacities of the Portuguese. Their result enables one to trust in
the future of Portugal.20
The coastal road was at times portrayed in official reports and exhibitions as a
showcase of the joint work of the JAE and the regime. Such was the case during
the 1948 Public Works Exhibition celebrating the fifteen years anniversary of
the Ministry of Public Works and Communications. Hosted by one of Lisbon’s
most important engineering schools, Instituto Superior Técnico (Technical
Superior Institute), it lasted five months and was visited by around half a mil-
lion people. In this exhibition JAE’s work was presented as a material indicator
of the “national progress achieved during the period of the New State.”21
chosen by Duarte Pacheco, was the brigadier and military engineer Manuel
da Silveira e Castro, who was also President of the JAE and Director of the
Tourism Section of the Centennial Commemorations Commission.34 In 1937,
the Municipalities of Lisbon, Oeiras, and Cascais, all of which included areas
belonging to the Sun Coast, were forbidden to approve any construction, or
substantial modification, in the area without prior approval from the Office
for the Sun Coast Urban Plan.35 As the plan for the Sun Coast would only
be approved over a decade later, in 1948, partial plans were approved in the
meantime, involving both the coastal road and the motorway linking Lisbon
to the National Stadium. In the end, both the coastal road and motorway
came to delimit respectively the southern and northern boundaries of the Sun
Coast area.36
The JAE engineers went well beyond their competences in the construction
of the coastal road, not limiting their work to technical issues regarding the
beautification of the “Sun Coast’s” network of roads; their construction proj-
ect included developments to the coastal road platform area, such as lanes,
sidewalks, road signs, the construction of embankments, afforestation, as
well as overpasses and underpasses for both vehicles and pedestrians. What is
more, the engineers included as part of their project car parks, gardens, pub-
lic lighting, sewage, water, gas, energy, telegraphs, and telephones networks.
Additionally, the JAE was responsible for managing the estate bordering the
road, proceeding with expropriations, while temporarily holding in its pos-
session various lands and buildings, and especially from 1944 onwards gradu-
ally handing these properties over to other entities, with the mediation of the
Ministry of Finance.37 In sum, the JAE was one of the main actors behind the
Sun Coast’s urbanization such that the coastal road became a “primary ele-
ment in the Sun Coast urbanization.”38
39 On the changes on urban planning in Lisbon in the late nineteenth-century and early
twentieth century, in which hygienic, mobility and embellishment inscriptions played
an important role see Álvaro Ferreira da Silva and M. Luísa Sousa, “The ‘Script’ of a New
Urban Layout: Mobility, Environment, and Embellishment in Lisbon’s Streets (1850–
1910),” Technology and Culture 60, 1 (2019): 65–97.
40 The horse-drawn tramways were called “Americanos,” which means Americans, because
the first 32 wagons were bought to a New-Yorker company. António Lopes Vieira, Os trans-
portes públicos de Lisboa entre 1830 e 1910 (Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional-Casa da Moeda,
1982), 111; Maria Helena Lisboa, Os engenheiros em Lisboa: urbanismo e arquitectura (1850–
1930) (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte, 2002), 124.
41 Lisbon’s official limits increased substantially during the second half of the nineteenth
century, namely with the creation of Estrada de Circunvalação (Circumvallation Road).
The area, in square kilometres, within the official limits of Lisbon changed in this period
in the following way: in the beginning of the nineteenth century, 9,47 km2; Decree of
11/9/1852, 12,1 km2; Lei of 18/7/1885, 64,9 km2; Decree of 22/7/1886, 97,2 km2; decree of
130 Sousa
21/11/1903, 82,4 km2; see Augusto Vieira da Silva, “Os limites de Lisboa. Notícia histórica.
II – Do meiado do século XIX até à actualidade (1940),” Revista Municipal 6 (1940):
11–23. See also Raquel Henriques da Silva, “Lisboa romântica, urbanismo e arquitectura,
1777–1874” (Ph.D. dissertation, Universidade Nova de Lisboa, 1997), 396–99. José-Augusto
França, “De Pombal ao Fontismo. O Urbanismo e a Sociedade,” in O livro de Lisboa, ed.
Irisalva Moita (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte, 1994), 363–388, 388.
42 Elsa Peralta, “A composição de um complexo de memória: o caso de Belém, Lisboa,” in
Cidade e império: dinâmicas coloniais e reconfigurações pós-coloniais, ed. Nuno Domingos
and Elsa Peralta (Lisboa: Edições 70, 2013), 361–413, 378–381.
43 Matos Sequeira, “A acção da Câmara Municipal de Lisboa na Exposição do Mundo
Português,” Revista Municipal 6 (1940): 24–26; “Projeto do prolongamento da avenida da
Índia entre o Bom Sucesso e as Portas de Algés e ruas adjacentes,” (Arquivo Municipal de
Lisboa, 1928–37); “Projeto de alteração dos traçados da avenida da Índia e do caminho de
ferro de Cascais” (Arquivo Municipal de Lisboa, 1935–39).
44 Quotations from a speech of minister Duarte Pacheco (already mentioned above):
Pacheco, “Sessão solene.”
45 Secretariado de Propaganda Nacional, Cadernos, 27.
46 Duarte Pacheco was Minister of Public Works from 1932 to 1936. He occupied again this
position in 1938 and until his death, in a car accident, in 1943. Sandra Almeida, “O país a
régua e esquadro: urbanismo, arquitectura e memória na obra pública de Duarte Pacheco”
(Ph.D. dissertation, Universidade de Lisboa, Faculdade de Letras, 2009), 208–32.
47 Decreto-lei nº 24802, in Diário do Governo, MOPC (1934): 2137–2141.
Crossing Urban and Transport Expertise 131
48 Decreto nº 22444. On Alfred Agache and on Étienne De Gröer see, respectively Almeida,
“O país,” 274, 275 and 290. Agache was removed from this work in 1936, the year when
he delivered the study, following the dismissal of Duarte Pacheco from the Ministry of
Public Works and Communications (to which he returned in 1938). On the Sun Coast,
and Lisbon’s Urbanization Plans see, respectively, Pereira, “O processo,” (pp. 84, 85 for the
dismissal of Agache in 1936); Carlos Nunes Silva, “Planeamento municipal e a organização
do espaço em Lisboa: 1926–1974” (M.A. dissertation, Universidade de Lisboa. Faculdade
de Letras, 1986).
49 Quote from an interview to Duarte Pacheco in 1933, cited in Paula André, “As cidades da
cidade. Lisboa na primeira metade do século XX: nova Lisboa (1936) e Lisboa nova (1948),”
Urbana 7, 10 (2015): 89–111, 99.
50 Agache interview (1936) cited in André, “As cidades da cidade,” 100.
51 The first Portuguese architect to study at the Institute of Urbanism, setting a “a train-
ing pattern for Portuguese town planners at the Institute (..) until the 1970s” was João
Guilherme Faria da Costa, who became architect of Lisbon’s municipality and worked
with his teacher, De Gröer, in the 1948 Lisbon’s urban plan. Catarina Teles Ferreira
Camarinhas, “The Construction of Modern Scientific Urban Planning: Lisbon under
French Urbanisme Influence (1904–1967),” Planning Theory & Practice 12, 1 (2011): 11–31, 16.
52 Étienne De Groër, “Introdução ao urbanismo,” Boletim da Direcção-Geral dos Serviços de
Urbanização 1(1945–1946): 17–86; Decreto-lei nº 34337, in Diário do Governo, MOPC (1944):
1327, 1328. This General Direction was responsible for coordinating both urban plans and
“rural improvements,” which had been before 1945 under the JAE’s assignments. Sousa, A
mobilidade, 384–389.
132 Sousa
well into the second half of the twentieth century.53 Thus, in spite of the anti-
urbanisation rhetoric of the New State, planning the new Lisbon embodied
central aspects of the regime’s agenda: to limit high population density in the
city and to reconstruct the country’s image guided by its imperial dimension
(see chapters 8 and 9 in this volume).54
As for Agache and De Gröer, they would turn to the work of the English
urban planner, Ebenezer Howard, and particularly his concept of the garden
city, in order to solve the problem of population growth in urban centres due to
migration from the countryside. This was part of a wider set of social reforms
whose three main pillars were cooperative organisation, land reform, and self-
sufficiency. It limited city’s population to 32000 inhabitants, in such a way
that a network of garden cities interconnected through greenbelts was creat-
ed.55 In 1911, in a congress on “Social Hygiene,” Agache presented the English
garden-city model as a concrete answer to physical and social hygiene urban
problems, namely regarding the working-class housing56 (see chapter 3 in this
volume). Both Agache and De Gröer considered Howard garden cities’ concept
to be the basis of “modern urbanism,” whose purpose was to “reorganise the
citizens’ existence, giving them the best possible living conditions,” through
the planning of a “beautiful,” hygienic and decongested city, thereby imposing
“order” onto the city and its surroundings.57
Agache and De Gröer also defended the limitation of urban population den-
sity. For example, De Gröer advocated single-family housing neighbourhoods
53 Paula André, “Portugal de fora para dentro: Paul Descamps, Donat A. Agache, Étienne
de Groer,” in Arte & discursos, ed. Margarida Acciaiuoli and Maria João Castro (Lisboa:
Faculdade de Ciências Sociais e Humanas. Universidade Nova de Lisboa, 2014), 255–268,
255; Vasco Brito and Catarina Teles Ferreira Camarinhas, “Elementos para o estudo do
Plano de Urbanização da cidade de Lisboa (1938),” Cadernos do Arquivo Municipal de
Lisboa (2007): 163–189, 183.
54 Camarinhas, “The Construction of Modern Scientific Urban Planning,” 12.
55 Michel Geertse, “Cross-Border Country Planning Dialogue in Interwar Europe,” SAGE
Open 5, 3 (2015): 1–12, 3–5.
56 It was the congress of the “Alliance d’hygiène sociale,” held in Roubaix (France). Catherine
Bruant, “Donat Alfred Agache (1875–1959) – L’architecte et le sociologue,” Les Études soci-
ales 122(1994): 23–65, 42. Agache was also interested in the concept of garden cities as
they considered planning cities from scratch, as he did in his project for Yass Canberra
(Australia).Vincent Berdoulay and Olivier Soubeyran, “Agache ou le milieu comme sup-
port écologique,” in L’écologie urbaine et l’urbanisme (Paris: La Découverte, 2002), 177–
200, 191. I thank Celia Miralles Buil for giving me the access to this article.
57 De Groër, “Introdução ao urbanismo,” 24 (first quote); 45 (second and third quotes). On
Agache see Bruant, “Donat Alfred Agache,” 54.
Crossing Urban and Transport Expertise 133
Moreover, Agache and De Gröer’s planning ideas were also linked to consid-
erations of spatial distribution – and particularly for Agache, who viewed the
garden city concept of “zoning” as a fundament of urbanism and saw urban-
ism itself as an applied science, or an “applied sociology.”61 It is in this way
that zoning came to be viewed as the method of planning Lisbon’s “positive”
evolution; a method that outlined a particular spatial distribution throughout
the territory alongside their corresponding and appropriate social activities.62
In promoting zoning, De Gröer closely followed the different classifications of
zones, and their corresponding activities, which were used in previous garden
city designs: industrial, commercial, civic, residential, free spaces, and rural.63
What is more, it was in the application of such principles that urban planners
58 He defended the limitation of population within a city, and the construction of horizon-
tal property (and not vertical) as a condition for the good health of the population, but
also as a preventive measure towards aerial bombing – the houses should be separated,
sprawled. De Groër, “Introdução ao urbanismo,” 28, 39, 40. Etienne De Groër, “Plano
Director de Lisboa. Modo actual de construir” (Gabinete de Estudos Olisiponenses, 1948),
IIª parte, Vol. 2, 2 – Densidades de população.
59 André, “Portugal de fora para dentro,” 255–60; Paula André, Teresa Marat-Mendes, and
Paulo Rodrigues, “Alfred-Donat Agache Urban Proposal for Costa do Sol. From the
Territory to the City” (paper presented at the 15th International Planning History Society
Conference, São Paulo, 2012), 3, 4; Bruant, “Donat Alfred Agache,” 25, 32; Berdoulay and
Soubeyran, “Agache ou le milieu,” 177. See also Frederico Ágoas, “Narrativas em Perspetiva
sobre a História da Sociologia em Portugal,” Análise Social 206, 68 (2013): 221–56.
60 André, “Portugal de fora para dentro,” 257.
61 Berdoulay and Soubeyran, “Agache ou le milieu,” 178.
62 Bruant, “Donat Alfred Agache,” 26, 52.
63 De Groër, “Introdução ao urbanismo,” 24, 25, 34.
134 Sousa
could turn the city’s inhabitants into “honest men and good Christians.”64
Thus, for De Gröer, zoning was the “basis of urbanism” and was fundamen-
tal to create quality, healthy working-class neighbourhoods, and to curb real
estate speculation.65 And to connect these zones through space, urban (and
regional) planning implied urban and suburban mobility, which was influ-
enced by another “actor” that was gaining prominence on the European scene:
the motor vehicle.
At the congresses of the International Federation for Housing and Town
Planning (IFHTP)66 held during the interwar period, various planning options
were under discussion: one option endorsed the concept of “pure” garden cit-
ies, promoted by the British, while another proposed its appropriation in con-
tinental Europe, accompanied by the growing concern for regional planning
and suburbanisation (caused partly by the growing use of motor vehicles).67
As urban planner and historian, Catarina Camarinhas, argues, it was via the
French School that these ideas reached Portugal, namely through De Gröer
and the concept of “garden-district,” which proposed “a compromise between
the initial ideal of the garden city and the reality of suburban expansion.”68
Planners wanted to tame the cities’ expansion into the countryside in an
orderly way via infrastructures and settlements.69 And yet, there remained an
inherent tension between infrastructures and spatial planning: if, in Howard’s
concept of the garden city, mobility was secured via trams and public tran-
sit, in the interwar period these means of transport were being replaced by
motorised vechicles (namely the private automobile). At the IFHTP interwar
congresses, this change was addressed either as a problem or as an oppor-
tunity, both to the planning of old urban city centres and to the process of
suburbanisation.70
Moreover, other expert fora addressed an ongoing discussion regard-
ing the type of roads that should be built for motor vehicles. The debate on
71 See, for instance, Massimo Moraglio, “A rough modernization: landscapes and highways
in twentieth-century Italy,” in The world beyond the windshield: roads and landscapes
in the United States and Europe, ed. Christof Mauch and Thomas Zeller (Athens: Ohio
University Press, 2008), 108–124; Zeller, Driving Germany; Gijs Mom, “Roads without Rails.
European Highway-Network Building and the Desire for Long-Range Motorized Mobility,”
Technology and Culture 46, 4 (2005): 745–772.
72 Clay McShane, Down the Asphalt Path: American Cities and the Coming of the Automobile
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 223.
73 As was the case of the Finnish architect Eliel Saarinen in The Munkkiniemi and Haaga plan
(1915), in the Greater Helsinki. Emilia Karppinen, “Collective Expertise behind the Urban
Planning of Munkkiniemi and Haaga, Helsinki (c. 1915),” in Urban Histories of Science.
Making Knowledge in the City, 1820–1940, eds. Oliver Hochadel and Agustí Nieto-Galan
(New York, London: Routledge, 2018), 164–185, here 174, 175.
74 Bruant, “Donat Alfred Agache,” 26, 49, 51; Berdoulay and Soubeyran, “Agache ou le milieu,”
184.
75 Bruant, “Donat Alfred Agache,” 51, 55; Berdoulay and Soubeyran, “Agache ou le milieu,”
184, 185, 195.
136 Sousa
The expansion of our urban centres has taken place almost always with-
out the prior establishment of a superior criterion guiding it, subordinat-
ing itself only to the needs of opportunity, with obvious disadvantage for
the collective interest, which is poorly served in aesthetics, hygiene and
economy.
… the Government considers that the plan for the use of the large land
area that will be open to urbanisation and tourist exploitation by the
construction of the coastal road between Lisbon and Cascais should be
established from the outset, because field studies for this road are under-
way. It is time that the experienced hand of an already renowned urban-
ist in this difficult kind of works draws (…) the outline of all the elements
of utilization and valorisation of this magnificent coastal strip that will
be served by our first tourist road, so that one can get the most out of its
exceptional conditions.
… the Government is authorised by the Ministry of Public Works and
Communications to assign to (…) the French architect urbanist Alfredo
[sic] Agache, vice-president of the French Urbanists Society, to carry
out the preliminary study of the urbanisation of the area from Lisbon to
Estoril and Cascais.78
In fact, the first intention of the government was to improve the few
beaches on what is called the “Costa do Sol” (the Sun Coast), by develop-
ing the old coastal road, but the minister followed us very well and even
In addition, Agache argued for the need to construct a motorway that would
connect the centre of Lisbon to Estoril (it would become the marker for the
northern frontier of the Sun Coast area; only the 8 km stretch from Lisbon to
the National Stadium was built in the 1940s), and the construction of a sports
park, which became the National Stadium and the site where the motorway
met the coastal road.
However, it was De Gröer who went on to make Agache’s vision a reality.81
Moreover, De Gröer defended the importance of integrating planning at differ-
ent geographical scales – urban, regional, and national – in an epoch that he
called the era of the “command economy:” an allusion, common to architect-
urbanists in interwar Europe, of experts working on behalf of a dictatorship
that was itself abided by the coeval technocratic internationalism that consid-
ered science and technology to be apolitical.82 For De Gröer, planning a city
79 Agache, “L’aménagement,” 147. See also André, Marat-Mendes, and Rodrigues, “Alfred-
Donat Agache Urban Proposal for Costa do Sol. From the Territory to the City,” 4.
80 Agache, “L’aménagement,” 148.
81 André, “Portugal de fora para dentro,” 267.
82 De Groër, “Introdução ao urbanismo,” 27. On technocratic internationalism see Johan
Schot and Vincent Lagendijk, “Technocratic Internationalism in the Interwar Years:
Building Europe on Motorways and Electricity Networks,” Journal of Modern European
History 6, 2 (2008): 196–217; Martin Kohlrausch and Helmuth Trischler, Building Europe
on Expertise: Innovators, Organizers, Networkers (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014).
138 Sousa
Figure 4.1 Road plan for the Sun Coast according to Agache (1936)
Source: Donat Alfred Agache, “L’aménagement de la Costa do Sol (Portugal),”
Urbanisme : revue mensuelle de l’urbanisme français 43 (Mars–Avril 1936):
146–150, here p. 148
Gröer imagined that transports would be so easy and direct, that they would
make cities obsolete:
The air! The sun! These are the two elements of God that should not be
lacking to anyone and from which our artificial civilisation deprived the
inhabitants of the cities. They will have them again thanks to us. Our cit-
ies will now be clear and cheerful.95
On the other hand, De Gröer also considered the construction of high traffic
routes for motor vehicles as essential and viewed as the best means of trans-
portation between Lisbon and its developed, satellite, regions.96 These thor-
oughfares, however, were not considered to be open spaces by De Gröer, due to
the “constant circulation of cars and the smell of gasoline,” which did not allow
its neighbouring inhabitants to rest.97
From 1938 to 1948, De Gröer also applied these principles to the planning of
Lisbon.98 Using survey data collected by the engineer António Emídio Abrantes
in 1938,99 De Gröer prepared the Lisbon Urban Plan (concluded in 1948), in
which he criticised what he considered as the “denial of urbanism.”100 Thus,
De Gröer proposed zoning as the tool for giving urban “order” to Lisbon and
a new sprawling structure, in which the planning of road mobility was funda-
mental, and included the use of ring roads and exit thoroughfares, such as the
Figure 4.2 Main communication axes of the Lisbon 1948 urban plan
Source: “Plano Director de Urbanização de Lisboa,” 1948
one used to connect the riverside avenue in Belém (Avenida da Índia) and the
Lisbon-Cascais coastal road. The Lisbon Urban Plan, completed by De Gröer
and approved by Lisbon’s Municipality in 1948 (although not approved by the
government), built on his first studies from the late 1930s and gave primacy to
main communication axes. Most notable among these was a network of radial
and peripheral roads that included the Lisbon-National Stadium motorway
and the coastal road.101
The 1948 Lisbon Urban Plan changed the late nineteenth century pattern
of urban expansion to the north to a radial-centric expansion, thereby encom-
passing the city’s western regions, including Belém.102 The 1948 Plan was based
on the prediction that Lisbon’s population should not overcome 10 percent of
the country’s population, which was estimated to reach upwards of 10 million
people in the next 20 years.103
Figure 4.3 Lisbon’s imagined population growth in 20 years and its extensions (1948)
Source: “Plano Director de Lisboa. Modo actual de construir,”
(Gabinete de Estudos Olisiponenses, 1948), Iª parte, C-Lisboa e a sua
região, pp. 81, 82
in the future, but the most desirable means of transit as well.105 In the 1948
Lisbon Urban Plan’s zoning code, De Gröer’s list of each zone’s area in hectares
excluded the area occupied by roadway infrastructure – except for the motor-
way – which itself occupied considerable space. This omission on De Gröer’s
part indicates the way in which road infrastructure itself comes to be reified
in practice.106
4 Concluding Remarks
The construction of the Lisbon-Cascais coastal road, and the subsequent plan-
ning of the Sun Coast and of Lisbon’s expansion shows how urban planning
at differing scales was simultaneously addressed by a select group of experts.
Moreover, it shows the fundamentally political function of coordinating each
of these works, as it was motivated by, and carried out in accordance with, the
vision of Minister of Public Works, Duarte Pacheco. Additionally, both road
engineers and architect-urbanists mutually benefited from their respective
expertise on urban and mobility planning: while the JAE began their prelimi-
nary project for the coastal road between Lisbon and Cascais in 1931, followed
by an extended topographical survey (1934) of the area between Algés and
Cascais, they would go on to play an important role in the implementation of
the Sun Coast Urban Plan and in the urbanisation of the area surrounding the
coastal road.
In 1933, the decision to open the first touristic road in Portugal – the
Lisbon-Cascais coastal road – led Pacheco to invite the architect-urbanist
Agache to draw up plans for the urbanisation of the area stretching from Lisbon
to Cascais, which was later expanded into what came to be referred to as the
Sun Coast. By following Agache’s suggestion to study the problem regionally,
Pacheco framed the Sun Coast area as one of the extensions of the new urban
plan for Lisbon, which was to be studied by one of Agache’s colleagues, De
Gröer. Both Agache and De Gröer considered road planning – particularly high
traffic routes conceived as thoroughfares for (future) motor vehicles – to be
a key feature of their urban design for Lisbon and its satellite developments.
For whom were the coastal road and the new Lisbon built? The construction
of the coastal road, together with the motorway from Lisbon to the National
Stadium, meant an exceptional investment in the period of the World War II,
105 See, for instance, De Groër, “Plano Director de Lisboa,” IIª parte, Vol. 3, 1 – Memórias
Explicativas que acompanharam Desenhos de Detalhe.
106 De Groër, “Plano Director de Lisboa,” IIª parte, Vol. 2, G – Distribuição da área geral abran-
gida pelo plano director.
144 Sousa
Acknowledgments
∵
Introduction to Part 2
Maria Paula Diogo and Ana Simões
goods, but also of the exercise of control, concerning both commercial activi-
ties and sanitary conditions. Over the course of five chapters, we explore the
entangled histories of experts, commerce, and health in close connection with
the port and the imperial axis of Lisbon.
In chapter 5 “Hybrid features of the new Lisbon lazaretto (1860–1908),” José
Carlos Avelãs Nunes focuses on the various dimensions – architectural, medi-
cal, techno-scientific, socio-economic and political – of the new lazaretto. This
sanitary compound closely dialogued with the port of Lisbon and encapsu-
lated the tensions between political power and private economic interests and
between public responsibility and individual welfare.
In chapter 6, “The customs laboratory of Lisbon from the 1880s to the 1930s:
Chemistry, economy and scientific spaces”, Ignacio Suay-Matallana analyses
the means of controlling and regulating the merchandise and commerce at
the port of Lisbon. Working at the intersection of chemistry and economy, the
customs laboratory protected the national economy (and more specifically
the commerce of wine) and secured the development of the necessary exper-
tise to fulfil its duties.
In chapter 7, “Lisbon after quarantines. An urban protection against inter-
national diseases,” Celia Miralles-Buil places the port itself at the centre of her
analysis. She summons different geographical scales of urban connections
(from local to national and international) to analyse the strategies and ten-
sions of Portuguese’s physicians and public health authorities to implement a
strong health control for every ship to fight against epidemics coming from the
sea while reconciling these procedures with commercial interests.
While in chapters 5, 6 and 7, the imperial dimension is implicit in the threat
of tropical diseases and commodities arriving at the city port, chapters eight
and nine explore the imperial character of Lisbon’s riverbank and surrounding
areas which were appropriated as additional leverage for political propaganda.
In “The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum. Education,
research and ‘tropical illusion’ in the imperial metropolis,” Cláudia Castelo
analyses how these two institutions inscribed colonial landscapes, commodi-
ties, and imperial history in the Belém’s neighbourhood, part of the so-called
“memory complex” of the Portuguese Empire.
The garden and the museum were the setting for the colonial section of the
Portuguese World Exhibition in 1940, an event that is examined by Antonio
Sanchez and Carlos Godinho in “Urbanizing the history of ‘discoveries.’ The
1940 Portuguese World Exhibition and the making of a new imperial capital.”
The authors follow the use of the armillary sphere, one of the main scientific
icons of the so-called Age of Discoveries, in the reconstruction and moderniza-
tion of Lisbon. The “urbanization of the sphere” was an important aspect of the
Introduction to Part 2 149
1 Introduction
1 I. de Vilhena Barbosa, “O Novo Lazareto de Lisboa.” Archivo Pittoresco, 27 (1864): 209–210; Ana
Barata, Lisboa ‘caes da Europa’ (Lisboa: Colibri, 2010), 70.
2 In 1888, advertisements to vessels leaving Lisbon for Brazil (11 to 15 days trip), Buenos Aires
or other Pacific ports (such as the Pacific Steam Navigation Company or the French Steam
Navigation Company) announced the services of a medical doctor on board, free of charge.
3 Carola Hein, ed., Port Cities: dynamic landscapes and global networks (London: Routledge,
2011); Patrick O’Flanagan, Port Cities of Atlantic Iberia. c. 1500–1900 (London: Routledge, 2016).
4 Adolfo Loureiro, Os portos marítimos de Portugal e ilhas adjacentes, Vol. I (Lisboa: Imprensa
Nacional, 1904), 43.
5 Portuguese coin: 1 conto de réis is equivalent to 1000 réis. Ana Prata, Políticas portuárias na I
República (1880–1929) (Casal de Cambra, Caleidoscópio, 2011), 29. For comparative purposes
see note 30.
6 Prata, Políticas portuárias, 29.
7 In the second half of the nineteenth-century, there were still animal corpses dumped in
the sidewalks, human wastes thrown through the windows to the streets and an installed
deep state of poverty. While its gardens and magnificent buildings supported the “romantic
Lisbon,” the imagined “capital city” was open to new infections and not ready to face their
consequences. José-Augusto França, Lisboa: História Física e Social (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte,
2008).
8 Maria Antónia Pires de Almeida. Saúde Pública e Higiene na Imprensa Diária em Anos de
Epidemia, 1854–1918 (Lisboa: Edições Colibri, 2013).
9 Barbosa, “O Novo Lazareto de Lisboa,” 209–210.
152 Avelãs Nunes
Lisbon would officially recognise that “the outburst of yellow fever fostered at
last public hygiene studies, which were due for long.”10
If Portuguese authorities failed to implement a strategy of quarantining and
confinement of cholera and yellow fever patients, it was due to the medical
and scientific uncertainties regarding their origins and causes of transmission.
Some experts, proponents of what was known as “germ theory,” defended the
view that contagion was not necessarily mediated by human contact but by
a vector, or contagious agent, whose microscopic origin was soon to be clari-
fied by the inroads of scientific experimental medicine.11 By contrast, other
experts advocated for a miasma theory approach centred on propagation
through miasmas, or vapour emanations due to harmful air properties. While
both views emphasized the importance of improving sanitary conditions in
increasingly overcrowded urban spaces and working-class neighbourhoods
(see chapter 3 in this volume), germ theory advocates elected confinement as
the crucial measure against epidemics while miasma theorists gave primacy to
securing proper sanitary conditions and did not insist on physical restraint. In
Portugal as well as abroad, experts were divided between both camps.
By the mid-nineteenth century, the controversy over the diseases’ causes
and the proper means of treatment and eradication were debated at annual
international sanitary conferences. What emerged from each successive con-
ference were the opposing national strategies which often mirrored cultural
differences among experts of different nationalities working under different
geographical conditions. Thus, it was the representatives from England who
defended a system of prevention based on anti-contagiousness claims and
advocated for the suppression of quarantines, while southern European coun-
tries, which were geographical more vulnerable, continued to support strate-
gies of confinement.12 Alternative forms of confinement and prevention held
significant scientific, economic, social, and political dimensions, which had to
be balanced against each other.
Figure 5.1 Location of Lisbon and of the Lazaretto. A – Atlantic Ocean; B – Tagus River; C –
Lisbon; D – Lazaretto (Porto Brandão)
©Google Earth
This chapter analyses the construction of the New Lazaretto13 (circa 1860)
against the backdrop of a Lisbon in transition away from older forms of confine-
ment and to newer forms of prevention. Located on the south side of the river
Tagus at Porto Brandão, the new lazaretto was separated from Lisbon by the
river’s large estuary, which shielded the capital city from incoming epidemics.
The new lazaretto was not one but several buildings whose function was the
administration of medical evaluations for both cargo and persons and to quar-
antine objects and passengers at the very site of Portugal’s main port of entry. If
cleared, then both commodities and persons were allowed to proceed to Lisbon
proper via the port located on the rivers northern bank. However, if cargo or
passengers failed their medical evaluation, they were forced to quarantine on
site. Alongside questions concerning the expansion of the port’s capacity to
13 The designation lazaretto comes from the old leper colonies administered by Christian
religious orders for centuries. They were often called lazar houses, a name honoring
Lazarus, the character in the parable of the rich man and the beggar, Lazarus, who suf-
fered from leprosy.
154 Avelãs Nunes
14 Miguel Paes, Melhoramentos De Lisboa E Seu Porto (Lisboa: Typ. Universal, 1884); Emílio
Brògueira Dias and Jorge Fernandes Alves, “Ports, policies and interventions in ports in
Portugal – 20th Century”, Cahiers de la Méditerranée, 80 (2010): 41–64.
Hybrid Features at Lisbon ’ s New Lazaretto ( 1860–1908 ) 155
were confronted with a filthy, dark, damaged, and unhealthy building offering
terrible accommodations and equally terrible food.15
Under mounting pressure, the Portuguese government constructed an
entirely new lazaretto close to the decaying fortress, which housed the old
lazaretto. In 1860, a special royal commission comprised of political repre-
sentatives, physicians, and engineers,16 was appointed to assess the situation
of the old lazaretto. In the end, the royal commission’s findings validated the
political decision to construct a new lazaretto in place of simply remodelling
the old fortress. Such a conclusion was reached given the experiences of phy-
sicians such as Macedo Pinto, member of the Academy of Sciences of Lisbon
and the Medical Society of Lisbon, and who oversaw the treatment of chol-
era patients at the time. Such experiences shaped Pinto’s view that lazarettos
should be “places destined to cure the sick and confine suspects during the
incubation period of the contagious principle,”17 and as such should be erected
in elevated places with exposure to the north, ventilated and distant from vil-
lages. Moreover, for Pinto confinement and prophylaxis are public health mea-
sures that should abide by recent medical breakthroughs, thereby ensuring the
efficacy of new means of mitigating the worst effects of epidemics, such as
cholera.
Even though the first plans for the new lazaretto were drafted in 1858, con-
struction of this newer complex of buildings would take over a decade with
its completion in 1869, a time when Lisbon was still the hegemonic centre of
Portugal’s maritime traffic.
Planning was guided by scientific, technological, and medical input as evi-
denced by the specific areas for disinfection of luggage and people and the
instruments acquired. This desire for scientifically grounded infrastructure is
also reflected in the lazaretto’s construction process, wherein engineers and
physicians worked side-by-side and selected specific architectural features that
allowed for this new lazaretto to serve as a multi-functional space adequate for
the surveillance of the circulation of commodities, persons, and infectious dis-
ease in and out of Lisbon’s port. In addition, such cooperation between scien-
tific and technical knowledge was materialized in the disposition of buildings,
Figure 5.2 General view of the old and new lazarettos. A: Fort of S. Sebastião or Old
Lazaretto; B: The New Lazaretto of Lisbon: Quarantines; C: Entrance and main
gates; D: Tagus River; E: Direction of the Lisbon South Margin (city) c.1910
Arquivo Municipal de Lisboa, Ref. PT/AMLSB/NEG/000755
18 The agenda of the social reforms of Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) was part of his emerging
theory of utilitarianism that championed the concepts of happiness and wellbeing at the
core of society. His penal reform included a new type of prison – the panopticon – more
efficient both from the economic and the punishment perspectives. It enabled to see but
not to be seen, due to a circular building that dominated a larger compound allowing a
small number of guards to oversee a large number of prisoners. The cells were located in
the circle, and the guard in a higher position in its centre. The fact that it was not possible
to see the guard created an additional mechanism of self-censorship among prisoners,
leaving in fact the burden of watching to those who were watched. In this sense the pan-
opticon was a response to a new disciplinary paradigm.
Hybrid Features at Lisbon ’ s New Lazaretto ( 1860–1908 ) 157
19 The account book of the new lazaretto building begins on 5 July 1861. From the opening
until March 1864 there are listed the following categories: quarantine building, hostel,
dock and landing, foundations and earthworks, accessories, luggage barracks and ware-
houses. A unique entrance of “Quarantine Building” is recorded in the 5th book, starting
in September 1865, ending March 1866. ANTT, ref. PT/TT/JSP/D/01.
20 ANTT, ref. PT/TT/MOPCS/PR/190.
21 Ine Wouters, Stephanie Van de Voorde, Inge Bertels, Bernard Espion, Krista de Jonge, and
Denis Zastavni. Wounters, Voorde, Bertels, Building knowledge, constructing histories: pro-
ceedings of the Sixth International Congress on Construction History (London: CRC Press,
Taylor & Francis, 2018). Telles owned a company called Trituração de Pedras Liberato
Telles & Companhia, which was the first to use steam machines on the south bank of the
river and was working in 1885. Joana Pereira, A produção social da solidariedade operária:
o caso de estudo da Península de Setúbal (1890–1930). Lisbon: PhD Thesis, 2013, 103.
22 António Frazão, “Lazareto de Lisboa”. Branco e Negro, 60, 23.05.1897, 115, also reproduced
in “O Lazareto,” Brasil-Portugal, 162: 288.
158 Avelãs Nunes
earthworks, docks and landfills, accessories, hostel and barracks, paths, ware-
houses and luggage, laundry, hospital, cemetery and repairs.”23 In total, the con-
struction of these facilities for the new lazaretto amounted to approximately
568,300,000 réis (or 568 contos de réis), thus exceeding the initial budget by
less than 15 percent.24 Given Portugal’s financial crisis in the final decades of
the nineteenth century, which culminated in the nation-state declaring bank-
ruptcy in 1892, the investment in the new lazaretto clearly demonstrates the
importance of territorial control in the eyes of the Portuguese government.
Thus, in response to the strain that was placed on the Portuguese economy by
this economic crisis, the government sought out a truly cooperative model of
the division of labour between politicians, scientists, and engineers that can
be seen in their will to construct and furnish the buildings following modern
architectural trends, and make use of up-to-date industrial materials and sci-
entific instruments.
Despite the completed lazaretto’s two-fold function of managing the flow
of persons, commodities, and preventing the possibility of the spread of infec-
tious disease, the narrow entrance of the lazaretto did not, itself, reflect the
massive scale required for overseeing the circulation of persons and things.
While iron gates served as a means of materializing the division of labour
proper to this new lazaretto – spaces for loading activities (central), for incom-
ing visitors (westwards), and for quarantined people (eastwards)25 – surveil-
lance teams oversaw daily operations from the perimeter. And on days with
particularly large numbers of commodities and persons, surveillance teams
were assisted by military personnel stationed in a one-story building on the
lazaretto’s western border, previously used as an office building for archives
and secretariat.
23 Rui Manuel Mesquita Mendes, “Obras públicas nos concelhos de Almada e Seixal (1640–
1910). Um síntese histórica, artística e documental preliminar,” in Actas do 2.º Encontro
sobre o Património de Almada e Seixal (Almada: Centro de Arqueologia de Almada, 2014),
92–93.
24 For comparative purposes, in 1881 a worker employed in the metallurgy industry earned
an average salary of 800 réis per day, which amounts to 24,000 réis per month and 288,000
réis per year (Maria Filomena Mónica, “Indústria e democracia: os operários metalúrgicos
de Lisboa (1880–1934),” Análise Social, Vol. XVIII (72-72-74), 1982 (3, 4, 5): 1231–1277. This
means that the cost of the lazaretto amounted to 2000 the annual salary of a metallurgi-
cal worker. In 1849, the pavement of the Rossio Plaza (see chapter 1 in this volume) cost
300,000 réis, which is more than 1500 times less.
25 In the 1880s, the same three entrances served for quarantines, another for visitors and
another for employees of the lazaretto. Loureiro, Os portos marítimos de Portugal e ilhas
adjacentes, Vol. III–II, (Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional, 1907), 420.
Hybrid Features at Lisbon ’ s New Lazaretto ( 1860–1908 ) 159
The pathway leading from the dockyard to the lazaretto was lined by several
buildings wherein cargo, goods, and clothes were verified and, if necessary,
treated. Alongside these spaces for processing cargo was the customs’ delega-
tion, the dispatch house, and three verification buildings; all of which were
organized in the style of assembly-lines26 common to the spatial organization
of factories during the period of industrialization: first, were the ventilation
treatment facilities where clothes and luggage were exposed to the continu-
ous circulation of fresh air, followed by acid treatment facilities, heat treating
facilities that housed kilns that sanitized imported products, and lastly, four
buildings designated for the ventilation of the luggage of the ships’ passengers.
Between the ventilation and acid treatment stations, and the heat and luggage
treatment sites, stood a surveillance building, from where the health guards
could follow every movement on the pier or the embankment, and the resi-
dence of customs employees.
Technological infrastructures were behind the disinfection of cargo in
the customs’ buildings and included modern kiln equipment made by the
Geneste, Herscher and Company House, a Parisian based company owned
by the engineers Charles Geneste and Eugène Herscher. Given the Company
House’s presence at several international exhibitions from 1883 to 1887, its kilns
gained international recognition27 from both hygienists and engineers. This
agreement between the technical and scientific communities was reflected in
the pairing of kilns that used boiled water to elevate the temperature of goods
to 130ºC28 with fans for “mechanical” sterilization and supplemental chemical
treatment. To cope with possible machinery fire hazards, there was a small fire
station, near the cemetery.29 The increasing number of passengers and goods
justified the acquisition of this high-tech infrastructure at the end of the 1890s.
Still critics remained unconvinced given that they considered this “new” laza-
retto remained ill-equipped for preventing and regulating the possibility of
contamination between persons and things.
Significant improvements in the dispatch area accounted for its ability to
handle the luggage of more than three hundred passengers in a short time
span of around six hours. Luggage was unloaded from the vessels, opened, dis-
infected, and verified, and then returned to their owners who continued their
journey to Lisbon in the very same day, avoiding in this way extra expenses and
negative commercial implications.30
Beyond its warehouses a long staircase connected the officers’ headquarters –
with capacity for more than 100 officers – to the hospital, which featured a
special infirmary dedicated for the treatment of suspicious illnesses. For
additional security, both the officer headquarters and the hospital were sur-
rounded by walls and required credentials for their access.31 That said, the
architects and designers of the new lazaretto did not forego the opportunity
for its beautification.
The access to the main building of the lazaretto was done through a long
and narrow winding pathway, illuminated at night.32 The lazaretto’s main
building had three floors, designed according to a “fan-like” layout, and fea-
tured seven wings that were connected through a central area housing the liv-
ing room, chapel, and a modernised kitchen. Included in each wing – aside
from bedrooms, dormitories, and dining room33 – was a series of ample, clean,
airy, and well-equipped wards that served as isolated and autonomous, hostel-
like, quarantine units, with the typical guest staying for an average of seven to
twelve days.34
The main building also featured, as António Frazão put it “the most innova-
tive” kitchen in the Iberian Peninsula,35 given its industrial stove and capacity
for serving upwards of 1000 people. And to distribute food throughout each of
the buildings seven wings, the kitchen implemented the use of a rotating sys-
tem (called “rodas).”36 Moreover, a semi-circular “parlatório,” or visiting room,
was housed on the floor above the kitchen and featured twenty-one “large
windows, which faced a similar number of windows from where quarantined
people chatted with their visitors.”37 A health guard supervised this room.38 At
the centre there was a chapel where Catholic mass was celebrated on Sundays
and holy days of obligation.39
Gardened courtyards, with views to the river and Lisbon could be seen by
those in quarantine. Constructed behind the main building was a eucalyptus
tree-lined path, whose panoramic views stood in stark contrast with its rela-
tively mundane setting save the chapel, and which connected the lazaretto’s
main building to its cemetery. In the chapel one could appreciate a patterned
and coloured pathway leading to its entrance, decorated with several large,
semi-elliptical, windows replete with a ventilation system unique to the space.
By the beginning of the 1890s, and under the direction of the inspector
and physician António Homem de Vasconcelos, foreign experts considered
the new lazaretto to be “a model establishment and one of the best in Europe
and America;”40 a group that included the prestigious French physician
Robert Proust, who served as the chief physician of Hôtel-Dieu in Paris, and
was a Professor of Medicine at the Faculty of Medicine in Paris, the General
Inspector of the International Health Service, and the author of a number of
seminal public health treatises.
models, which were still being implemented during the nineteenth century in
various countries, as in the case of the San Michele lazaretto in Italy.44
Aside from Bentham’s panopticon, it is equally likely that the designs of
the new lazaretto drew much of its inspiration from the French Mazas Prison
from the mid-nineteenth century, which the Portuguese royal attorney general
Manuel Thomaz de Sousa Azevedo visited in 1857. Two years after Azevedo’s
visit, he would mention his experience of Mazas Prison in an official report
delivered to the Ministry of Justice (1859).45 Not only does the lazaretto
share the same construction dates as its French counterpart, but the latter’s
design of a star-shaped layout, with patios and gardens, was also used in the
designing of Lisbon’s central prison. It would be thirty years after the lazaret-
to’s construction that the Portuguese physician, Agostinho Lucio e Silva, would
realise the added health benefits of the prison’s architecture for the contain-
ment of cholera and yellow fever among its prisoners.46
In 1888, Silva published his study on the tuberculosis outbreak at the
Penitenciária Central de Lisboa (Central Prison Establishment); the findings of
which seem to support the view of the new lazaretto as a medical rather than
political institution, an institution whose function is securing public health
rather than the maintenance and governance of a social order.47 While the
architectural configuration of the lazaretto is similar to a panopticon, there
was no form of centralized surveillance. Its centripetal star-like shape was
mainly chosen for medical reasons, due to the natural ventilation provided by
the spaces between wings, uniquely suited to house people who could propa-
gate contagious diseases. This was the main reason behind the pavilion system
model for lazarettos,48 as was the pathway encircling the main building, which
conducted people to quarantine, controlled by several guards, in a form of sur-
veillance typical of the pavilion system model, as it was aptly argued by the
Figures 5.4–b Comparison between the New Lazaretto and the French Mazas
Prison. Top: interior and exterior plan of the new Lisbon
lazaretto; Bottom: Mazas Prison interior and exterior plan
SIPA, DES.00230391 + © WikiCommons
Hybrid Features at Lisbon ’ s New Lazaretto ( 1860–1908 ) 165
In January 1873, Elias dos Santos won the concession of the supply and ser-
vice of the Lisbon port,54 with the express contractual obligation “to receive
560 quarantines in the lazaretto.”55 While it was indeed a risky venture given
the substantial investment required on his part, Elias dos Santos had the
backing of a powerful investor, Salon (or Shalom) Ben-Saúd, a wealthy Jewish
merchant.
According to the Portuguese government’s concession contract, the type of
management involved was classified as the management of an enterprise – the
Hospedaria do Lazareto de Lisboa (Hostel Company of Lisbon’s Lazaretto) –
and, therefore, all its equipment could only be acquired with the approval of
the Guard of the Estação de Saúde de Belém (Health Station at Belém). Thus,
the lazaretto’s entrepreneur was accountable to the regulation agent at the
Health Station at Belém; that is, accountable to a public institution that went
so far as to maintain records of the taxes placed on the equipment and goods
used by the hostel.56 Now, given the class structure organizing the passenger
ships arriving at the lazaretto, the price of entry upon arrival corresponded to
their particular class to which they belonged while in transit, as well as deter-
mining the quality of their accommodation. Additional charges could also
be issued in the event of a passenger’s hospitalisation, and its services, such
as, baths and medication.57 In the case of indigents, travellers who could not
afford to pay the hostel stay, third class service was provided and funded by the
Portuguese state to the concessionary, at a 30 percent discount rate.
And while bed mattresses and linens, as well as meals’ menus, varied in
price, every passenger was provided, by right, with accommodation, face and
foot basins, a watering can, a clothes’ hanger and bucket, and a buzzer but-
ton. Included as part of its concession contract was a list of food served at
the hostel, with menus and ingredients subjected to the daily approval by the
inspector, while a health guard supervised their preparation; measures, all of
which aimed at guaranteeing the foods preparation in accordance with health
standards as well as its overall quality for consumption.58
A comparison of the hostel’s records, which include guest fees, with its issued
receipts reveals the hostel’s relatively expensive price-point. Second-class
guests were charged approximately 2,800 réis for an eight day stay, that is 350
réis per day, roughly the same price as a single day pay of a factory worker.59
From 1886 until 1905, and despite the less than affordable prices, more than
77,417 quarantined people were listed as having checked into the lazaretto’s
hostel, with a peak attendance of 13,278 guests in 1900 and a record low of 30
guests by 1905.60 That said, and despite the relative success, the hostel, and
eventually the lazaretto itself, was not without problems.
On 14 March 1875, in a letter to the Portuguese King, Elias dos Santos threat-
ened to terminate his contract with the hostel. The reason being: the govern-
ment’s failure in declaring a mandatory quarantine for all passengers arriving
via the English vessel, Douro, whose port of origin was known to have been
dealing with an outbreak of yellow fever. Santos was concerned that such neg-
ligence posed a threat to the city’s safety, endanger his own business, and even-
tually put at risk the lazaretto. Elias dos Santos went further and threatened to
terminate the contract. But it is unlikely that he proceeded with this resolu-
tion, as there is no information related to another private concessionary in the
following years.
While extant records are unable to clarify the exact terms of the private-
public enterprise, both in terms of the legal duration of the business venture,
the number of private actors and the kind of contract that each investor indi-
vidually held with the state, what is certain is the above-average occupancy
rate at the hostel and equally above-average price of accommodation. Such
public-private concessions proved beneficial for private investors rather than
the Portuguese state.61
59 According to the regulations of the lazaretto, the daily payment for first, second and
third class people was respectively 600, 400 and 150 réis. Regulamento geral de sanidade
marítima, 1874, 1889. However the invoices of the lazaretto refer to 350 réis, not to 400 réis,
for second class people. ANTT, ref. PT/TT/JSP/D/01.
60 There are no data between 1892 and 1898. The highest numbers correspond to years 1889,
1890 and 1900 (c.12.000), and from 1902 onwards, there is a decrease from 309 to 30.
61 Two records of the terms of the hostel’s public concession exist for 1885 and 1891, and
there is also indication that a private concession was in operation in 1906, in ANTT, ref.
PT/TT/MR/CRC/104. In 1894, applications for a concession of a railway line between the
lazaretto and Cacilhas (where a boat connection to Lisbon existed), using a Decauville
system, announced as a very profitable investment in “Linhas Portuguezas,” Gazeta dos
Caminhos de Ferro, 16.08.1894, give indirect evidence of the intensive use of the lazaretto
and its economic advantages. However, it is not clear if legal concessions were continu-
ously in operation from the 1890s until the 1910s. While government accountability indi-
cates that there was “taxation” of the lazaretto, there are no revenues registered in some
168 Avelãs Nunes
Figures 5.5a–b 1st, 2nd and 3rd classes of the lazaretto bedrooms – “three different
classes, one real one;” (below) The businessman, before and after being in
charge of the lazaretto
In Bordallo Pinheiro, No lazaretto de Lisboa: 33, 49
Hybrid Features at Lisbon ’ s New Lazaretto ( 1860–1908 ) 169
These conclusions, which are evidenced by the historical record of the terms
and conditions of such contracts and those pertaining to state budgets and
their accountability reports, also find their corroboration in the memoirs of
one lazaretto employee,62 and the well-known artist, illustrator, journalist,
socio-political and satirical cartoonist sympathetic to Republicanism, Raphael
Bordalo Pinheiro (see chapters 1 and 12 in this volume).63 Bordalo Pinheiro’s
years. In 1900, the Hospedaria do Lazareto was explicitly indicated in the state’s budget
and considered as entailing “substancial expenses”. DSC, 70. In 1897, in an entry “income
from the lazaretto” a total of 4.000 contos de réis is listed in the state’s accountability. DSC,
17. In the following year the amount listed is 5.900 contos de réis in the next year DSC, 2.
But these amounts are low when compared with the profit of 8.000 contos de réis from
the Health Station at Belém.
62 Frazão, “Lazareto de Lisboa.”
63 Rafael Bordallo Pinheiro, No Lazaretto de Lisboa (Lisboa: Empreza Litteraria.
Luso-Brasileira, 1881). In 1875, he not only left for Brazil, but he also created the famous
cartoon character known as Zé Povinho who portrays the Portuguese people, a common
and simple man, often deceived by politicians, but still sharp in his criticism against injus-
tice and tyranny.
170 Avelãs Nunes
Figures 5.6a–b Inside the Lazaretto quarantine rooms, showing gridded windows
In Bordallo Pinheiro, No lazaretto de Lisboa: 46; Passengers
of the Lanfranc ship, c.1910, Arquivo Municipal de Lisboa, Ref. PT/
AMLSB/NEG/000755
172 Avelãs Nunes
building for the purposes of private profit in such a way that benefitted neither
those under quarantine nor its public partner, i.e. the state.
But Bordalo Pinheiro recognised, in a post scriptum to the memoir, that since
his stay, the lazaretto “washed its face, put on a clean shirt, and did not attack
any more passengers upon their arrival,” acknowledging his “new inspector,
pleasant, dynamic and intelligent.”70 He was referring to the distinguished
physician Homem de Vasconcellos, confirming that in the period he directed
the lazaretto no private enterprise ran the hostel, with possible profits for the
Portuguese state.
The hybrid design of the lazaretto’s main building reflected the competing
medical views regarding the origin, nature, and treatment of diseases, such
as cholera and yellow fever. The short life of this late bloomer in the history of
lazarettos cannot be disentangled from its rapidly evolving medical context,
which was mirrored nationally by successive legislative measures impacting
on the lazaretto itself, which came to play an increasingly minor role until its
functional, if not architectural, final demise. They also impacted on the urban
scale of the capital city; they reshaped the face of the port of Lisbon and mate-
rialized a new prevention system, centralized inside the port city, but expand-
ing into various units along with the city (see chapter 7 in this volume).
Analysing maritime sanitary regime regulations (also called general mari-
time health regulations) alongside reports from various commissions issued
from 1837 to 1891, enable one to understand the way in which the Portuguese
state sought to manage and regulate those placed under quarantine.71 Included
in these reports are detailed descriptions of the connection between the laza-
retto and the Health Station at Belém and the role of the lazaretto’s staff, with
particular attention given to health inspection protocols for incoming vessels
after passing through police and customs checkpoints. Health visits noted the
vessels’ ports of origin, the duration of travel, disease involved, issued detailed
travellers who are still imprisoned in the lazaretto.”79 Spanish regulations were
criticized by their ineffectiveness and disrespect for international rules.80
Other reports indicated that various ports, such as the port of Bordeaux, in
France, used the same stratagem to enable passengers to circumvent the
Lisbon’s lazaretto, especially if their port of origin was in America.81
Another example was given by an Italian vessel coming from the port of
New Orleans which, after a 55-days travel on the Atlantic Ocean, entered the
Tagus. The regulations did not impose a stop at the lazaretto. However, seven
days later, one of its sailors was taken to the Hospital of St. José, in Lisbon, and
died. Doctors suspected that he contracted yellow fever, but the diagnosis was
not confirmed by the autopsy. Only then, security measures were activated by
the hospital, and the vessel, with crew and passengers, was sent to the lazaretto
and placed in total isolation.82
Certainly, the most devastating example behind the reform of the national
system of health was the appearance of plague in Porto in the summer of 1899.
Coming from India by sea and propagated by a Spanish port worker, it found a
favourable ground in the unhygienic city, leading to its isolation by a sanitary
cord. Ravaging famine, riots, and mounting criticisms in newspapers against
the discretionary decision of the central health authorities followed. Ricardo
Jorge, the leading physician on the fight against the plague, was professor at
the Medico-Chirurgical School (Escola Médico-Cirúrgica) and director of the
Hygiene Municipal Service (Serviço Municipal de Higiene). Working in his
bacteriological laboratory he identified the plague bacillus, discovered four
years earlier by Alexander Yersin, as the cause of the epidemics. His results
were confirmed by the physician and bacteriologist Câmara Pestana, the direc-
tor of Bacteriological Institute of Lisbon (Instituto de Bacteriologia de Lisboa).
Three hundred twenty cases were identified, and there were 132 victims, among
which stood Câmara Pestana.83
Thus followed a series of reforms, beginning with the health services in
1899, followed by the inauguration of a new set of regulations for health ser-
vices in 1901, authored by Ricardo Jorge. Notable among his included regula-
tions was the improvement to Portuguese maritime border security with a
series of new institutions – such that the Instituto Central de Higiene (The
84 Boletim do Instituto Superior de Higiene Doutor Ricardo Jorge (Lisboa: Casa Portuguesa,
1946): 51.
85 Boletim do Instituto, 59.
86 Loureiro, Os portos marítimos, III–II, 129.
87 DSC, 30, 1893-06-26.
88 Francisco Javier Martinez. “Cholera and Spanish-Moroccan regeneration”, in John Chircop
and Francisco Javier Martinez eds. Mediterranean quarantines 1750–1914 (Manchester:
Manchester Univ. Press, 2018): 85.
176 Avelãs Nunes
dead. Dramatic declarations were voiced in one of the most widely circulated
newspapers, Diário de Notícias,89 as well as the magazine Brasil-Portugal,90 and
the illustrated magazine, Illustração Portuguesa.91 For the latter of the three,
it was the creation of the new disinfection station at Alcântara (Occidental
Lisbon) in 1906,92 that was to blame for the death of the lazaretto. In 1908,
the director of the Lisbon Disinfection Station, Guilherme Ennes, officially
reclassified the lazaretto as a modern disinfection facility, where the preven-
tive observation and hospitalization of patients took place; supervised by a
director who viewed the lazaretto as having “died of natural causes.”93
4 Concluding Remarks
89 The declaration was corroborated by the recent case of an army soldier who was diag-
nosed with plague in Lisbon in 1899, was quarantined with his colleagues, but duly treated
with the serum from the Pasteur Institute. He was visited by Ricardo Jorge himself. Diário
de Notícias, 17/11/1899: 1.
90 The function of the lazaretto was reduced to that of “a holy collection of prophylactic
friars … cleaning passengers’ souls.” It was suggested that “souls should be disinfected
instead with Geneste & Herscher equipment.” “O Lazareto de Lisboa”, Brasil-Portugal, 24:
9. Five years later, the same magazine dubbed the lazaretto as the “gloomy face of the
dead.” “O Lazareto”, Brasil-Portugal, 162: 288.
91 “Um desembarque de um paquete da América,” Illustração Portuguesa, 9, 26.04.1906:
278–282.
92 The disinfection station at Alcântara (Occidental Lisbon) was planned in 1904 and inau-
gurated in 1906. “It was time to end the difficulties raised at every step by public health
precautions at the lazaretto and aimed at the yellow fever bogeyman. (…) With the disin-
fection station, ended the quarantines and the hotel’s bills, crossings in transport cages,
and luggage tips.” “Posto de desinfecção,” Brasil-Portugal, 162: 285.
93 Guilherme José Ennes. “Profilaxia em Portugal das doenças infecto-contagiosas” in Notas
sobre Portugal – Exposição Nacional do Rio de Janeiro de 1908 (Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional,
1908), 666, 668.
Hybrid Features at Lisbon ’ s New Lazaretto ( 1860–1908 ) 177
Acknowledgements
Research for this chapter began in the context of the project VISLIS.
Visions of Lisbon (PTDC/IVC-HFC/3122/2014) and continued with a post-
doctoral grant at CIUHCT (UID/HIS/00286/2019 and UIDB/00286/2020 and
UIDP/00286/2020), both supported by the Portuguese Foundation for Science
and Technology (FCT, IP). As the first research topic following my about sana-
toria in Portugal, exploring specifically the intersection of history of architec-
ture and history of science, I especially thank my post-doctoral supervisor, Ana
Simões, whose research guidance, many discussions and active participation
were fundamental to the final outlook of this chapter.
Chapter 6
Ignacio Suay-Matallana
1 Introduction
It is common among urban historians to point out the fact that while “port
cities are cosmopolitan … the scholarship about them is often parochial.”1 This
chapter aims to address and partially overcome this problem by discussing one
of Lisbon’s most important sites from differing perspectives: the customs labo-
ratory. This scientific site – working at the border of chemistry and economy –
was the first and only of its kind in Portugal since its creation in 1887. This
work explores the reasons behind its creation in the late-nineteenth century,
its main activities and the kind of experts working in the laboratory, as well as
its collection of scientific instruments. Finally, the chapter analyses the con-
nections between this site of chemistry and the city of Lisbon, specifically the
port area.
In the mid-nineteenth century, trade was seen as a crucial element for the
modernisation and renovation of both Portugal and Lisbon. The Ministério
das Obras Públicas, Comércio e Indústria (Ministry of Public Works), created
in 1852, highlighted how international commerce was flourishing and trans-
forming the city of Lisbon, with new “public and private buildings, beauti-
ful streets, and promenades. The streets are clean, and with gas lighting. The
police service is effective, and security is perfectly assured.”2 Despite this
optimistic assessment, that period was internationally known as the “age of
the adulteration” due to the numerous cases of fraud, intoxication, and poi-
soning.3 On the one hand, new transport systems increased the circulation of
new kinds of merchandise from foreign regions, in some cases, even replac-
ing traditional products known by locals. On the other hand, chemistry was
1 Josef Konvitz. “Port cities and urban history,” Journal of Urban History, 19, nº. 3: 115–20.
2 Estado Industrial de Lisboa. Direção Geral de Agricultura. Ministério das Obras Públicas, mç.
950, nº 63. Ref: PT/TT/MOPCI-DGA/A-A-6-35/3. Arquivo Nacional Torre do Tombo, Lisbon,
Portugal.
3 Alessandro Stanziani, “Negotiating Innovation in a Market Economy: Foodstuffs and
Beverages Adulteration in Nineteenth-Century France,” Enterprise and Society, 8: 375–412.
4 Ashworth, William J. Customs and Excise: Trade, Production, and Consumption in England
1640–1845 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 11.
5 David Edgerton, “Time, Money, and History,” Isis, 103, nº. 2: 316–27. For other fresh historio-
graphical works see the volume “Science and capitalism” published by Osiris in 2018.
6 Jorge Fernandes Alves, Metamorfoses de um lugar. De Alfândega Nova a Museu dos Transportes
e Comunicações (Porto: Museu dos Transportes e Comunicações, 2006).
7 António Napoleão Vieira Sousa, O serviço aduaneiro metropolitano (Luanda: Imprensa
Nacional, 1956), 137–39.
The Customs Laboratory of Lisbon from the 1880s to the 1930s 181
to academic institutions. Such was the case with a sample of sugar sent in
1874 from the customs house of Porto to the Academia Politécnica do Porto
(Polytechnic School of Porto).8 In 1876, the Port of Lisbon received a cargo of
margarine – a synthetic fat recently discovered – and customs officials decided
to request advice from the Instituto Industrial de Lisboa (Industrial Institute of
Lisbon). The government was very much interested in the chemical analysis
of this new product, not just for its health effects but also for its “future impact
on commerce and revenue,” especially given that oils and fats provided a signif-
icant portion of customs taxes. The customs authorities of Lisbon stated that
they were “against prohibitionism” but acknowledged that some economic
“valuable interests should be also respected.”9 Eventually, the importation of
margarine was approved based on a significantly higher import-tax to protect
local farmers and industries.
In the following years, the Portuguese government felt a greater need to
employ specialised experts for customs. This need was made more urgent
due to the so-called “question of alcohols,” which posed a serious economic
challenge for wine-producing countries such as Portugal, Spain, and Italy. In
addition, the late 1870s saw the spread of the phylloxera pest (a tiny insect
harming grapes), which caused a general decline in the price of wine, affecting
its international trade. Problems only continued into the 1880s, when new dis-
tillation technologies started to be employed in Central Europe for the indus-
trial production of alcohol, which not only included wine, but alcohols derived
from potatoes, grains, and other vegetables. In some cases, wine-producing
countries later imported this kind of alcohols and mixed them with their local
wines, further lowering the price of wine and reducing its quality.
In 1885, and in response to this situation, the Portuguese government cre-
ated a new set of instructions and procedures for the testing of wine within
its customs checkpoints. As recognised by the Ministério dos Negócios da
Fazenda (Ministry of Finances): “frauds and adulterations were affecting the
credit of Portuguese wine” that was considered “the most important and valu-
able element of … Portuguese agriculture.”10 When surveyors, or customs offi-
cials, were unable to determine the quality of wine, samples were sent from
their customs house to municipal or government laboratories for further purity
analyses. These measures, however, were not any more effective due to the
Figure 6.1 Old grain warehouse at Terreiro do Trigo, venue of the customs laboratory
of Lisbon
Photograph by Ignacio Suay-Matallana
Customs laboratories were not only specialised in exported local products, but
also conducted chemical analyses of many different substances arriving at cus-
toms. As stated in 1898 by a Portuguese customs official, “trade speculation,
doubt and fraud has replaced cautiousness” and very often customs declara-
tions stated:
19 The term merceology very unusual in English is referred to a discipline in which chemical
analyses and chemical tests are employed to determine the composition of commodities
for levying customs taxes.
20 Registo Geral de Mercês de D. Luís I, liv. 48, f. 281. Ref: PT/TT/RGM/J/282724. Arquivo
Nacional da Torre do Tombo, Lisbon, Portugal.
21 Emilio Dias, “Índigo ou anil, a sua extracção em terrenos d’África, Antônio Augusto de
Aguiar, Alexandre Bayer e Carlos von Bonhorst, no ensino da química prática,” Revista de
Chimica Pura e Applicada, 19: 45–79.
186 Suay-Matallana
von Bonhorst as customs inspector from 1919 to 1942.22 Like his predecessors,
Bastos was also a professor at the Marquês de Pombal Industrial School, the
director of the laboratory of the Instituto Superior do Comércio (Commercial
Institute of Lisbon), and a member of many other scientific boards dur-
ing the first years of Salazar’s regime.23 Apart from Mattoso, Bonhorst, and
Bastos, other chemists working at the laboratory during the first third of the
twentieth century have also been identified (table 1).24
Table 6.1 List of the technical staff of the customs laboratory of Lisbon (1900s–1930s)
The activities of the customs laboratory were not only mediated by chemists,
and other technical staff, but also by a diversity of employees from the Ministry
of Finances, including customs officials, surveyors, and port inspectors. These
employees worked at the Portuguese borders and ports and were the first to
receive and inspect imported and exported merchandise. They often applied
their tacit knowledge (e.g. visual inspections) to recognize products, but they
also relied on some simple scientific instruments like a Delaunay’s alcohol-
meter, or a Salleron’s ebulliometer for rapidly testing the quantity of alcohol
contained in a given wine sample. Experts at the customs laboratory prepared
guidelines and instructions to standardise sample collections, trained both col-
lectors and observers working at customs, and ensured the effective use of its
instruments. These publications were very useful to create “networks of trust”
between the laboratory and other customs units, and ultimately helped stan-
dardise operations, increase efficiency, save time, and avoid possible disputes
or controversies.25 They contributed to reducing the problems related to the
introduction of scientific instruments in the collection of taxes, and facilitated
discussion regarding standards of “objectivity” among traders, consumers, and
inspectors at different customs offices.26
The political and administrative reforms of 1911 further increased the
responsibilities of the customs laboratory regarding the standardisation of
their methods and operations. The laboratory took on the new task of supply-
ing, calibrating, and measuring scientific instruments and apparatuses used by
other customs officials across the country. As stated by law, the laboratory was
responsible for “verifying the accuracy” of different objects such as alcohol-
meters, thermometers, densitometers, and ebulliometers.27 Another strategy
followed to facilitate and standardize the work done in the customs facilities
across the whole of Portugal gave way to the publication of official instructions
by Mattoso Santos. For instance, in 1888 the Ministry of Finance allowed for
the use of capillary vinometers for the measurement of the alcohol content of
imported and exported wine. This was the same year that Mattoso Santos pub-
lished his report entitled Instruções para o emprego fiscal do vinómetro capilar
de tubo inclinado de Delaunay (Instructions for the use of the Delaunay’s alco-
holmeter at customs), which explained the vinometers proper use.28 Later, in
1892, Mattoso Santos published a report entitled Relatorio do Inspecção-geral
the Revista Aduaneira (Customs Journal, Luanda, 1923). This dearth of articles
and news reports published by chemists at Lisbon’s customs laboratory was
extremely important, not only for facilitating laboratorial work, reducing sci-
entific controversies, and creating technical guidelines employed at customs,
but also for the increase in their scientific authority as experts by revealing their
knowledge of chemistry in non-academic contexts and ultimately reinforcing
the prestige of the customs laboratory itself. As shown in the following sec-
tion, the chief consequence of this wealth of literature was the creation of new
links between the customs administration and other institutions of the city.
The activities of the laboratory can be studied not only from official publi-
cations, articles in scientific journals, and texts in customs journals, but also
via considerations of its collection of scientific instruments. Initially founded
as the Laboratório da Inspecção-geral do Serviço Técnico das Alfândegas
(Laboratory of the General Inspection of the Customs Technical Service) in
1892, it changed its name to Laboratório do Tribunal do Contencioso Técnico
da Direcção-Geral das Alfândegas e Contribuições Indirectas (Laboratory
of the Customs Court of the General Directorate of Customs and Indirect
Taxes). With the Republican regime, it became Laboratório da 3ª Repartição
da Direcção-geral das Alfândegas (Laboratory of the Third Office of the
General Directorate of Customs), then the Laboratório da Direcção-Geral
das Alfândegas e dos Impostos Especiais sobre o Consumo (Laboratory of the
General Directorate of Customs and Excise Duties).31 Changes of name not-
withstanding, the laboratory enjoyed great institutional stability, its directors
served long terms, and its location remained the same.
The laboratory’s stability, together with the actions of successive customs
chemists, account for the preservation of a large collection of scientific instru-
ments. The historical collection of scientific instruments of the customs labo-
ratory of Lisbon was recently studied, and a catalogue (with photographs, sizes,
registration numbers, etc.) was prepared.32 The collection includes 217 objects
from the 1880s to the 1950s, and it is unique in its field in Europe.33 The collec-
tion offers an excellent opportunity to study, not just the main official
experiments and tests done at the customs laboratory, but also other kinds
of private analyses conducted at the laboratory as customs chemists were
allowed to do chemical analyses required by local importers, traders, commer-
cial agents, sellers of the Agriculture Stock Market, and other individuals, fol-
lowing the payment of a fee approved by the government.34
The customs collection consists of five large groups of instruments. The
largest group includes a wide variety of hydrometers employed to determine
the density of different liquids – generally wine, alcohol and spirits, as well as
oil, milk or vinegar. The second largest group of instruments consists of dif-
ferent kinds of weighing scales and mass balances (Mohr-Westphal, Roberval,
analytical, etc.). The third group includes very specialised instruments, like
Engler’s and Redwood’s viscometers (for accurate analyses of oil and petrol),
Malligand’s ebullioscopes (for determining alcohol content), a Pensky-Martens’
apparatus (for testing the flash point of flammable liquids like oils) or a Wood’s
lamp (to inspect products like petrol using luminescence). There are also dif-
ferent glass objects, and a last group of diverse objects including a centrifuge,
a water distiller, a locker for expensive reagents and narcotics, and the official
seal stamp of the laboratory. All these products were employed for the analysis
of the most relevant products of the national economy of Portugal. Chemical
products and fabrics were among the most frequently imported products,
while wine and oil were Portugal’s main exports.
Instrument makers, and country of manufacture of these instruments shed
light on the collection’s evolution, which saw many French instruments
employed during the first decades of operation of the laboratory. The second
largest group of instruments were brought to Portugal from Germany during
the laboratory’s renovation from 1911 to the 1920s.35 Currently, the collection
is well preserved and in good condition, located in some rooms of the cus-
toms laboratory, and in a large showcase placed at its entrance. Further stud-
ies, exhibitions, and activities on the customs collection will promote a better
understanding of work done at the laboratory and contribute to the creation
of new bridges between the public sphere and the history of chemistry, the
history of customs, and the material culture of science.36
laboratori chimici,” Agenzia delle Dogane e dei Monopoli, last updated January 20, 2020,
https://www.agenziadoganemonopoli.gov.it/portale/-/la-storia-dei-laboratori-chimici.
34 “Portaria aprovando a tabela de preços de análises no laboratório do museu aduaneiro,”
Diário do Governo, 42, 24 February 1891.
35 Suay-Matallana, Conservar Património, 134.
36 Ana Simões, Maria Paula Diogo and Ana Carneiro. “The Physical Tourist Physical Sciences
in Lisbon,” Physics in Perspective, 12: 335–67.
The Customs Laboratory of Lisbon from the 1880s to the 1930s 191
Figure 6.2 The collection of scientific instruments at the customs laboratory in 2018
Photograph by Ignacio Suay-Matallana
As many historians pointed out, the “spatial turn” shows how geographies and
spaces need to be considered in order to analyse the circulation of science; the
construction of scientific authority; the exchange of scientific ideas, objects
and practices; and the emergence and consolidation of disciplines or the con-
struction of regional and national identities.37 Scientific activity, therefore, is
connected and influenced by its local context, including physical places and
sites.38 As we have seen, the chemists of the customs laboratory were involved
in many activities, addressed different audiences, and were part of numerous
institutions of Lisbon (and other Portuguese cities). These experts participated
in the local public sphere to legitimate their work, reinforce their institutional
prestige, and created links with political and economic power to achieve their
goals. As such the history of science and urban history intersect, as cities and
science are simultaneously co-constructed.39
Going a step further, recent social and cultural studies have proposed the
idea of “urban assemblages” to show how cities are made of a large network
of spaces and practices in which scientific agendas mingle with issues con-
cerning consumers, the economy, transportation, political power, and urban
spaces of leisure.40 In this sense, then, cities are systems in permanent change
affected by, and affecting, a large variety of factors, and thereby pose novel
challenges for historical and geographical studies: the urban changes under-
gone by Lisbon after the educational reforms of the late-nineteenth-century,
and, even more after the Republic illustrate these trends. New academic
institutions were created around two scientific clusters. The first – the Hill
of Sciences – was located close to the Jardim do Príncipe Real (Royal prince
garden) at Bairro Alto and included the Academia das Ciências (Academy
of Sciences), the old Faculdade de Ciências (Faculty of Science), and the
Faculdade de Letras (Faculty of Humanities). Another cluster – the Hill
of Medicine, specialised in health – was settled in the Campo de Santana’s
area, which included the Faculdade de Medicina (Faculty of Medicine), the
Faculdade de Farmácia (Faculty of Pharmacy), the Instituto de Medicina Legal
(Legal Medicine Institute), the Instituto Bacteriológico de Câmara Pestana
(Câmara Pestana Bacteriology Institute), and some new hospitals, as well as
the Faculdade de Direito (Faculty of Law), and the Escola de Guerra (War
College) (see chapter 13 in this volume).41
While Lisbon status as the “scientific capital of the country” was built on
the new faculties and the University of Lisbon and the rise of new profes-
sional groups,42 other projects such as the port asserted Lisbon as “the biggest
commercial entrepôt of Europe”, and expanded the city along the Tagus’s mar-
gins.43 The study of the customs laboratory considered in this chapter has made
visible a new techno-scientific cluster in the city of Lisbon, which was situated in
the port and linked to the inspection and regulation of many products, as well as
to trade, commerce, imports and exports (figure 6.3). Located in the lower side
of the Alfama’s neighbourhood, in the port zone, and close to the customs
house, the customs laboratory was also connected along the Tagus River
axis, which included the industrial area of Alcântara, the Escola de Medicina
Tropical (Tropical Medicine School), the Hospital Colonial (Colonial Hospital),
and the Industrial Institute.
In contrast to the other two areas associated with medical and theore
tical knowledge, or the training of new university professionals, the port area
was dedicated to the control and circulation of merchandise. This popular
district housed many companies, factories, and warehouses that prepared,
stored, and distributed the variety of merchandise circulating through Lisbon’s
port and rail station. The port area was also located nearby Lisbon’s downtown,
and the Praça do Comércio (Commerce Square) where a number of govern-
ment offices, e.g. the Ministry of Finances, were, and not far from Portugal’s
first rail station, Santa Apolónia, constructed in 1865.
In contrast to other capitals – like Washington, Paris, Berlin, or Madrid –
Lisbon possessed a double character: it was the capital of Portugal and an
important port city. As some historians have pointed out, this coincidence
of capital and port city often generated additional expansion and growth –
Lisbon was the most populated city of Portugal and became a sort of cultural
and trade hub of the country.44 Being at the heart of commercial and financial
Lisbon and summoning the scientific and institutional authority of its direc-
tors, the customs laboratory was a unique site in Portugal. Among Lisbon’s
industrial hubs the Santa Apolónia/Xabregas neighbourhood was the closest
to the customs laboratory, thus making it a useful space for the circulation of
imported and exported industrial products.45
Since the 1920s, other European countries – France, Italy, the United
Kingdom or Spain – maintained a network of regional customs laboratories.
In Portugal, however, a similar structure was never created, and other strate-
gies were put in its place. Porto, Portugal’s second largest city, combined the
Office), both linked to the Ministry of Finances: the first was a specialised cus-
toms house for the tobacco monopoly since the eighteenth-century, while the
assay office was created in 1882 by the national mint, and served, since 1916, as
the mint’s laboratory for testing gold, silver and other metals.53 Another gov-
ernment office related to trade and industry was the Repartição da Propriedade
Industrial (Industrial Property Office) beginning around the 1880s, and close to
the customs laboratory. Finally, an institution included in the port area focused
on food inspections was the Laboratório Municipal de Higiene (Municipal
Laboratory), which opened in 1882, eventually being transferred to the central
government in 1890, and finally changing its name to the Instituto Central de
Higiene (Central Hygiene Institute) in 1899.54
The customs laboratory of Lisbon offers a revealing example of governmen-
tal buildings and institutions created for the management of metropolitan
commerce. It was located in a building called Terreiro do Trigo (Wheat Market)
designed during the Pombal period (1765) by the same architect who designed
the Praça do Comércio only 700 meters away,55 and which came to accom-
modate the customs of Lisbon, as well as many government offices, combining
bureaucratic with scientific activities.56 This was the case of some units of the
Ministry of Finances, and the Ministry of Public Works, which also ran a labo-
ratory of veterinary pathology and bacteriology managed by two veterinary
surgeons and the analytical chemist, Hugo Mastbaum.57
The customs laboratory benefited from a great physical and institutional
stability as it operated without interruption or relocation. Indeed, its location
inside the customs house of Lisbon was extremely useful to fulfil its goal of
providing scientific advice to other customs officials. The arrival of samples to
the laboratory was facilitated by the proximity of the port, while also receiv-
ing samples from the customs deposits, and warehouses of the area. Moreover,
after testing samples the results could easily reach both the government and
traders, which was especially convenient for stakeholders.
On the other hand, the location of the laboratory facilitated its coopera-
tion with other institutions created for food and merchandise inspections. In
1888, the Agriculture Stock Market was created by the government inside the
Terreiro do Trigo building to facilitate the control, storage and sale of products,
like wine, oil, or butter, before being sold in Lisbon or distributed by train.58
Initially, the agriculture market held its own laboratory linked to the indirect
taxation department and was divided in three sections: cereal and beans, wine
and vinegar, and olive and oils. Apart from assuring the quality of the products
to protect public health, the laboratory contributed to the collection of excise
duties. After five years of operation, the Ministry of Finances decided that hav-
ing two laboratories in the same space – one focused on taxes of imports and
exports, another on internal taxes – was expensive and impractical.59 Thus,
in 1892, the agriculture market’s laboratory was closed and some of its instru-
ments transferred to the customs laboratory.60 Some staff members, including
one chemist and five officials, moved to the customs service as well.61
The proximity of the customs laboratory to other scientific units in the area
was important to consolidate its activities, and to become part of different
national scientific networks. The Terreiro do Trigo’s building, and the port area
concentrated different laboratories and chemical experts working in merchan-
dise inspections, food analyses, and public health management. The building
also included depots, as well as a flour warehouse which, in the 1940s, included
an annex with a small agriculture laboratory, which was demolished due to
poor conservation.62
Lisbon’s customs laboratory, the Portuguese agriculture laboratories, as well
as other government laboratories of the area, were faced with the challenge of
following similar chemical methods to enforce similar analytical results. They
needed to create common standards to follow the same analytic procedures,
and secure quality, while avoiding controversies and delays in the circulation
of merchandise. Thus, in 1895, the Portuguese government created a scien-
tific commission to set up standardised criteria for the analyses of different
products. The original idea was to create common experimental criteria for
the network of agriculture laboratories across the country. However, it also
included chemists from other Portuguese institutions, like the customs labora-
tory of Lisbon. The commission consisted of nine chemists, with some work-
ing in agriculture stations while the majority worked in official laboratories
across Lisbon. It was directed by Antonio Ferreira da Silva and was set up one
year before a similar commission on wine and alcohol analyses was created
in France. The prescience of this endeavour was due, in part, to the smaller
size and proximity of the Portuguese chemical community, and the fact of the
concentration of many laboratories and chemists working in analyses of mer-
chandise and food in the same area: the commercial cluster of Lisbon’s port.
Initially, it was known as Commissão de unificação dos processos de analyse
dos vinhos e azeites (Commission for the Unification of Analyses of Wine and
Oil), intended for the standardisation of laboratory procedures of a number
of products employed in different laboratories of Portugal.63 Von Bonhorst,
the customs chemist of Lisbon, studied the methods for detecting wine
adulterations.64 In 1901, the government made the commission permanent,
and renamed it as Commissão Technica dos Methodos Chimico-analyticos
(Technical Commission of Chemical and Analytical Methods). Then, it was
reorganised in five sections: wine, beer and drinks; food and water; soil, fer-
tilizers and pesticides; agriculture products; and oil, vinegar, and milk.65 The
commission would later expand its oversight to include other products such as
cheese, alcohols, soil, cereals, flour, bread, etc.66
Technical education was behind another relevant connection between the
customs laboratory and the city. While Mattoso Santos, von Bonhorst, and
Bastos, as well as other customs chemists, were professors at different com-
merce and industry schools of Lisbon, some of the employees hired by the
customs laboratory were students at these schools.
The program offered both theoretical and practical teaching, and combined
issues concerning both science and commerce, and included the following
subjects: Métodos gerais fisicos e químicos de análise, and Laboratório de
métodos de análise (analytical chemistry and laboratory of analysis) as intro-
ductory courses, then Matérias primas e Tecnología geral, and Laboratório
de análise de matérias primas (commodities and technology, and laboratory
of commodities), and lastly, Análise e classificação pautal de mercadorias e
Falsificações, and Laboratório de análise de mercadorias (customs tariff and
adulterations, and laboratory of merchandise).72 The academic program also
included an internship of four months at different units of the customs house
of Lisbon. As stated in 1916 by one of the students:
I followed the training period at the customs house with many customs
experts who were also graduated at the Institute […] I appreciated how
useful the subjects were, from geometry lessons […] to physics and chem-
istry lectures, as well as the lessons of analysis (including the subjects on
commodities and adulterations), expertly directed by Srs. Drs. Fernando
Mattoso Santos and Guilherme Wilfried Bastos.73
As this student attests, the circulation of people and knowledge between the
customs laboratory and the School of Commerce was quite intense and was
especially important for the training of future customs employees. Another
example of this exchange was materialized in the textbooks prepared by
Mattoso Santos.
In sum, the customs laboratory was a space linked with many other insti-
tutions of Lisbon, connecting customs chemists, customs officials, students,
traders, etc. In this sense, the customs laboratory of Lisbon became a “perme-
able space,” opened to a wide diversity of publics, and a mediator between
the interests of different stakeholders, boards, commissions, and spaces of
the city.74
72 Caetano Beirão Da Veiga and Aureliano Lopes Fernandes de Mira, O Instituto Superior
de Comércio de Lisboa. Breves notas sobre os seus fins e organização (Lisboa: Museu
Comercial, 1922), 27.
73 Manuel Augusto Edmond Santos, Relatorio do aluno do Curso Superior Aduaneiro (Lisboa:
Tipografía Universal, 1916), 30.
74 Graeme Gooday, “Placing or Replacing the laboratory in the History of Science?,” Isis, 99:
783–95.
200 Suay-Matallana
Figure 6.3 The commercial, and customs cluster of the Lisbon’s port. C Pires.
Planta de Lisboa, Lisboa (Annuario Commercial de Portugal) 1909. http://
purl.pt/23585
4 Conclusions
75 Casper Andersen, Jakob Bek-Thomsen and Peter C. Kjærgaard, “The Money Trail: A New
Historiography for Networks, Patronage, and Scientific Careers,” Isis, 103, nº. 2: 310–5.
The Customs Laboratory of Lisbon from the 1880s to the 1930s 201
Acknowledgements
This chapter has been possible thanks to the support of the Portuguese FCT–
postdoctoral contract offered by the CIUHCT UID/HIS/UI0286/2013, and proj-
ect “Visions of Lisbon” (PTDC/IVC-HFC/3122/2014), and the Spanish projects
“Tóxicos invisibles” (PID2019-106743GB-C21), and (AUT.DSP.ISM.01.20). I am
also grateful to Marta Macedo for her valuable comments.
78 Oliver Hochadel, “Introducción: Circulación de conocimiento, espacios urbanos e his-
toria global. Reflexiones historiográficas sobre las conexiones entre Barcelona y Buenos
Aires,” in Saberes transatlánticos: Barcelona y Buenos Aires: conexiones, confluencias, com-
paraciones (1850–1940), ed Álvaro Girón Sierra, and Gustavo Vallejo (Madrid: Ediciones
Doce Calles, 2018), 22.
Chapter 7
1 Introduction
1 Miguel Carlos Correia Paes, Melhoramentos de Lisboa e o seu porto (Lisboa: Typ. Universal,
1884). Emílio Brogueira Dias and Jorge Fernandes Alves, “Ports, policies and interventions in
ports in Portugal – 20th Century,” Cahiers de la Méditerranée, 80 (2010): 41–64, 54.
2 Domingo José Bernardino d’Almeida, Quarentenas perante a Ciência ou a critica cientifica do
Regulamento geral de sanidade marítima (Lisboa: Livraria Ferin, 1891).
3 On the system established in Britain: Krista Maglen, The English System: Quarantine,
Immigration and the Making of a Port Sanitary Zone (Manchester: Manchester University
Press, 2014); Anne Hardy “Cholera, Quarantine and the English Preventive System, 1850–
1895,” Medical History, 37 (1993): 250–269. On medical controversies: Jon Arrizabalaga and
Juan-Carlos García-Reyes, “Contagion controversies on cholera and yellow fever in mid
nineteenth-century Spain: the case of Nicasio Landa,” in John Chircop, and Francisco Javier
Martínez, eds., Mediterranean quarantines, 1750–1914. Space, identity and power (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 2018), 170–195.
4 John Chircop, and Francisco Javier Martínez, eds., Mediterranean quarantines, 1750–1914.
Space, identity and power (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2018); Pere Salas-Vives,
and Joana-María Pujadas-Mora, “Cordons Sanitaires and the Rationalisation Process in
Southern Europe (Nineteenth-Century Majorca),” Medical History, 62(3) (2018): 316.
5 Myron Echenberg, “They have a love of clean underlinen and of fresh air: Porto 1899”, in
Plague Ports. The global urban impact of bubonic plague, 1894–1901 (New York: New-York
University Press, 2010), 107–132.
6 Ricardo Jorge (1858–1939) was a Portuguese physician. He was nominated responsible for the
organization of the fight against the Porto’s plague in 1899. The same year he became General
Health Inspector and took an active part in the building of the 1901 legislation. He was also an
active participant in international conferences.
7 The expression “porous border” is used in many works on migrations: Julian Lim, Porous
Borders. Multiracial Migrations and the Law in the U.S.-Mexico Borderlands (North Carolina:
UNC Press, 2017). By using the word “porous,” I consider both the circulation between the two
sides (permeability) and the possibility of retaining flows in void spaces.
Lisbon after Quarantines 205
8 According to the Inspector Superior de Saúde e de Hygiene responsible for the Maritime
Health Service. ASM, box n°10, Correspondência expedida 1950–1951, 7 August 1951, 23.
The evolution of the Maritime Health was also sanctioned by a new legislation: Decree
n°35.108, 7 November 1945 and an International Health Convention in 1944. Nevertheless,
in the following years, the traffic of passengers and particularly of goods in the port con-
tinued to increase.
9 Sylvia Chiffoleau, Genèse de la santé publique internationale. De la Peste d’Orient à l’OMS,
(Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes/Ifpo, 2012).
10 In the beginning of the twentieth century, Lisbon was the first European port of arriv-
als for ships travelling from South America to Northern Europe and from North America
to Mediterranean ports. B. de Paiva Curado, O Porto de Lisboa. Ideias e factos (Lisbon:
Livraria Rodrigues, 1928).
206 Miralles Buil
16 The relocation of the Maritime Health Service in the new Health Station better known
as the Disinfection Station situated on port was planned by a Decree published on
5 December 1907. Nevertheless, in 1913 correspondence revealed that the Health
210 Miralles Buil
In that sense, the new complex situated on port substituted both the laza-
retto and the Health Station at Belém, becoming the new key point of the sani-
tary border. With this substitution, health was no longer controlled from the
exterior of the city. Quite the opposite, the Disinfection Station was integrated
in the port zone right next to the city centre. With this new location, the pro-
tection against epidemics became an urban issue or, at least, a problem posed
to the port of Lisbon.
This new urban and/or port dimension of the Maritime Health Service was
also related with a new way to preserve both health and commercial interests,
based on technical devices and, beyond it, modern medicine. The most impor-
tant commitment of the Disinfection Station, node of the new sanitary border,
was the disinfection and fumigation of merchandise, luggage, and even per-
sonal objects arriving from a suspicious port. Thus, the Service implemented
new procedures, equipment, and instruments. According to J. Domingues de
Oliveira, in 1911, Lisbon’s Disinfection Station included six sulphuration rooms,
one big “house” for sterilization, and three small rooms which included steril-
izing machines dedicated to clothes and other objects in need of additional
care. For prophylactic treatment, staff used a B Type Clayton machine (for dis-
infection by gas) located at the port, three Geneste Herscher sterilisers, two
Ennes formalin machines, 17 bathrooms with showers, two of which contained
buckets for personal disinfection.17
The Clayton machine would become the pearl of Lisbon’s sanitation arsenal:
it was used for the ship’s disinfection, by docking or using a small boat, which
transported the apparatus, and served to inject sulphur dioxide in the holds
and cabins to eliminate germs, rats, insects, or any other non-human organ-
isms that represented a possible source for infection. Like the Disinfection
Station’s other devices and procedures, the Clayton’s machine was not unique
to Lisbon’s Maritime Health Service: the same equipment could be found in
other ports around the world.18 The other equipment mentioned above were
Station at Belém was still used while considering its transfer imminent. ASM, box n°19,
Correspondência expedida, 1913.
17 J. Domingues de Oliveira, Sanidade Maritima (Porto: Typographia Santos, 1911), 80.
18 The disinfection techniques generated numerous works at the beginning of the twen-
tieth century: see Adrien Proust, and Paul Faivre, Rapport sur les différents procédés de
destruction des rats et de désinfection à bord des navires (Melun, Ministère de l’Intérieur et
des cultes. Service sanitaire maritime 1902) ; Albert Calmette and Edmond Jules Rolants,
Sur la valeur désinfectante de l’acide sulfureux et sur l’emploi de ce gaz dans la désinfection
publique (Massons et Cie Editeurs, extract from la Revue d’hygiène et de police sanitaire,
XXV, 5, 1903) Historians of medicine have worked on this subject: Lukas Engelmann and
Christos Lynteris, Sulphuric Utopias. A History of maritime fumigation (Cambridge: MIT
Press, 2020).
Lisbon after Quarantines 211
not entirely new to Lisbon either, as the lazaretto also had disinfection equip-
ment, as did the Public Disinfection Station built by Lisbon municipality in
the 1890s.19
If disinfection was itself not a new procedure, between 1901 and 1940, the
Service’s staff dedicated more and more time to the preventive extermination
of rats and mosquitoes. Beginning in the 1910s, the Certificate of Disinfection
became common practice for ensuring daily protection against disease. Reports
from the Maritime Health Inspector and certificates delivered by the Service
demonstrated that the ships were disinfected periodically in the 1930s, and
that this activity became the priority for the Service.20
The increased preoccupation with disinfection was related to the intro-
duction of practices of “modern medicine,” based on bacteriological discov-
eries, which were carried out in agreement with the International Sanitary
Conferences. Similarly, from 1900 onwards, the Service began an extended
collaboration with the Câmara Pestana Bacteriological Institute by sending
dead rats or faeces samples of suspicious passengers for examination and
bacteriological analyses, while passengers were forced to wait aboard their
ship or at the lazaretto for their results.21 This procedure was defended by the
prestigious physician Ricardo Jorge in International Sanitary Conferences,
and, successively, by the Portuguese representatives using national practice
as a justification.22 During the following years, this “bacteriological control”
increased, becoming the favoured solution for determining whether or not
a given individual or commodity should be authorized to enter Lisbon and
continue their journey. However, this desire to found a sanitary border on
modern medicine and machinery did not mean that all travellers and goods
were considered equally dangerous. On the contrary, the knowledge acquired
19 On the Lazaretto equipment, see chapter 5 in this book. In the first years, the lazaretto’s
facilities were also used for voluminous goods, as the Disinfection Station had no machin-
ery adapted for them. About the Public Disinfection Station of Lisbon: Ennes, Guilherme
José. A desinfecção publica em Lisboa (Lisboa: Imprensa National, 1896).
20 See the “buletins de desratização e desinfecção” signed by the Health Inspectors in 1934
for instance. ASM, box n°37, Lazareto 1901, 1934.
21 The Lisbon Bacteriological Institute or Royal Bacteriological Institute was renamed
“Instituto Bacteriológico de Câmara Pestana” after the death of its Director Luis da
Câmara Pestana during Porto’s plague (1899). The collaborations with the Maritime
Health Service began in June 1900, according to the Correspondence sent by the General
Health Inspection, (L.2, n°279) ANTT, Ministério do Reino (MR), Sanidade Marítima, Lv.
2539.
22 For instance, the bacteriological control was also defended by António Augusto Gonçalves
Braga, physician from the Maritime Health Service and future Maritime Health Inspector
in the 1911–1912 Conference in Paris. See his report: “A conferência sanitária internacional
de Paris de 1911–12,” Arquivos do Instituto Central de Higiene, II, 1 (1916): 16–65.
212 Miralles Buil
23 ANTT, Ministério do Reino (MR), Sanidade Marítima lv. 2539, L2 n°248 (p. 26).
24 ANTT, Ministério do Reino (MR), Sanidade Marítima lv. 2541, 1904, L6 n°248 (p. 215).
25 ASM, box n°1, Livro de Revisões em terra, 1911.
26 Decree n° 12.477 on 12 October 1926 and n°35.108 on 7 November 1945. For more infor-
mation about the Portuguese Health Administration see Rita Garnel, “Prevenir, cuidar e
tratar. O Ministério e a saúde dos povos,” in Pedro Tavares de Almeida and Paulo Silveira
e Sousa, eds., Do Reino à Administração Interna. História de um Ministério (1736–2012),
(Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional Casa da Moeda, 2015), 389–413.
27 According the Maritime Health Inspector in 1949, this solution was always seen with
suspicion by international and national health authorities. Correspondence sent by the
Maritime Health Inspector, February 14th, 1949, p. 67, box n°14, ASM.
Lisbon after Quarantines 213
Located in a small area, the Disinfection Station shared space with the other
port administrations (Harbour Master’s Office, Customs, Maritime Police,
Transportation Maritime Companies, etc.). This integration into the port
forced the Maritime Health Service to adapt itself to an environment in con-
stant evolution. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the port was being
rebuilt to respond to the maritime trade increase and to Lisbon’s European
and imperial ambitions, requiring the construction of additional storage space
and better transportation facilities.30 In the first decade of the twentieth cen-
tury the implementation of new railway connecting the port’s different wharfs
was a key factor contributing to the accelerated rate of traffic. Indeed, traffic
increased regularly in the beginning of the twentieth century (excluding the
period of the World War I) and, in the 1920s, transformed Lisbon into one of
the most frequented ports in Europe.31 This context of such rapid transforma-
tion led to the Service’s modification of its own activities. In turn, the Maritime
Health Service became an issue to be considered for the port’s improvement.
The Disinfection Station was the gateway for a high number of travellers, and as
such it had to be included in the urban and port planning. What is more, con-
nections between the Disinfection Station, the train stations, and services for
luggage transportation to the city were issues frequently cited in port admin-
istration’s correspondence and reports from 1901 to 1930.32 The Disinfection
Station was also an important experience for travellers, who passed through
it, waited for luggage or personal disinfection, before continuing their journey
in the city.
However, the integration of the Maritime Health Service in the space of
the port was never consensual. Since the very beginning, the construction of
the Disinfection Station at Cais da Rocha was critized. The relocation of the
Maritime Health administration into the Disinfection Station’s complex led to
the expropriation of the customs officer’s building, in order to reconvert it for
offices for the Disinfection Station.33 In 1919, the port’s administration formally
required the Maritime Health Service’s relocation, arguing that its location on
the port was more an impediment for maritime trade than a solution to allevi-
ate traffic concerns.34 The request, therefore, was not about the Disinfection
Station itself, but its associated activities, which were supposed to extend
along a large part of the river. According to the numerous correspondence
between the port services, the “Disinfection Station’s private wharf,” as it was
called by health inspectors, was frequently used by other services throughout
the entirety of the historical period under investigation.
The World War I represents a turning point in the interlocking histories of
the Maritime Health Service, its Disinfection Station, and the port of Lisbon.
As traffic was considerably reduced because of the war, health inspectors
began to turn a blind eye to the “invasion” of their private wharf by all kinds
of vehicles, from boats on the river to cars along the quay. During the 1920s,
problems concerning this lack of enforced regulation persisted and became,
once again, a point of contention between the Maritime Health Service and
the port administration. One of the main problems for health authorities
was that the so-called neutral zone, which was intended as a containment
There was also a steady increase in ships, from 2772 in 1900 to 4141 in 1930, corresponding
to an increase in 3 612 051 to 13 152 724 gross tonnages.
32 Prata, O Desenvolvimento Portuário Português, 4. See Correspondence in AAPL, box n° 84.
33 ASM, box n° 19, Correspondência expedida 1913, p. 188.
34 AAPL, box n° 84, n° 17, Report, 21 March 1919.
Lisbon after Quarantines 215
solution to isolate the Disinfection Station from the rest of the arriving traf-
fic, was occupied for other purposes. This was due to the fact that during the
war, the Transportes Marítimos do Estado (Maritime Company) illegally built
a warehouse for coal within the port’s neutral zone35 to the detriment of public
health. This fact added a new dimension to the conflict, beyond the already
strict negotiation of a space for maritime health activities: the distance needed
for an epidemics’ prevention, according to Lisbon’s health authorities, was not
easily found in the space of the port and was renegotiated daily. The Maritime
Health Inspector sent numerous letters to the port administration complaining
that the Station’s entrance gate remained permanently open due to the war-
time operations within the area. According to the Maritime Health Inspector
and physician, Homem de Vasconcellos, wartime operations transformed the
Disinfection Station into a “public enclosure”36 as the Service was unable to
control movement into this space with dangerous implications for Public
Health. In 1929, the new Maritime Health Inspector, the physician Gonçalves
Braga, continued these daily negotiations to recover what he considered to be
the entire space dedicated to the prevention against epidemics on the port. His
preoccupations collided with those of the Chief Inspector of the port admin-
istration, who considered the space in question as unfeasible for the intended
health purposes, except in situations where an epidemic crisis appeared.37
Facing this seemingly landlocked conflict, the relatively open space of the
river increasingly appeared as the area with the least amount of contestation.
The river, however, was not a free space for the ships’ captains had to drop
anchor in a precise location dictated by harbour officers. Nevertheless, there
was less pressure for dropping anchor far from the principal wharf than mak-
ing use of the ships’ moorings. To some extent, this fact could explain why,
during this moment in Lisbon’s history, the protection against epidemics was
gradually moved to the space of the river and subsequently directed the atten-
tion of authorities to the ships themselves. It was a practical solution for both
parties: the port administration deviated part of its cumbersome activity, and
the Maritime Health Service maintained the distance needed for health pur-
poses, while avoiding tensions.
35 ASM, box n° 37, Lazareto 1918, Hand-written draft for a letter to the port Administration,
15 July 1918.
36 AAPL box n° 84, file n° 21. Correspondence with the Maritime Health Inspector,
23 April 1924.
37 AAPL box n° 84, file n° 21. Correspondence with the Maritime Health Inspector, 1929–1930.
216 Miralles Buil
Attention paid to the boats on the river began with observation on board,
favoured by the 1901 legislation which progressively replaced the isolation in
the lazaretto. Additionally, using the river allowed for the necessary distance
between a suspected ship and the city to avoid contamination. In 1928, and
confronted by a yellow fever epidemic in Rio de Janeiro, the Maritime Health
Inspector, Homem de Vasconcellos, commanded the ships arriving from
Rio to drop their anchor 200 meters away from land and/or other ships, in
accordance with the International Conference of Paris in 1926.38 This use of
the river involved a displacement of the inspectors, who had to modify their
daily routines for the better part of several decades: in 1949, the working day of
the inspectors still included a large portion of time spent on the river, aboard
ships, and other places situated within this extended area of Lisbon’s port.39
In addition, the attention for the health condition aboard ships increased
during the period. The 1911 handbook, Sanidade Maritima, published by the
Maritime Health Inspector of Porto included an extensive discussion regard-
ing the hygienic conditions needed aboard each ship, which included the
38 Letter to the port Administrator General Officer, AAPL Caixa 84, file n° 21. Correspondence
with the Maritime Health Inspector, 12 July 1928.
39 Correspondence between the Maritime Health Inspector and the Health General Office,
box n° 14, ASM, Correspondência expedida, 1949.
Lisbon after Quarantines 217
much discussed issue of potable water.40 Meanwhile, the ship’s physician was
to play the role of a referee and became a key actor in the Service activities;
particularly when the ship was used for the transportation of emigrants.
In 1927, a decree was published to officially extend the “Quadro de Saúde”
(the space on the river dedicated to epidemic prevention) to Belém, which
sought to relieve some of the pressure placed on the port’s health workers in
light of a port saturated with maritime traffic.41 In that sense, the Tagus River
served as a buffer space, to maintain the necessary distance between ships and
for the relocation of undesirable activities away from the port if/when needed.
Nevertheless, and aside from the inter-port conflicts, the port’s administra-
tion and Maritime Health Service frequently worked in collaboration with one
another. For instance, the Health Service was in constant communication with
the harbour master in order to authorize or deny the berthing of a given ship,
to decide on the use of the port’s facilities as inclined planes free of charge, and
frequently to ensure the coordination between its maritime inspectors and the
port’s police.
As a large part of passengers and goods passed through the Disinfection
Station, the intensity of traffic modified the local balance within the port and
was eventually considered by both port and city authorities. For port authori-
ties, the question of the passengers’ and their luggage transportation to Lisbon
or other destinations was of central importance, despite giving rise to fur-
ther conflict. Between 1908 and 1925, boats of the Health Service dedicated
to the travellers’ transport from the ship to the Disinfection Station were fre-
quently “attacked” by bellhops and luggage porters in small shuttle boats who
wanted to carry travellers and their luggage.42 Similar events happened on the
Disinfection Station’s wharf, as people could trespass the wharf’s enclosure
without difficulty. Moreover, public authorities reported abuses from inter-
mediaries, transporters, and interpreters, all of whom charged suspiciously
high prices for their services.43 According to reports, an important concern
for public authorities was the bad impression such events left on visitors who
were attacked, abused, or who witnessed scenes of violence between various
intermediaries and the police. These episodes drove port authorities to publish
police instructions, which established fixed prices for transport, transporters,
and forbade entrance to certain private intermediaries. In 1913, a number of
transporters were authorized to sell tickets for transportation and to charge for
luggage inside the Disinfection Station in order to facilitate the flow of traffic
out of the port itself. Other transporters, however, objected to this decision.44
In response, the Maritime Health Inspector proposed the construction of a
transportation hut outside the Disinfection Station to address the critics of the
1913 decision. And yet, transportation problems continued to persist, at least
until 1925.
Beyond a new configuration of the port, these incidents demonstrated two
things: firstly, that the Maritime Health Service worried about questions that
it was not institutionally responsible for; second, the Health Service’s ability
to restrict the movement of travellers extended far beyond the wharf. Indeed,
the localisation in the port drove the Maritime Health Service to expand its
capacities, beyond its officially recognised remit. For example, the Service
oversaw medical inspections for port staff and military.45 In the 1920s and
1930s, physicians also cared for the health of sailors, which was a common
concern discussed in many international conferences. On 14 December 1934,
a decree created a dispensary dedicated to venereal diseases in the Station.46
Previously, in 1919, the General Commission for Emigration Services included
a Service assigned to Health Assistance for Portuguese emigrants travelling to
the Americas. This service, inspired by the Italian model, was responsible for
the protection of emigrants at all stages of their trip.47
Finally, the Health Service also called attention to health conditions at the
port, whose physicians frequently reported unsanitary, and therefore, danger-
ous working conditions. Most of the time, their action was limited to inform-
ing the appropriate authorities – the port administration, Health Central
Office, city council, or civil governor. For instance, in 1929 the Maritime Health
Inspector reminded port administration and the city council that they were
responsible for the daily removal of “all the rubbish and waste that existed in
the land situated between and behind the warehouses,”48 and for preventing
human filths inside the warehouses. Moreover, the Health Inspector suggested
the building of two urinals and a restroom. On some occasions, however, phy-
sicians were directly involved in improving the health conditions in the port.
In 1929, and in collaboration with the port administration, the port’s physi-
cians implemented a disinfection campaign in order to avoid the infestation
of flies or mosquitos. For its part, the Maritime Health Service seemed par-
ticularly concerned and vigilant when the problem touched its field of action:
disinfection. In 1949, for instance, physicians oversaw the extermination of the
port’s rat population. As experts, they were worried about the risks involved by
using a dangerous gas, both within the port and beyond.49
Beginning from within the Disinfection Station, physicians extended the prac-
tice of protective measures against epidemics throughout the city and beyond,
to facilitate maritime trade. As such, the Station became an important part
of the new and porous sanitary border. At the same time, the integration of
the Service’s activities in the city and beyond also modified the medical urban
geography.
The physicians of the Maritime Health Service first established a working
relationship with other institutions in the city, co-creating a mutual-aid net-
work dedicated to health prevention, which included regular collaborations
due to the daily work on port. It was through this mutual-aid network that
the Health Service was in constant communication with the Câmara Pestana
Bacteriological Institute about sample examinations. Similarly, other very
frequent collaborations involved Lisbon’s hospitals, lightening the Service’s
work while including itself within the broader network of institutions protect-
ing against epidemics. With the reduction and progressive abandonment of
quarantine measures at the lazaretto, solutions requiring isolation were dis-
placed to hospitals and/or ships – the Hospital do Rêgo, for instance, had a
specific service of contagious and infectious diseases since 1906. The Maritime
Health Service would rely on Hospital do Rêgo’s services for travellers with a
suspected infection of smallpox and sometimes by other contagious diseases
such as measles.50 In 1926, the reorganisation of the Health Administration
51 Decree n° 12.447, 12 October 1926, published on Diário do Governo, n.º227, Série I, p. 1522.
52 The 1926 reorganization planned to build a new quarantine station in the location of the
old lazaretto.
53 The hospital Julio de Matos is a psychiatric hospital created in 1942.
54 ASM, box n° 14, Correspondencia expedida 1949, 23, 19 March 1949.
55 ASM, box n° 37; Lazareto 1918, Maritime Health Inspector Correspondence, 21 March 1918.
Lisbon after Quarantines 221
56 ASM, box n° 37; Lazareto 1918, Maritime Health Inspector Correspondence, 11 March 1918.
57 ASM, box n° 37; Lazareto 1918, File: Vapor ingles Kurak, Hand-written draft and correspon-
dence with the General Health Office, 1918.
222 Miralles Buil
retention, the Maritime Health Service opted for a method of follow-up care
that did not require restricting travellers’ freedom of movement. Helped by its
collaborations with other healthcare services, the system followed the travel-
lers both in Lisbon and outside of the city limits. For instance, while the physi-
cians sent two soldiers to the Hospital do Rêgo for smallpox, they also kept an
eye on their six companions, who stayed in a house situated at the corner of
Rua da Praia de Pedrouços in Belém.58 During the 1930s and the 1940s, home
inspections became an important activity for Lisbon’s Public Health services.
In 1949, the Maritime Health Service delegated these routine inspections to a
particular class of its workers: the visiting nurses. The Health Service employed
at least two visiting nurses at this time, one of which was sent to the Hotel do
Lis in Lisbon to oversee a traveller who was known to have been in contact
with smallpox.59
In more general ways, the physicians of the Health Service provided instruc-
tions for daily medical follow-ups administered to travellers suspected of
infection, which could be done at the Disinfection Station if travellers stayed
in Lisbon. If travellers were not staying within Lisbon proper, the medical
check-up was administered at their destination. Thus, it was for this reason
that physicians sent travellers to other healthcare services, informed the local
authorities, and asked to remain informed in turn. For example, on 2 April 1913,
the English ship, Silvertown, arrived at Lisbon from Port-Said, which was
known to be infected with the plague. Two Spanish travellers disembarked and
headed towards their country of origin, one to the port city of La Coruña and
the other one to the Mediterranean seaside town of Alicante. Since Portuguese
authorities could not follow them across state borders, the Inspector of
Maritime Health Service immediately informed Spanish authorities that they
had to take them into custody.60 Through the impetus of the Maritime Health
Service, this process allowed for securing and extending control beyond its
jurisdiction, as well as the reduction of time spent at the port’s entrance.
58 ASM, box n° 37; Lazareto 1918, Maritime Health Inspector Correspondence, 21 March 1918.
59 ASM, box n° 14, Correspondência expedida 1949, p. 134, 13 April 1949.
60 ASM box n° 19 Correspondência expedida 1913.
Lisbon after Quarantines 223
61 See the legislation for the port of Belém on 16 December 1695, José Victorino de Freitas,
Sanidade maritima. Lições professadas no Instituto Central de Hygiene (Lisboa: Edições da
Bibliotheca Popular de Legislação, 1910).
62 Numerous works focus on this subject, see for instance the recent book by Chircop and
Martínez, eds., Mediterranean quarantines.
63 ASM, box n° 37, Lazareto 1915, Health certificate forms, 1938.
64 The International Office of Public Hygiene was an organization created in Rome with
head office in Paris. It was charged to organize and supervise the fight against quarantine
diseases. The Ligue of Nations Health Organization was created in 1921 with head office
in Geneva. It had the same purposes and established strong relations with the Rockefeller
Foundation. Both organizations coexisted (and competed) until the creation of the World
Health Organization in 1946.
224 Miralles Buil
65 Correspondence between Ricardo Jorge, General Health Inspector and the Foreign Office,
ANTT, Ministério do Reino (MR), Sanidade Marítima, Lv. 2539, 20 September 1900.
66 See for instance Mark Harrison, Contagion. How commerce has spread diseases (New
Haven, Yale University Press, 2012); Chiffoleau, Genèse de la santé publique internatio-
nale or Christian Promitzer, “Prevention and stigma: the sanitary control of Muslim pil-
grims from the Balkans, 1830–1814,” in John Chircop, and Francisco Javier Martínez, eds.,
Mediterranean quarantines, 1750–1914. Space, identity and power (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 2018), 145–169.
67 Ricardo Jorge, Les Pestilences et la Convention Sanitaire Internationale, (Lisbon, Institut
Central d’Hygiene, extract from Arquivo do Instituto central de higiene, 3, 1, 1926): 11.
Lisbon after Quarantines 225
Physicians also travelled to study the applied solutions for controlling epi-
demics in other countries. Here, the objective was to learn how “advanced”
countries controlled epidemics and built sanitary borders. For example, a
Clayton’s machine, the key solution for disinfection, was bought in France,
after physicians previously observed how it worked in British and American
ports. Moreover, to avoid rats walking on the ropes of ships, the Health Service
used the “rat-stoppers” system implemented in the British ports.72 At times,
this exchange of practices was based on daily communication and collabo-
rations, as was the case when, in 1896, the Health Service received informa-
tion that Italy had decided to exempt ships that had departed from a port in
Europe from the requirements outlined in the health bills (excluding Turkey).
Portuguese physicians found this to be a dangerous decision, and refused
the Italian government’s request for an exemption, while still learning the
methods being applied by the Italian administration.73 In 1902, the Maritime
Health Inspector referred to Brazil, Spain, and Italy, countries that were in
daily collaboration with the Service, to justify the twenty-four hour waiting
period required to obtain the health bill.74 This exchange of practices involved
other actors, which included travellers, sailors, ship physicians, and captains:
these actors experienced control measures in other countries and would share
both their experience and their opinions as to their limitations and virtues.
For instance, towards the end of the nineteenth century, travellers were dis-
satisfied by Lisbon’s continued use of quarantines, arguing that more practical
solutions had been found in other countries.75
On other occasions, passengers and the ship’s crew simply highlighted dif-
ferences between the public health practices implemented in Portugal and
other European countries. In other words, the lived experiences of maritime
travel provided relevant information that helped modify medical practices
at Lisbon’s port. For instance, the medical inspection of emigrants organized
at the Disinfection Station ever since 1919 changed according to the knowl-
edge acquired by its physicians via the immigration regulations in the United
States, Brazil, Argentina, or Canada. In addition to recommendations from for-
eign governments, cases of rejected migrants forced to return home led physi-
cians to establish stricter examinations.76 Captains, sailors, and the harbour’s
72 ANTT, Ministério do Reino (MR), Sanidade Marítima, Lv. 2541, p. 102. 1903.
73 ANTT, Ministério do Reino (MR), Sanidade Marítima, Lv. 2538, 18 January 1896.
74 ANTT, Ministério do Reino (MR), Sanidade Marítima, Lv. 2541, 22 February 1902, p. 14.
75 These critics to the lazaretto were expressed by the journalist William Scully during his
stay: ASM, box n° 9, Circular dos passageiros 1879, 5 March 1880.
76 See the recommendations sent to Portuguese health Services in the countryside from the
Maritime Health Service. ASM, box n° 10, Correspondência expedida 1950.
Lisbon after Quarantines 227
6 Final Remarks
The articulation of commercial and public health interests was crucial for a
city like Lisbon, which aimed at becoming the gateway of Europe. At the begin-
ning of the twentieth century, tensions and agreements between parties with
different economic and medical interests eventually gave way to a new pro-
tection system against epidemics: a new sanitary border was included within
the urban space. Instead of controlling health from outside the city via the
lazaretto, protection was moved to the port with the Disinfection Station, and
gradually spread into Lisbon’s urban space using the city’s facilities. This situa-
tion led to a reorganization of space with its concomitant negotiations.
Without the lazaretto, the conflicts with the port administration turned the
river into an intermediary zone, conveniently dedicated to health purposes.
Moreover, the integration of the Maritime Health Service into the city con-
tributed to the transformation of urban space with respect to passenger arriv-
als, geographical constraints needed for isolation, and/or the recent use of
Maritime Health inspectors for the control and enforcement of hygienic and
medical standards of practice throughout the city.
At the same time, protection against epidemics evolved into an interurban
endeavour. As we have seen, Lisbon was part of a network of trust in which
port cities protected each other. Just as Lisbon protected other cities and hin-
terlands from epidemics by daily controls, so too was Lisbon protected by
similar practices in other European ports via the construction of a body of
international legislation.78
Thus, to understand the making of a new sanitary border in Lisbon, it is
necessary to consider the different geographical scales upon which it was
materialised. To avoid retention (isolation) and facilitate traffic, medically
79 In 1948, vaccination against yellow fever became compulsory for travellers going to Brazil
or to the African colonies.
80 WHO was created between 1946 and 1948.
81 ASM, box n° 8, Cópia de Correspondência expedida 1959. July 20th, 1959.
Lisbon after Quarantines 229
Finally, after the end of the 1940s and with the rise of air transportation, the
same administration that was previously associated with the port, now turned
its attention to air traffic. The health inspectors’ focused on the airport, thus
relegating the seafront to a secondary position, insofar as the potential threat
posed by the transmission of disease by Lisbon’s visitors was no longer coming,
mainly, from the sea. This change impacted on the whole city organization just
as air traffic control implied a drastic redefinition of distance and time. While
the sea trip took days, flight duration was noticeably shorter. And just as peo-
ple and goods before them, germs would be able to reach Lisbon in only a few
hours’ time. This new threat for public health drove Lisbon’s health authorities
to rethink their protection against epidemics, and thus redefine, once more,
their activities both within and beyond Lisbon itself.
Acknowledgments
This chapter has been written with the support of the project VISLIS (PTDC/
IVC-HFC/3122/2014) of the Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia (Portugal),
as well as projects UID/HIS/UI0286/2013, UID/HIS/UI0286/2019 and UIDB/
00286/2020 UIDP/00286/2020. I thank Isabel Amaral, Jon Arrizabalaga, Marta
Macedo, Alexandra Marques, my colleagues from the project VISLIS and the
editors of the book for their critical reviews. I also would like to express my grat-
itude to Luisa Peneda and Isabel Martinho from the Administração Regional
de Saúde de Lisboa e Vale do Tejo for facilitating the access to the unclassified
documentation of the Archive of Maritime Health.
Chapter 8
1 Introduction
The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum of Lisbon created
in the early-twentieth century were simultaneously sites for science, instruc-
tion, and dissemination at the centre of the imperial metropolis. Both insti-
tutions were in line with the eighteenth century epistemological model that
linked Linnaean taxonomy, scientific expeditions, and the “natural history
complex” (garden-museum-ménagerie), for which the utility of the tropical
flora was central. In Portugal, the Royal Botanical Garden of Ajuda (a Baroque
garden for the princes’ education) and the Coimbra Botanical Garden (created
within the Enlightenment reform of the University of Coimbra) were material
embodiments of such a model. Lisbon’s new institutions were a national varia-
tion of other European empires state-funded and centralised effort regarding
the potential for knowledge to transform the natural resources of the colonies
into economic profit, such as the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew, Berlin’s
Botanical Garden and Museum, and the Jardin Colonial at Nogent-sur-Marne
in Paris.1 All these institutions shared the same scientific, pedagogical, and
utilitarian agenda, being reoriented or designed from scratch to address the
challenges of the New Imperialism period (circa 1870–1914) concerning eco-
nomic botany and colonial agriculture.2
1 The Jardin Colonial created in 1899, following the botanical complex model of Kew (gardens,
museums and herbarium) and trying to catch up with the Netherlands and Britain in research
on tropical Agriculture, hosted from 1902 to 1940 the École nationale supérieur d’agronomie
coloniale for training the future colonial agriculture engineers for the French colonies, and
was the stage for several colonial agriculture exhibitions. See Robert Aldrich, Vestiges of the
colonial empire in France: Monuments, museums and colonial memories (Basingstoke: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2005), 61–67.
2 Christophe Bonneuil, “Crafting and disciplining the tropics: Plant science in the French
Colonies,” in Science in the Twentieth Century, ed. John Krige and Dominique Pestre
(Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1997), 80. Richard Drayton, Nature’s
Government: Science, Imperial Britain, and the ‘improvement’ of the world (New Haven and
The Colonial Garden was a simulation of the tropical conditions and plant
diversity in the capital city.3 Located at the liminal space between the labora-
tory, the field, and the display, the garden involved a wide range of uses: scien-
tific, practical training, commercial, and popular.4 In this built and controlled
environment, researchers could observe and experiment with immobile
indoor specimens and living outdoor collections from the colonies, without
the logistic, financial, and political problem of travelling to, and living in, the
actual field inhabited and used for other purposes.5 Their mixed lab-field prac-
tices was intended to generate useful knowledge for improving the quality,
productivity, and profits of colonial agriculture – namely of the main food and
cash crops (for instance, cocoa in São Tomé and Príncipe, coffee, cotton, maize,
sisal, and sugar cane in Angola, or cotton and oilseeds in Mozambique). In this
way, the education of Portugal’s future colonial agricultural engineers benefit-
ted from the experimental approach to controlled tropical natural landscapes
prior to their recruitment into colonial agricultural services. At the same time,
the museum displayed plant and raw materials, and transferred products
from the empire to students and broader audiences, fostering public interest
London: Yale University Press, 2000), 220 and 238. Jim Endersby, Imperial Nature: Joseph
Hooker and the Practices of Victorian Science (Chicago and London: University of Chicago
Press, 2008). Caroline Cornish, “Curating Science in an Age of Empire: Kew’s Museum of
Economic Botany”. PhD thesis, Royal Holloway, University of London, 2013. Katja Kaiser,
“Exploration and exploitation: German colonial botany at the Botanic Garden and Botanical
Museum Berlin.” in Sites of imperial memory: Commemorating colonial rule in the nine-
teenth and twentieth centuries, ed. Dominik Geppert and Frank Lorenz Müller (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 2015), 225–242. Chapters by Sarah Louise Millar and Caroline
Cornish in Diarmid A. Finnegan, Jonathan Jeffrey Wright, eds., Spaces of Global Knowledge.
Exhibition, Encounter and Exchange in an Age of Empire (London and New York: Routledge,
2016).
3 Gardens and museums “have sometimes been seen as a kind of microcosm or world in min-
iature”. Lukas Rieppel, “Museums and Botanical Gardens,” in A Companion to the History of
Science, ed. by Bernard Lightman (Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2016), 238. On the concept of
“simulation”, Estelle Sohier, Alexandre Gillet and Jean-François Staszak (eds.), Simulation
du Monde: Panoramas, Parcs à Thème et Autres Dispositifs Immersifs (Gèneve: Mētis Presses,
2019), 14–15. I thank Jaume Sastre for sharing this reference with me and challenging me to
engage with this concept.
4 Similar to the variety of users of the Kew’s Museum of Economic Botany. Caroline Cornish,
Felix Driver, and Mark Nesbitt, “Kew’s mobile museum: economic botany in circulation”, in
Mobile Museums: Collections in Circulation, edited by Felix Driver, Mark Nesbitt, and Caroline
Cornish (London: UCL Press, 2021), 96.
5 For a discussion of the revived interest in natural history in the early twentieth century and
spaces in the laboratory-field border, such as biological farms and field stations, see Robert
E. Kohler, Landscapes and Labscapes: Exploring the Lab-Field Border in Biology (Chicago: The
Chicago University Press, 2002).
232 Castelo
in the colonies.6 Through the Colonial Garden and the Agricultural Museum,
Portuguese businessmen and Lisbon’s general population were able to get to
know these plants, their uses, and their economic potential without or before
leaving Europe.
This chapter attempts to analyse the role and place of these institutions in
the imperial metropolis drawing together insights from history of science and
urban social history. In dialogue with the literature on the history of colonial
gardens, museums, and exhibitions, on the one hand, and imperial cities, on
the other, this essay aims to situate these still under-researched cases within
the canon of international historiography and develop a more comprehensive,
comparative, framework on the subject.7 Building on primary sources from the
Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum, and colonial archives,
this chapter follows the parallel path of these two autonomous institutions
from their creation in 1906 until their merger in 1944. The text is composed
of three parts. The first part examines the discussion of the definitive loca-
tion and installation of the garden and the museum in the urban setting of
Belém/Ajuda. The second investigates their users – professionals, students,
visitors – and the conditions of work, research, and circulation of collec-
tions. The last section focuses on the moment in which the garden and the
museum were the stage of the Colonial Section of the Exposição do Mundo
Português (Portuguese World Exhibition, PWE). In 1940, the two institutions
had to reduce their regular pedagogical and scientific activities to a minimum,
in favour of a huge imperial propaganda initiative: large audiences were called
to join an “immersive experience” of the empire.8
6 Just like the Berlin Botanic Garden in the first two decades of the twentieth century. See,
Katja Kaiser, “Exploration and exploitation: German colonial botany at the Botanic Garden
and Botanical Museum Berlin,” in Sites of imperial memory: Commemorating colonial rule
in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, ed. Dominik Geppert and Frank Lorenz Müller
(Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2015), 227–228.
7 References in footnotes 1 and 2, and Felix Driver & David Gilbert, Imperial cities: Landscape,
Display and Identity (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003).
8 On the notion of “immersion” see Sohier, Gillet and Staszak (ed.), Simulation du Monde,
16–21.
The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum 233
9 Helen Tilley, Africa as a living laboratory (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2011), 58–59 and
chapter 3.
234 Castelo
Figure 8.1 Map with main institutions and spaces mentioned in this chapter:
1. Sociedade de Geografia de Lisboa; 2. Comissão de Cartografia, Terreiro do Paço; 3. Jardim
Colonial (1ª. localização); 4. Instituto de Agricultura e Veterinária; 5. Instituto Superior de
Agronomia; 6. Jardim Botânico da Ajuda; 7. Palácio de Belém; 8. Mosteiro dos Jerónimos;
9. Hospital Colonial e Escola de Medicina Tropical; 10. Jardim Colonial e Jardim Botânico
Tropical; 11. Museu Agrícola Colonial
Courtesy José Avelãs Nunes
Some days later, on 25 January, a royal decree created the Colonial Garden and
the Colonial Agricultural Museum as part of the organisation of colonial agri-
culture services and colonial agriculture higher education; that is, within the
institutionalisation of colonial agricultural education.10 This institutionalisa-
tion process was due, in no small part, to the fact that Portuguese colonies
depended mainly on agriculture, and agronomic science was, thus, considered
“a powerful and indispensable lever for colonial agricultural progress.”11
The occupation and colonisation of Portuguese Africa was a familiar topic
in the daily press as well as in political and scientific circles; namely in meet-
ings at the parliament and the SGL, since, at least, the last quarter of the nine-
teenth century. The Pink Map – a continuous strip of Portuguese sovereignty
10 “Bases para a reorganização dos Serviços Agrícolas Coloniais,” Diário do Governo, no. 21,
27 January 1906.
11 Carlos de Mello Geraldes, “Fomento Agrícola Colonial,” II Congresso Colonial Nacional:
Teses e Actas das Sessões (Lisbon: [s.n.], 1924).
The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum 235
12 Charles E. Nowell, The Rose-Colored Map: Portugal’s Attempt to Build an African Empire
from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean (Lisbon: JICU, 1982). Maria Paula Diogo and Dirk
van Laak, Europeans Globalizing. Mapping, Exploiting, Exchanging (Basingstoke (UK) and
New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 150–156.
13 Nuno Severiano Teixeira, “Política externa e política interna no Portugal de 1890: o
Ultimatum Inglês,” Análise Social 23, no. 98 (1987): 698, 705–706.
14 Ana Paula Pires, “The First World War in Portuguese East Africa: Civilian and Military
Encounters in the Indian Ocean,” e-JPH 15, no. 1 (2017): 82–104.
15 Decree no. 18570, Diário do Governo, 1st series, no. 156/1930, July 8, 1930, 1309.
16 David Corkill, and José Carlos Pina Almeida, “Commemoration and Propaganda in
Salazar’s Portugal: The ‘Mundo Português’ Exposition of 1940,” Journal of Contemporary
History 44, 3 (2009): 381–99.
236 Castelo
According to the foundational royal decree, the Colonial Garden should provide
the indispensable basis for the practical education of qualified technicians for
colonial agricultural services, and regardless of the distance or diversity that
separated them from the Portuguese colonies in Africa, Asia, and Oceania. In
addition to its rigorous scientific experimental demonstrations with pedagogi-
cal purposes, the garden was intended to reproduce, multiply, cross, and select
useful plants for the colonies, pursue research in the field of tropical crops and
tropical plant diseases, and train agronomists who wished to work in the colo-
nies. The garden was also expected to be a centre of information at the disposal
of metropolitan and colonial investors and economic interests, able to provide
answers to technical questions, and a centre and node of material exchange of
plants with similar foreign scientific institutions.17
The Colonial Garden was first installed in 1907 in the glasshouse area in the
privately owned lands of Conde de Farrôbo in Quinta das Laranjeiras, adjacent
to the Zoological and Acclimatization Garden in the northern limits of the city.
The Colonial Garden was only circa 3 km from the Agriculture and Veterinary
Institute (Instituto de Agronomia e Veterinária), located in the Largo da Cruz
do Taboado (today Praça José Fontana). Thus, professors and students had to
move between the two locations. Soon afterwards, the place revealed itself
as inadequate due to the lack of room for the Colonial Garden’s expansion.
The institution required a larger and state-owned space to avoid repeating
their mistake in renting the property and investing in adaptation and improve-
ment works.
After the implementation of the First Republic, the Agriculture and
Veterinary Institute gave way to two higher education institutions: the Faculty
of Veterinary Medicine and the Agriculture High Institute (Instituto Superior
de Agronomia, ISA), founded in Tapada da Ajuda in 1917, on the outskirts of
Lisbon giving it ample room for experimenting with crops. Relatedly, there
was a proposal to transfer the Colonial Garden from the Laranjeiras to the
eighteenth-century Botanical Garden of Ajuda. The director José Joaquim de
Almeida, however, considered the location to be inappropriate and convinced
the authorities to install it in the neighbouring enclosure of the Palácio de
Belém, which offered better topographical conditions as well as an abundant
17 2nd Basis, Royal decree with force of law of 25 January 1906, Diário do Governo, no. 21,
January 27, 1906.
The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum 237
18 [Letter] from Bernardo de Oliveira Fragateiro to Júlio Henriques, Lisbon, June 2, 1912
[manuscript]. URI: http://hdl.handle.net/10316.2/28909.
19 Law of 24 June 1912, Art. 14, Parágrafo Único. Diário do Governo, 1st series, no. 150, June 28,
1912. On the history of the royal farms of Belém, Cristina Castel-Branco and Carla Varela
Fernandes, Jardins e escultura do palácio de Belém (Lisbon: Museu da Presidência da
República, 2005).
20 Cordoaria was a manufacture of the Portuguese Navy created in the eighteenth century
that produced cables, ropes, sails and flags to equip Portuguese ships and vessels.
21 Elsa Peralta, “A composição de um complexo de memória: O caso de Belém, Lisboa,”
in Cidade e Império: Dinâmicas Coloniais e Reconfigurações Pós-Coloniais, ed. Nuno
Domingos and Elsa Perlata (Lisbon: Edições 70, 2013), 361. See also, Helen W. Sapega,
“Remembering Empire/Forgetting the Colonies: Accretions of Memory and the Limits of
Commemoration in a Lisbon Neighborhood,” History and Memory 20, 2 (2008): 18–38.
22 Peralta, “A composição de um complexo de memória,” 365–367. Previously, the site had
already been approached “as a palimpsest of official Portuguese collective memory.” See,
Sapega, “Rememering Empire/Forgetting the Colonies,” 19.
238 Castelo
Figures 8.2a–b Partial view of the Colonial Garden with the Tagus river at the back, 1928,
PT/TT/EPJS/SF/001-001/0009/0464C; Colonial Garden’s entrance in 1939,
PT/AMLSB/POR/056742
The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum 239
The Board of Directors of the Colonial Garden moved to the new facilities
on 6 June 1912, but only after completing the required modifications to trans-
form the existing space. In the meantime, the French horticultural engineer,
Henri Navel, was chosen to draw the plans for the Belém colonial garden and
the glasshouses. Navel graduated from the National School of Horticulture of
Versailles, followed by temporary residencies in Kew Gardens (London) and the
Monserrate Park (Sintra), and was the chief gardener of the Botanical Garden
at both the Polytechnic School and the Faculty of Sciences of Lisbon since
1909.23 On 19 June 1913, the President of the Republic, Manuel de Arriaga, was
invited to plant a palm tree from Mexico (Brahea edulis H. Wendl ex S. Watson)
in the Colonial Garden.24 This symbolic gesture inaugurated the main land-
scape transformation that occurred in the following year. In 1914 the acclima-
tising greenhouses for tropical and sub-tropical species were inaugurated and
a great portion of the “decrepit grove” was replaced by “exotic plants more in
harmony with the characteristics and purpose of the new institution.”25
Figure 8.3
Inside the greenhouse
PT/AMLSB/CMLSBAH/PCSP/004/NUN/001382
Navel’s project for the Colonial Garden brought together already existing
trees, plants, and sculptures; new, exotic, flora; and modern greenhouses,
through a renewed layout of the existing paths and the adaptation of the
lagoon and its bridge. The result combined vegetal species from different con-
tinents and climates with different ages so that Portugal’s metropolitan capital
would reflect the expanse and variety of its colonial reach. Not simply a design
to appease a colonial power, this design also created proto-laboratory condi-
tions allowing for the observation and experimentation with flora, both new
and old.
The renovation process, however, was not without controversy. In Parlia
ment, the engineer and politician Ezequiel de Campos, was especially criti-
cal of the destruction of the Colonial Garden’s trees, which he deemed to be
a national heritage worth of preservation.26 Likewise, José de Castro, in the
Senate, denounced the destruction of more than one hundred European trees,
some of which were centuries old.27 What is more, Castro claimed the destruc-
tion of the trees as an “act of vandalism” not “scientific nor patriotic,” and con-
trary to the Tree Day – a national festivity created, and strongly encouraged,
by the Republicans.28 Indeed, the European centennial trees had been rooted
out, using even extreme measures such as dynamite, because “they hindered
the tropical illusion.”29 Senator Manuel de Sousa da Câmara, the ISA’s vice-
director, supported the modifications on the grounds of the scientific author-
ity of the Garden’s director and chief horticulturalist. Câmara depicted the
director as a “very intelligent man, who had already been in Africa,” and Henri
Navel as “a foreigner,” with “experience in similar gardens in other countries,”
who knew “the best gardens of the world.”30
26 Câmara dos Deputados, Diário da Câmara dos Deputados, Session no. 75, 17 April 1914, 20.
27 Senado, Diário do Senado, Session no. 75, 17 April 1914, 3. The 1911 Republican Constitution
implemented a parliamentary model, with two elective chambers: the Chamber of
Deputies and the Senate, whose mission was to moderate the political aggressiveness of
the Lower Chamber.
28 Celebrated for the first time in 1907, the tree festivity grew in importance in the first years
of the Republican regime. During the festivity, school children planted trees. The act had
a symbolic character. Above all, the tree was a symbol of regeneration, that is, it repre-
sented the capacity for renewal of nature, just as the Republic intended to present itself
as the regenerator of a long period of decay of the country during the Monarchy. The tree
also symbolised other civic and moral values dear to republicanism such as homeland,
freedom, solidarity or life. Joaquim Pintassilgo, “Festa da Árvore,” in Dicionário de História
da I República e do Republicanismo, ed. Maria Fernanda Rollo (Lisboa: Assembleia da
República, 2014), vol. II, 81–82.
29 Senado, Diário do Senado, Session no. 75, 17 April 1914, 6, and no. 77, 21 April 1914, 12–13.
30 Senado, Diário do Senado, Session no. 75, 17 April 1914, 4.
The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum 241
The decree that created the Colonial Garden required the installation of
the colonial agricultural education facilities to include offices, a laboratory,
and a museum.31 The Museum dedicated “exclusively to teaching and dem-
onstration” was initially located in ISA facilities. In 1914, the Museum was
installed in a room of the Palácio dos Condes da Calheta, on the northern bor-
der of the Colonial Garden, contiguous to the working-class neighbourhood
of Ajuda, with Carlos Eugénio de Mello Geraldes, professor and director of
ISA’s Laboratory of Colonial Agricultural Technologies, as museum director.
Between August and October 1910, Geraldes had visited several institutions of
colonial agricultural development in France, Belgium, the Netherlands, and
England to learn from their experiences and subsequently plan and curate the
museum according to the models, which inspired him the most.32 The new
and definitive location benefitted from the proximity of the Colonial Garden
and the imperial setting of Belém, and accommodated a larger and more het-
erogeneous public.
In 1915, despite being transferred from the Ministry of Public Instruction to
the Ministry of the Colonies, both institutions were kept under ISA’s direction
so that full professors continued to educate the future agricultural technicians
to serve in the colonial administration, without interruption.33 Then, in 1919,
the Museum was reorganized in accordance with a two-fold social mission:
(i) the scientific and technical study of the agricultural and forestry products
of the Portuguese colonies and their derivatives, as well as those coming from
foreign colonies and warm countries, whose production should be established
in the Portuguese colonies; (ii) disseminating knowledge regarding the ori-
gin, production, value, and application of these products. Together with the
Colonial Garden, the Museum allowed for the economic study of tropical and
subtropical plants, as well as their products, in order to identify the possibility
of their economic exploitation in the Portuguese colonies or the improvement
of existing ones. Moreover, this new initiative contributed to the dissemina-
tion of knowledge regarding colonial flora and agriculture and provided infor-
mation on matters related to the Garden’s techno-scientific activities upon
request, whether from official or private entities.34 Although the Colonial
Garden’s internal regulation dates from 1920, its official inauguration took
place on 22 May 1929.35
Figures 8.4a–b
Partial view of the Colonial Garden with the
Palácio da Calheta at the left, 1928. PT/TT/EPJS/
SF/001-001/0009/0469C; Colonial Garden. Partial
view of the lake, [1939?]. PT/AMLSB/POR/060431
The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum 243
The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum moved to facili-
ties, which were not vacant. There were several apartments inhabited by low-
income families that paid a small rent to the Ministry of Finance. The Museum
endured a long struggle to force tenants to leave their homes. After almost two
years, in November 1916 the problem was not completely solved, since half a
dozen families still lived in one of the wings of the Palace. The museum’s direc-
tor criticised the Ministry of Finance for subordinating and underestimating
the national colonial responsibilities, and the mission of the new scientific
institution vis-à-vis the residents’ interests.36 In its turn, the Municipality of
Lisbon publicly recognised the importance of the role played by the museum
by naming the square in front of its entrance as the Largo do Museu Agrícola
Colonial (Square of the Colonial Agricultural Museum).37 Even after all the
buildings were completely transferred to the Colonial Agricultural Museum,
there is evidence that the relation with its neighbours was, quite understand-
ably, not entirely peaceful. In 1918, the director of the museum often com-
plained of boys throwing stones at the building’s glass works, putting both the
workers and the collections in danger, in particular those items preserved in
the vitrines and in glass bottles, and petitioned the municipality to increase
the number of police officers in the Museum’s surrounding area. Problems,
however, would continue to persist.38
Both the Garden and Museum depended on small professional teams and,
since 1919, shared a common administrative staff. Included among the Colonial
Garden’s technical staff were the following: the director; the full professor
responsible for the Economic Geography and Colonial Cultures courses of the
Agriculture and Veterinary Institute and later of the ISA (first, José Joaquim de
Almeida, succeeded in 1912 by Bernardo de Oliveira Fragateiro); the chief bota-
nist (Santos Machado and after his dismissal in 1922, Paulo Emílio Cavique dos
Santos, agronomist and forest engineer, who was still in function in the early
1940s); the head gardener (Henri Navel until 1914, later replaced by António
Louro (1930s–40s); the herbarium curator, herbalist draughtsman, and two
gardeners.39 Included among the Museum’s technical staff were the following:
the director, the full professor of ISA responsible for the discipline of Colonial
Agricultural Technologies (Carlos Eugénio de Mello Geraldes), two chemical
analysts, and a curator.40 For both the Garden and Museum, their directors
were individuals with prior experience working in the Portuguese colonies.
The aim behind the creation of the colonial agricultural courses and the
Colonial Garden, in 1906, as well as the series of legislation (1914, 1919, 1920)
that restructured “tropical agricultural education,” was to prepare a set of
agricultural and forestry technicians to serve in the colonies. Yet only a small
number of students enrolled in colonial courses – Colonial Crops, Colonial
Technologies, Colonial Mesology, Sugar Chemistry, and Colonial Economic
Regime (the first two offered since 1910 and the other three since 1919) – and an
even smaller number enrolled in the colonial traineeship program (tirocínio
colonial) in the Colonial Garden. Between 1914 to 1940, 60 male students
enrolled in the traineeship,41 with the program’s first three trainings taking
place in its first year.42 According to agricultural engineers and professors,
the colonial career did not appeal to agricultural and forestry engineers, given
the low-pay, the shortened time period of contracts, and unattractive work-
ing conditions.43 Other factors also played a role: the omnipresent image of
a dangerous and mysterious Africa, where the European confronted tropical
diseases, an unhealthy climate, rebellious peoples, wild animals, and the lack
of the comforts and advantages offered on continental Europe. In the First
Colonial Agricultural Congress held in Porto, in 1934, several voices advocated
that the practical training of colonial agricultural experts should not be done in
the metropolis, but in experimental stations in the colonies where technicians
should pursue their careers.44 The simulation of the tropics should be replaced
by actual tropical nature, as a space of experiment and training.
Projects that could favour an increase in frequency of the Colonial Garden
were not implemented. For instance, in 1916, a law project regarding the trans-
portation by the Portuguese government of 500 Portuguese colonisers to dedi-
cate themselves to the agriculture colonisation of the Bié Plateau (or Central
Plateau of Angola), predicted that, before leaving for Angola, colonisers should
receive practical instruction regarding colonial crops in the Colonial Garden.45
However, subsequent, official, government initiatives to transport and settle
Portuguese colonisers in Angola and Mozambique did not require any contact
with the Colonial Garden. Beginning in the 1940s, colonisers had to attend con-
ferences on tropical hygiene at the Tropical Medicine Institute before leaving
to the colonies. These conferences, however, did not provide any further edu-
cation with respect to agriculture and agricultural practices.
Regarding the public that visited the Colonial Garden, only some qualita-
tive information is available. Published in 1924, one Lisbon city guide states
that the Garden was not open to the public, “but it was easy to obtain per-
mission to visit, between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. every working day.”46 In a guide of
Lisbon’s gardens published in 1935, Bernardo de Oliveira Fragateiro, member
of the Colonial Garden’s technical staff, mentions that regardless of its lack
of popularity, save the ladies with their children and former military officers
who served in Africa, the Garden deserved to be visited by every Portuguese
person.47 The recreational use of the Garden by Portuguese citizens who had
lived in the colonies and longed for their return reveals that the 400 specimens
from abroad, notable species include succulent plants, palm trees, and a huge
Yucca,48 succeeded in creating a “tropical illusion.”
The Colonial Agricultural Museum received a twofold public: the scholarly
and the entrepreneurial. The students who had contact with the museum were
not only from ISA or from higher education institutions but included students
from primary and secondary schools as well. However, between the years
1906–1944, it was more common for the Museum to go to the schools than for
the young students to visit the Museum. Mobile display cases containing five
categories of products – oil products; cereals, flour, and starch; vegetables; and
other products – were offered to schools with a small publication listing the
products (in 1939, 1000 ex. imprinted), including their name, the producing
plant (vernacular and botanic), and the relevant, supplemental, information.49
Another potential public interested in visiting the Museum were colo-
nial farmers, plantation owners, metropolitan traders, and industrialists; the
premise of their visit being the receipt of information regarding the agricul-
tural products from tropical regions. It was with this public in mind that the
Museum published descriptive catalogues of the displayed products along with
practical explanations that could be bought by visitors. The Museum director
considered it his institutional mission to provide guidance to entrepreneurs
from the metropolis on matters concerning the economic possibilities of the
colonies, foster private investment in the colonies, and promote commercial
relations between Lisbon (metropole) and the colonies, all in the defence of
the national interest.50
Finally, members of the public who attended national, colonial, and inter-
national exhibitions and world fairs also, indirectly, encountered the Colonial
Agricultural Museum, through its presence and products at said exhibitions.
This form of indirect contact between Museum and public is best exempli-
fied in the following series of events: the International Exhibition of Tropical
Products held in London (1915), the Seville Ibero-American Exhibition (1929),
the Antwerp International Colonial Exhibition (1930), the Paris International
Colonial Exhibition (1931), the Portuguese Colonial Exhibition in Porto (1934),
and the IX Tripoli International Fair (1935).51 In addition to these exhibitions,
the Garden and the building of the Museum received an impressive number
of visitors during the PWE, wherein imperial propaganda overshadowed the
educational and scientific dimension of the two institutions.
49 Museu Agrícola Colonial de Lisboa, Catálogo dos mostruários de produtos agrícolas coloni-
ais distribuídos às Escolas (Lisbon: Papelaria e Tipografia VEROL & C.ª, 1939).
50 Portugal, Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino, Information of Carlos Mello Gerlades to the
General Direction of the Colonies, about a letter of the Ministry of Finance regarding the
eviction of a wing of the Palácio dos Condes da Calheta, 1916.
51 On the international and national exhibitions, see Rui Afonso Santos, “Exposições
Internacionais,” Dicionário de História do Estado Novo, edited by Fernando Rosas and
J.M. Brandão de Brito (Lisbon: Círculo de Leitores, 1196), vol. 1, 333–339. Ana Paula Lopes
da Silva, “Portugal nas Exposições Internacionais Universais e Coloniais (1929–1939):
A Retórica Científica e Tecnológica” (Master Thesis, New University of Lisbon, 2000).
Margarida Acciauoli, Exposições do Estado Novo, 1934–1940 (Lisbon: Livros Horizonte,
1998).
The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum 247
52 Memoranda of the Colonial Garden, published in the Boletim da Agência Geral das
Colónias (the propaganda department of the Ministry of the Colonies), 1924 onwards.
53 John Gossweiler, “Elementos para a História da Exploração Botânica de Angola: Itinerário
e Relação dos Viajantes e Exploradores que Fizeram Colecções Botânicas em Angola,”
Boletim da Sociedade Broteriana, 13 (1939): 283–305.
54 “O Jardim Colonial,” Diário de Notícias, no. 21232, 15 February 1925, 1.
248 Castelo
The crisis that has been holding back the Garden has become more acute
since 1918, and its management has been forced to reduce the labour
force which has become insufficient for its multiple services, affecting
cash crops and the heating of the greenhouses which stopped causing
the death of many plants.55
While the Museum faced similar problems, Diário de Notícias praised the effort
of Carlos de Mello Geraldes who
has been able to carry out budget prodigies to reach the extraordinary
degree of development that the Museum attained presently, almost
unhelped by public powers, almost forgotten by those who are the first
to proclaim, as an undisputed principle, that the salvation of us all is in
the colonies.56
However, another daily newspaper, the Diário de Lisboa, published a harsh crit-
icism of the Colonial Garden, denouncing its careless management and assert-
ing the herbarium’s uselessness.57 Ten years later, Geraldes still complained
that, since its inception, “colonial agricultural education lived in a precarious
financial situation.”58
How did the materials arrive at the Colonial Agriculture Museum? The direc-
tor issued instructions to Portugal’s colonial governments to collect, store, and
transport the display cases of products (mostruários de produtos). While seed
and crop samples proved easy to transport, the traffic of living plants, roots,
and big fruits required extra care. Thus, for example, most of the museum col-
lection that was extracted from Cape Verde was sent to Portugal by Barjona de
Freitas, the head of the local agriculture services stationed at Santiago Island,
in 1914.
In 1920, due to the deterioration of the fruits, Geraldes encouraged the
director of Fomento Colonial (Colonial Development) to issue an order for the
Cape Verdean government to send a new collection that included fruits from
other islands within its archipelago.59 According to the Museum’s correspon-
dence records, Geraldes’ suggestion was a response to the scarcity of resources:
Figure 8.5
Inside the Colonial Agricultural
Museum. PT/UL/IICT/JBT/25934
65 Pascal Clerc, “Une pédagogie de l’empire. Les colonies françaises à Lyon entre la fin du 19e
siécle et la second guerre mondiale.” In Simulations du monde. Panoramas, parcs à thème
et autres dispositifs immersifs, edited by Estelle Sohier, Alexandre Gillet, Jean-François
Staszak, 181–197. Genève: MétisPresses, 2019. (189, 194).
The Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural Museum 251
“colonial consciousness and mentality” among the young students and the
general population via school curricula, mass media, and events of national
commemoration.66
The past which the regime chose to celebrate and which was the ground
on which the present was to be built included the foundation of the nation in
1140, the restoration of independence after a period of Spanish domination,
in 1640, but also unsurprisingly the so-called “discoveries” of the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries and the subsequent colonization of overseas territories.67
With this in mind, the Estado Novo launched the ambitious program of “cel-
ebrations of the double centenary” for 1940, the year of the “apotheosis resur-
gence of the Nation,” and the PWE held in Belém was its central initiative68
(see chapter 9 in this volume). It should be noted that Portugal celebrated the
“victory of the race in eight centuries of history,”69 while officially remaining
neutral throughout World War II. For the Estado Novo, international exhibi-
tions proved to be one of the most popular institutional means for the repro-
duction of an ideology that combined cultural particularism and universalism,
fusing historicism to progress. The city reshaped its traditional national sym-
bols within the context of an ideology of modernity, scientific and technologi-
cal progress, industry, and consumption.70
To house the PWE, Belém was subject to profound changes (demolition of
the popular housing and commercial buildings, opening of Praça do Império,
urban redesign, and large-scale ephemeral buildings to name but a few).
Although the Estado Novo’s official discourse claimed Belém to be scarcely
urbanised and therefore available to host the event, it was necessary to remove
66 On colonial education in the metropolitan school see, João Carlos Paulo, “A honra da ban-
deira. A educação colonial no sistema de ensino português (1926–1946)” (Master thesis,
New University of Lisbon, 1992). On colonial propaganda, see Heriberto Cairo, “‘Portugal
is not a Small Country’: Maps and Propaganda in the Salazar Regime,” Geopolitics 11,
no. 3 (2006): 367–395, DOI: 10.1080/14650040600767867. On the Estado Novo’s exhibitions,
Margarida Acciaiuoli, Exposições do Estado Novo: 1939–1940 (Lisbon: Livros Horizonte,
1998).
67 “With Salazarism, the Discoveries were “strategically” invoked in the service of regime
legitimacy and nationalist ideology”. Paulo S. Polanah, “‘The Zenith of our National
History!’ National identity, colonial empire, and the promotion of the Portuguese
Discoveries: Portugal 1930s,” e-JPH 9, 1 (2011): 39–62 (58).
68 António Ferro, “Carta Aberta aos Portugueses de 1940,” Revista dos Centenários, 1 (1939):
19–23. (19).
69 The quote refers to the Monument to the Portuguese Colonization Work at the Colonial
Section of the PWE. Exposição do Mundo Português. Secção Colonial (Lisbon: s.n., 1940), 286.
70 Peralta, “A composição de um complexo de memória,” 362–363.
252 Castelo
Belém’s local housing, thereby erasing the traces of that which did not conform
to the mythical Lisbon that the dictatorship intended to stage.71
The Colonial Section of the PWE, also known as the Colonial Ethnography
Section and benefited from a pre-existing delimited space, required substan-
tial renovations within the Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural
Museum and suspended the normal course of its activities for a couple of years.
Captain Henrique Galvão, superior officer of the Ministry of the Colonies for-
merly in charge of the 1934 Colonial Exposition in Porto, was appointed as the
Colonial Section’s director in preparation for the PWE. Galvão’s program was
an attempted recreation of the geographic, human, cultural, and economic
diversity of the empire in the seven hectares of garden and museum allotted
to the Colonial Section, so that “the visitor could, in two hours, go through
all our empire from Africa to the Pacific, with stops full of charm.”72 Visitors
were to be dazzled with the exuberance of the tropical flora, the economic
potential of natural resources and the exoticism of the people. In view of the
scarcity of money allocated to the Colonial Section, Galvão wanted to “sup-
ply the material constraints with originality of technique and presentation by
affirming in some way a superiority of spirit.”73 The ideas of moral superiority
and the civilising mission were an integral part of the official discourse of the
Estado Novo.74
Since the Colonial Section could not be “the most grandiose” of the PWE,
Galvão wanted it to be “the most complete documentary, the newest in its
presentation form.”75 To accomplish such a task, the Colonial Section made
extensive use of the most recent technologies, including photography and pho-
tomontage, dioramas, relief maps, large-scale sculpture, low-reliefs in wood,
loudspeakers describing the colonies, and revealing the mastery of modern
strategies to captivate and involve the masses.
Even before the public inauguration of the Colonial Section on 27 June 1940,
children from the nearby school visited and witnessed the unveiling of Africa
before their eyes. According to the memories of F. Eduardo Nunes, then a
young boy, the most eye-catching attractions were the “Blacks’ coffees,” that
could be seen and tasted at the Portuguese Coffees Pavilion, the “natives’ vil-
lages,” the “exotic animals,” all of which were said to be so “real,” so “authen-
tic,” that visitors felt they were actually in Africa.76 Additionally, a huge water
tank was built near the Palace’s façade facing the garden in order to receive
wild animals from the African continent. From their school windows, young
students could see African people unloading the wooden boxes that carried
crocodiles and alligators, which then dived into the water: “A big and thrilling
attraction.” Besides wildlife, the boys were also marvelled by the technology:
an aerial shuttle used to transport tools and other materials as well as people in
suspended chairs/seats offered a panoramic view of the entire area, connect-
ing the lower and upper zones of the garden.77 The visitors could “view from
above” the magnitude of the Portuguese empire, views presenting them with
a clear and recognisable image that was accessible only from the domineering
perspective of the colonizer: the god’s eye at the colonisers’ reach.78
The Garden was stripped of the eighteenth-century sculptures (moved to
the adjacent garden of the Belém Palace) to give room to a simulation of the
Portuguese empire. Several new constructions were built: the pavilions of
the colonies (Angola and Mozambique, Portuguese Guinea, and the islands
of Cape Verde, São Tomé and Príncipe and Timor), two “typical” streets (from
India and Macao), other pavilions (Catholic missions in Africa, native art, a
model of a Portuguese house for the colonies, raw materials, tourism and hunt-
ing), the Avenue of Colonial Ethnography (gallery of sculptural reproductions
of busts representing the “races and tribes of the Portuguese Colonial Empire,”
based on photographic documentation from the Institute of Anthropology of
Porto), exhibition stands of colonial products, monuments, public buildings,
official exhibitors of art, and replicas of dwellings and villages.79
For Galvão, it was important to emphasize “the role of exhibitions as spaces
of faithful recreation of colonial life, revealing confidence in the authenticity
of reconstitutions.”80 Just as in the 1932 Lisbon Industrial Exhibition, or in the
76 F. Eduardo Nunes, “O Sítio de Belém no seu tempo,” Colóquio. Artes, no. 87 (1990): 28. The
Black’s coffeeshop is a recurrent theme in Lisbon’s African imagery. It was recreated in the
Luna Parks of Palhavã and Entrecampos. See chapter 14 in this volume.
77 Nunes, “O Sítio de Belém no seu tempo,” 28.
78 On the power of the view from above entailed by the aerial photography see Denis
Cosgrove, and William L. Fox, Photography and flight (London: Reaktion, 2010), 8–9.
I thank Marta Macedo for this reference.
79 Patrícia Ferraz de Matos, As Cores do Império: Representações Raciais no Império Colonial
Português (Lisbon: Imprensa de Ciências Sociais, 2006), 212–215.
80 Nadia Vargaftig, “Para ver, para vender: o papel da imagem fotográfica nas exposições
coloniais portuguesas (1929–1940),” in O Império da Visão: Fotografia no Contexto Colonial
Português (1860–1960), ed. Filipa Lowndes Vicente (Lisbon: Edições 70, 2014), 348.
254 Castelo
1934 Colonial Exhibition of Porto (and in many other exhibitions held abroad
before and, at least one which took place afterwards, in Brussels in 1958), it
included a living ethnic exhibition combining spectacle and science81 that
became one of the main attractions for the estimated total of three million
visitors that attended the PWE. To provide the visitor with a greater level of
“authenticity,” indigenous peoples from Portugal’s colonies performed their
daily practices, namely “spontaneous” demonstrations of their craft skills and
artistic abilities, their music and dance.82
Natives considered uncivilized and subject to a different juridical statute
coming from Angola, Mozambique and Portuguese Guinea, families from
Cape Verde, São Tomé and Principe, persons from India and Macao, the King of
Congo (Angola), his wife and daughter, and a chief of suco (a group of villages
from Timor), together with his wife, two sons and a male and female servant,
were put on display at the Colonial Section. People with western civilisation
habits and consumer patterns were placed side by side with the indigenous
people who were perceived as the main subject of the European civilizing mis-
sion, thus in need to become civilised through the catholic faith and the moral
duty of work. The function of the performance was clear: to translate the racial
and civilizational hierarchy within the Portuguese World. White, Catholic, and
Europeans were on the top of the hierarchy and were granted the privilege
to observe the others, even if they had already been “civilised.” How did the
different displayed living subjects understand and experience their journey to
Lisbon and their participation in the PWE, a performance created by white
colonialists? How to reach their point of view, emotions and agency is still in
need of theoretical and methodological reflection and innovative historical
research, but a postcolonial critique will not be achieved without the assump-
tion of the violence and coercion involved.
The exhibition of 138 colonised persons in “flesh and blood” served ideo-
logical and propaganda purposes, but also “scientific” purposes. The Colonial
Section was also a laboratory, where teams led by scientists, António de Almeida,
professor of the Colonial High Institute, and the zoologist Ricardo Jorge, direc-
tor of the Museum Barbosa du Bocage (Faculty of Sciences of Lisbon), mea-
sured the natives according to various parameters of physical anthropology.
81 On this junction of exoticism and knowledge in the “human zoos” see Pascal Blanchard,
Nicolas Bancel, Gilles Boëtsch, Éric Deroo and Sandrine Lemaire, “Human Zoos: The
Greatest Exotic Shows in the West,” in Human Zoos: Science and spectacle in the Age of
Colonial Empires (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2008), 16–21.
82 This more dynamic performance did not represent a true epistemological break with for-
mer human zoos: its more modern presentation only intended to demonstrate the ben-
efits of colonial development in visible form. Blanchard et al., “Human Zoos,” 36–37.
256 Castelo
Figure 8.7 Sewing lesson: Missionary sister of Mary with Mozambican women
and children at the Colonial Section of the PWE
PT/TT/EPJS/SF/001-001/0076/2323O
The victory of the “civilising race” was also accomplished through “scientific”
practice. While it is not possible to confirm if these scientists influenced the
decision to send these individuals back to their places of origin before the
winter came, it is certain that the PWE Executive Commission unanimously
decided so, arguing health reasons, in October 1940.83
If physical anthropologists benefitted from the exhibition, the technical
staff of the Colonial Agricultural Garden and Museum and the students of
Colonial Agronomy saw their work reduced to a minimum, or even interrupted.
The tensions and conflicts behind this suspension did not have public expres-
sion given the censorship and the repression that the dictatorship imposed,
but they were echoed in the colonial archive. Since the preparation stage of
the Colonial Section, the director of the Colonial Garden and the director of
the Colonial Section had a difficult relationship. Fragateiro blamed Galvão for
making decisions without his agreement while Galvão claimed that Fragateiro
was frequently away from the garden, working in a bank in downtown Lisbon,
and accused him of instructing Colonial Garden workers to not cooperate
with the Colonial Section.84 The Minister of the Colonies was informed of
this apparently irresolvable authority dispute.85 The director of the Colonial
Agriculture Museum was also relegated to a second plan. To make room for
the Tourism and Hunting pavilion, which displayed several embalmed wild
animals and a vast array of documentary photographs, the first floor of the
Colonial Agriculture Museum was emptied. The director’s complaints against
the construction of a false wall placed on the museum facade, which blocked
out all the natural light from the building’s interior and compromised the regu-
lar work of the Museum were not taken into account.86
The return of the Colonial Garden back to its teaching, experimentation,
and research mission, and its merger with the Colonial Agricultural Museum
in 1944, do not correspond to the future envisaged by Galvão – a permanent
“Popular Museum of the Colonies,” which in his regard “incomprehensibly does
not yet exist in the capital of the world’s third colonial power.”87 Galvão would
have liked to “do as much durable work as possible,” endowing the city with an
extra permanent attraction (next to the Jerónimos Monastery and the Torre
de Belém) and contributing to the strengthening of the “Portuguese colonial
spirit.”88 However, from the mid-1940s onwards, the scientific popularisation
of the colonies within this urban locale was modestly materialized by the exhi-
bition of agricultural and forestry products and ethnographic objects from the
colonies, mostly visited by student-visitors. The PWE took thousands of people
to these scientific spaces, but it was responsible for a long period of invisibility.
The Garden and Museum remained closed to the public for almost eight years
after the end of the exhibition. During this period repairs were carried out,
including the rehabilitation of the “settler house” (previously the headquarters
of the Colonial Section) and the colonial restaurant; the arrangements of the
stone staircase to access the Museum and the basalt cladding of the area near
the entrance gate; and the demolition of some of the structures built in the
space on purpose for the event.89 The eighteenth-century sculptures returned
to the garden in 1943. The pavilion of Angola and Mozambique built in perma-
nent materials was demolished by Fragateiro’s request arguing that the space
was necessary for an experimental agricultural field and a weather station.90
6 Conclusion
As with other colonial botanic gardens and museums in Europe’s imperial cen-
tres in the beginning of the twentieth century, Lisbon’s Colonial Garden and
the Colonial Agricultural Museum worked at the intersection of natural his-
tory, economy, and imperial propaganda. Independent but related institutions,
the Colonial Garden and Agricultural Museum shared similar and comple-
mentary purposes. They were laboratories in the capital of the Portuguese
empire; places of experimentation, study, and training for future colonial agri-
cultural workers and forestry engineers; nodes within an inter-imperial, and
international, scientific network responsible for the exchange of botanical
material with similar institutions abroad; and loci of propaganda of the eco-
nomic potentialities of the Portuguese colonies for the public at large and the
entrepreneurs.
In contrast with similar institutions across Europe, Lisbon’s Colonial Garden
and Colonial Agriculture Museum were located in, and mutually benefited
from, the heart of the most acknowledged and visited “site of national mem-
ory” in the country’s capital. The two institutions took advantage of Lisbon’s
symbolic status, “where nationalism and commemoration have been long
intertwined.”91 That said, the Colonial Garden and the Colonial Agricultural
Museum also reinforced Belém’s status as a “memory complex,” adding new
scientific and technological elements in the process, and thus connecting
Portugal’s territorial occupation and exploitation of colonial agriculture to a
constructed image of an historical past (“golden age of discoveries”) with a
desired future of rational economic development of the Portuguese empire
and subsequent international prestige.
As this chapter has shown, both the Garden and the Museum faced sev-
eral difficulties along their existence – scarce budget and lack of personnel,
but also the competition of more prestigious national botanical institutions,
in particular the Botanical Garden and the herbarium of the University of
Coimbra – and were not fully acknowledged as vital educational and scientific
institutions within the metropolis capable of transforming knowledge into
profit and power. Thus, it was for this reason that their presence in the city was
relatively unknown to the public before the 1940 PWE.
During the PWE, and amidst an unprecedented propaganda campaign by
the Estado Novo, Belém became a living stage glorifying Portugal’s colonial
empire at the heart of a major European metropolis; a miniature assemblage
exhibiting the natural, cultural, and human diversity from the Portuguese colo-
nies to a metropolitan public. The simulation of diversity via representations
of Portugal as a multi-continental nation was taken to an extreme, providing
many thousands of Portuguese who had never visited these colonies with an
immersive experience at an entirely unprecedented scale. After Portuguese
decolonisation (1975), the renamed Tropical Botanical Garden was integrated
as part of the Tropical Research Institute, which was itself the former Colonial
Research Institute. And since 2015, the Tropical Botanical Garden belongs to
the University of Lisbon.
Side by side, one observes a mid-seventeenth century baroque residential
palace, eighteenth century Italian and Portuguese sculptures, the centenary
European plant cover, tropical flora, greenhouses, the gardener’s house of the
early-twentieth century, the remains of the Colonial Section of the 1940 PWE
(part of the empire’s people busts, the Macao Arch, the settler house, the colo-
nial restaurant, or the raw materials pavilion), and subsequent interventions.
Until the beginning of 2020, no explanation or information was provided to its
visitors, leaving them confounded by the Garden’s historically eclectic archi-
tecture in the absence of its complex history.92 Lisbon’s Tropical Botanical
Garden, saturated with the vestiges of the empires’ politics, from the economic
program of colonial agriculture education and research to the ideological pro-
gram of imperial glorification with a “human zoo” included, calls for being fur-
ther decoded.
Acknowledgments
I thank Isabel Zilhão and João Machado for sharing information on the Diário
de Notícias and Diário de Lisboa. I am also grateful for the comments of the
VISLIS project’s members. This work was supported by Fundação para a
Ciência e a Tecnologia, Portugal, under Grants IF/00519/2013, PTDC/IVC-
HFC/3122/2014 and UIDB/00286/2020 and UIDP/00286/2020.
92 On the strangeness feeling in front of the empire’s people busts that remain in the
Tropical Botanical Garden, Ana Duarte Rodrigues, “A linguagem do império nas escul-
turas do Jardim Botânico Tropical em Lisboa,” Revista Brasileira de História da Mídia 5,
1(2016): 61–84.
Chapter 9
The “urban turn” in the history of science acknowledges that the “particular-
ities of urban contexts” affect the practice of scientific knowledge; in other
words, that science is a “product of the city.”1 Urban history of science analyses
the link between science and the city from different perspectives; among these,
we highlight the role of scientific experts in the regulation of urban space, the
function of scientific knowledge in the cultural representation of the city, and
the places of knowledge in the urban space.
From this historiographic standpoint, this chapter focuses on urban exhibi-
tions as a medium for urbanising scientific knowledge, a subject still underde-
veloped in the exploration of the connections between science and the city.
It analyses Lisbon’s urban renewal in the first half of the twentieth century
through the lens of the 1940 Exposição do Mundo Português (Portuguese
World Exhibition, and hereafter PWE). The exhibition, which took place in the
symbolic neighbourhood of Belém, the area from where the Portuguese fleets
left for the Atlantic and Indian Oceans’ exploration, served as the main axis
of the city’s modernisation.2 The urban restructuring was aimed at turning
1 Sven Dierig, Jens Lachmund and J. Andrew Mendelsohn, “Introduction: Toward an Urban
History of Science,” Osiris 18 (2003): 1–19, 3.
2 Although we can identify in the PWE some of the most defining features – such as signs
of national propaganda and cultural manifestations of modernity – of some contemporary
world’s fair – Paris (1937), Dusseldorf (1937), New York (1939–40), Tokyo (1940), and Rome
(1942) –, the 1940 Lisbon exhibition was not a world fair, but a national exposition. There is
an extensive bibliography on world expositions. Among them, see Robert W. Rydell, World
of Fairs: The Century-of-Progress Expositions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). As
Robert Kargon et al. have shown, the world’s fairs of the inter-war period used national sci-
entific and technological developments as a vehicle of modernity to flex their muscles in the
public showcase of science vis-à-vis other technological powers. Robert H. Kargon, Karen
Fiss, Morris Low, and Arthur Molella, World’s Fairs on the Eve of War: Science, Technology, and
Modernity, 1937–1942 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015). The political context
Lisbon into a modern capital of an extended colonial empire. In line with the
politics of the Estado Novo (New State) dictatorship, the city’s renovation and
expansion was informed by the historical vision at the core of the regime’s
ideology. The focus of this historical vision was the so-called Portuguese Age
of Discoveries in the beginning of Europe’s maritime expansion in the fif-
teenth century. This chapter shows how and why its related scientific sym-
bols were urbanised in Lisbon’s major modernisation. Foremost among these
was the armillary sphere, an astronomic model of the cosmos turned into a
national symbol.
The dictatorship of António de Oliveira Salazar (Estado Novo) was the political
regime which governed Portugal from 1933 to 1974.3 Under this dictatorship the
national commemorations and exhibitions were fundamental for the politi-
cal construction of a national identity.4 These tools of propaganda played a
major role in the regime’s political agenda, mostly through the Secretariado de
Propaganda Nacional (National Propaganda Secretariat) led by António Ferro,
and were used to enforce social cohesion and ideological normalization.5 And
in which the PWE was held, its use of science and the strong historical perspective present in
the exhibition allow comparisons to be drawn with the Rome World’s Fair (EUR) scheduled
for 1942, an exhibition that was never held due to the consequences of the Second World
War for Mussolini’s Italy. Both exhibitions took place under dictatorial regimes. However, as
Geert Somsen has recently pointed out, the Rome exhibition was intended to vindicate the
universal and international character of science – highlighting the Italian contribution to the
history of science – as an instrument of foreign policy. See Geert Somsen, “Science, Fascism,
and Foreign Policy: The Exhibition “Scienza Universale” at the 1942 Rome World’s Fair,” Isis
108, 4 (2017): 769–791. The Lisbon exhibition, on the other hand, had a much more local and
national character, symbolically claiming the achievements of Portuguese science for the
construction of the colonial empire. More similarities can be found, however, in the urban
planning strategy of both exhibitions, but for lack of space this subject cannot be analysed
in this chapter.
3 “Estado Novo” (New State) is the self-titled name of the regime. The adjective ‘New’ was
used to stress the presidential, authoritarian and anti-parliamentary identity of the regime
as opposed to liberalism, a broad concept in which were included both the Constitutional
Monarchy (1820–1910) and the First Republic (1910–1926). The regime´s use of the scientific
past of Portugal through its urbanism and the PWE is connected with this idea.
4 See Margarida Acciaiuoli, Exposições do Estado Novo, 1934–1940 (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte,
1998).
5 Augusto de Castro, the general commissioner of the PWE, openly declared that one of the
main roles of the exhibition was propaganda. Augusto de Castro, A exposição do mundo
português e a sua finalidade nacional (Lisboa: Edição da Empresa Nacional de Publicidade,
1940). This idea was also explicit in the twenty-four issues of the Revista dos Centenários,
Urbanising the History of “ Discoveries ” 263
among the most notable variety of tools used for this purpose was the PWE,
the most ambitious national exhibition of the Estado Novo. The PWE was, in
Ellen W. Sapega’s words, “an excellent example of the commemorative impulse
put at the service of communicating an official view of national culture.”6 In
other words, the PWE embodied a rich source of historical, political, economic,
religious, and scientific representations. Moreover, it delivered an open-air
lesson in history aimed at normalising the regime’s ideology through the so-
called “política do espírito” (politics of the spirit), a designation for Ferro’s pro-
paganda of national identity, exceptionality, and pride, which was ultimately
built on the myth of the eternity of Portugal’s colonial empire.7
For Alberto de Oliveira, the Portuguese ambassador to Brussels and first
promoter of the PWE, the year of 1940 should serve as the year to “recreate
ourselves [the Portuguese].”8 Thus, the official aim of the exhibition was to
definitely sacralise the so-called “Portugueseness,” ritualising a kind of nation-
alism aimed at surpassing the decadence attributed to the previous republican
regime (1910–1926).9 This “Portugueseness” was founded on dichotomies, such
as the metropolis and the colonies, the humility of Portuguese people and the
Portuguese civilizing vocation, and the traditional as opposed to the modern.10
These oppositions composed a “museology’s park with a historicist vain”11 that
taught its visitors “how to be Portuguese.”12 In reality, it served to glorify the
monthly published between 1 January and 31 December 1939 for informing about the
working progress of the PWE.
6 Ellen W. Sapega, Consensus and Debate in Salazar’s Portugal. Visual and Literary
Negotiations of the National Text, 1933–1948 (University Park: Pennsylvania State UP,
2008), 41.
7 See Fernando Guedes, António Ferro e a sua Política do Espírito (Lisboa: Academia
Portuguesa da História, 1997).
8 Alberto de Oliveira, “1140-1640-1940,” Revista dos Centenários, 1 (January 1939): 9–11, 9.
9 David Corkill and José Carlos Pina Almeida have been pointing out the role of the PWE
in surpassing the widespread feeling of decadence and anti-nationalism. See David
Corkill and José C.P. Almeida, “Commemoration and Propaganda in Salazar’s Portugal:
The ‘Mundo Português’ Exposition of 1940,” Journal of Contemporary History, 44, 3 (2009):
381–399.
10 The idea of a civilizing mission was a typical rhetoric used by imperial nations to jus-
tify their colonial politics. For example, the planned science exhibition at the 1942 Rome
World’s Fair had also the final aim of expressing fascist Italy’s civilizing mission. See
Somsen, “Science, Fascism, and Foreign Policy”.
11 Elsa Peralta, “A composição de um complexo de memória: O caso de Belém, Lisboa,” in
Cidade e Império. Dinâmicas coloniais e reconfigurações pós-coloniais, eds. Nuno Domingos
and Elsa Peralta (Lisboa: Edições 70, 2013), 361–407, 381.
12 J.C. Pina Almeida, “Memória e identidade nacional: as comemorações públicas, as grandes
exposições e o processo de (re)construção da nação,” in Congresso Luso-Afro-Brasileiro de
Ciências Sociais 8 (Coimbra: Universidade de Coimbra, 2004), 1–27, 9.
264 Godinho and Sánchez
Figure 9.1 Plan of the Portuguese World Exhibition of 1940 (“1140 Exposição do Mundo
Português 1940”). Perspective of Fred Kradolfer (1940)
Photographer: Mário Novais’ Studio. In Art Library – Fundação
Calouste Gulbenkian (CFT003.023751.ic)
artists.17 The exhibition was articulated along three main thematic axes – his-
tory, metropolitan ethnography, and colonial ethnography – and in two oro-
graphic planes – one close to the river Tagus and the other further way into
the Belém neighbourhood (Figure 9.1). The exhibition was composed of ten
pavilions (Foundation, Formation and Conquest, Independence, Discoveries,
Colonization, Brazil,18 Lisbon, Portuguese people in the World, Sea and Earth,
and Crafts and Industry), and other monuments and spaces (House of Saint
Anthony, Commercial and Industrial Neighbourhood, Regional Centre,
Monument of the Discoveries, Portugal Ship, Garden of the Poets, Playground,
Reflecting Pool, Amusement Park) (see chapters 8 and 14 in this volume). In
17 The Diário de Notícias is one of the oldest and largest print run newspaper in Portugal. It
has a tradition of being close to governmental positions.
18 Brazil was the only country invited to join the exhibition. According to Maria Isabel João,
it was due to the diplomatic efforts of the regime to foster good relations with the old
colony. Maria Isabel João, Memória e Império. Comemorações em Portugal (1880–1960)
(Lisboa: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian and Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia,
Ministério da Ciência e do Ensino Superior, 2002), 456.
266 Godinho and Sánchez
general, a team consisting of a director, one or more architects, and other col-
laborators including engineers, sculptors, decorators, navy officials, and his-
torians, was responsible for the construction of each pavilion and of each
monument.19
The predominant historical epoch represented in the PWE was the fifteenth-
century imperial maritime expansion, which was translated into a variety of
spaces, monuments, symbols, and other elements, among which were the
Pavilhão e Esfera dos Descobrimentos (Discoveries Pavilion and Sphere), the
Praça do Império (Empire Square), the Padrão dos Descobrimentos (Monument
of the Discoveries) and the Nau Portugal (Portugal Ship). The focus was on the
aspects and symbolic reminiscences directly or allusively linked to the history
of the maritime expansion, and more concretely to its techno-scientific realm,
that is, to the practices and techniques behind the so-called “Discoveries,”
which mostly dealt with navigation and cosmography. Among the scientific
symbols represented, it was the armillary sphere that stood out from the rest.
While the rest of Europe was living through very dark times (with the end
of the Civil War in Spain and the beginning of the World War II), Portugal
began the celebrations of the country’s eight centuries of national history.
On 2 December, five months after its opening and roughly 3,000,000 visitors
according to official records, the PWE closed its doors.
After the end of the Portuguese Monarchy (1910), the Republican regime ruled
until the coup d’état of 1926. Under the pretext of growing political, social, and
economic instability, the Estado Novo was established in 1933, a dictatorship
sympathetic with the fascist regimes of Europe. The 1930s is the decade of
the dictatorship consolidation. While the glorification of the national/histori-
cal past was a continuation of its Republican predecessor, for Estado Novo it
served to consecrate the political and identitarian foundations of Salazarism:
imperialism, colonialism, Catholicism, corporatism, regionalism, and tradi-
tionalism. Therefore, the regime used the commemorations of 1940 to build
a new capital city in its own image. Within the framework of the “politics of
19 For an account on the organization (themes and pavilions) of the exhibition see Guia
Oficial da Exposição do Mundo Português (Lisboa: Litografia de Portugal, 1940); Guia
da Exposição do Mundo Português (Lisboa: Neogravura, 1940); “Exposição do Mundo
Português,” Revista dos Centenários 19–20, 17–31; Henrique Galvão, Catálogo da Secção
Colonial (Lisboa: Comissão Nacional dos Centenários, 1940).
Urbanising the History of “ Discoveries ” 267
the spirit,” this renovation also meant an increase of public statuary and the
commission to a new stream of Portuguese artists (considered the first gen-
eration of modernists who innovatively represented the historical revisionism
of the Estado Novo).
The year of 1940 became an opportunity for the culmination and materi-
alization of the historico-ideological vision of the regime, synthetising, in the
words of the regime’s architects, “the civilizing action of the Portuguese in
the World’s History.”20 In this context, the PWE constituted a key piece in
Lisbon’s plan of urban renovation, which aimed at building a new imperial
capital. This renewed image of the city started in the historical neighbourhood
of Belém, in the civil parish of Santa Maria de Belém, located in the south-
western part of Lisbon.21 Belém inspired the new urban politics of the Estado
Novo, led by the engineer Duarte Pacheco,22 Minister of Public Works and
Communications (between 1932–1936 and 1938–1943), president of Lisbon’s
City Council (1938), and member of the Double Centenary Commission.23
The new urban politics, with a strong sculptural and commemorative char-
acter, used Belém as an urban laboratory to experiment with the dictatorship’s
various ideological representations. In other words, Belém was built as a “sym-
bolic city of the History of Portugal”24 and a “nation’s representation space.”
20 For Fernando Catroga the regime success in the 1930s was celebrated in the commemora-
tions of 1940 “thought to stage the apotheosis of the regime started in 1926.” F. Catroga,
“Ritualizações da História,” in História da História de Portugal, sécs. XIX–XX (Lisboa:
Círculo de Leitores, 1996), 579–601, 579. Catroga also argues that the PWE “arises as the
logical consequence of the previous movement” of other international exhibitions of the
1930s, 585.
21 Belém is the Portuguese word for Bethlehem (today located in the West Bank, Palestine)
which means birth and origin. Marcus Power and James D. Sidaway, “Deconstructing
twinned towers: Lisbon’s Expo ’98 and the occluded geographies of discovery,” Social &
Cultural Geography 6, 6 (2005): 865–883, 870. According to Raphael Bluteau, Belém is
“where Infante D. Henriques […] started the discovery of new seas and lands”. Bluteau,
Vocabulario Portuguez e Latino, Vol. 2 (Coimbra: Collegio das Artes da Companhia de
Jesus, 1712), 88.
22 For a deeper account about the plans and the public and urban works of Duarte Pacheco,
see Sandra Almeida, O Pais a régua e esquadro. Urbanismo, arquitectura e memória na
obra pública de Duarte Pacheco (PhD dissertation, Universidade de Lisboa, 2009). For the
urban plans that transformed the Belém neighbourhood for the PWE see pages 207–301.
See also Margarida Sousa Lobo, Planos de Urbanização. A Época de Duarte Pacheco (Porto:
FAUP, 1995).
23 It is important to mention that the Direcção-Geral dos Edifícios e Monumentos Nacionais
(General Directorate of Buildings and National Monuments), created in 1929, was also
under the control of the Minister of the Public Works and Communications.
24 Also called the “mythical city” and “historical city.” Augusto de Castro, “Inauguração da
exposição do mundo português,” Revista dos Centenários 19–20 (1940): 10–15, 10.
268 Godinho and Sánchez
The ideological staging within which Belém was built can be seen as a singular
space of experimentation where architects and artists translated, and shaped,
the myths constructed by the regime.25 The ephemeral character of the PWE
was seized by Cottinelli Telmo as an opportunity for an architectural vanguard-
ism that potentiated the aesthetic experimentation of spaces and images. In
this way, there was a condensation of the Estado Novo’s version of the past
and the urban plan for the future of Lisbon as an imperial capital.26 As Marina
Tavares Dias put it, 1940 was considered “the year of great material and spiri-
tual accomplishments of New State.”27
Given its historical character, and its propagandistic and pedagogic aims,
the decision on where to place the PWE was crucial.28 The chosen location
was the emblematic neighbourhood of Belém, between the Mosteiro dos
Jerónimos (Jerónimos Monastery) and the Tagus River. Considering that mari-
time expansion and the Portuguese Colonial Empire were central themes of
the PWE, and that the Tagus represented a living link of its history, there could
hardly be any other place with greater symbolic weight. In other words, “the
area of Belém is the place of the city of Lisbon where the Portuguese empire’s
public memory is more expressively inscribed.”29 Being an open-air museum,
the PWE simulated a mythical trip to the age of “Discoveries.” On one hand,
the Tagus River was considered a “subtle intromission in the symbolic uni-
verse of the Portuguese people.”30 On the other hand, the historicity of the
25 About the work of Cottinelli Telmo and other architects in the PWE see Joana Pereira,
“A exposição Histórica do Mundo Português e os seus arquitectos. Subsídios para a melhor
compreensão da Arquitectura Nacional no dealbar da década de 40,” Revista Arquitectura
Lusíada 7 (2015): 93–108.
26 According to Fernando Catroga the main aim of the commemorations was “to consecrate
Portugal as an Empire”. F. Catroga, “Ritualizações da História,” in História da História de
Portugal, sécs. XIX–XX (Lisboa: Círculo de Leitores, 1996), 598.
27 Marina Tavares Dias, Lisboa desaparecida, vol. 5 (Lisboa: Quimera, 1996), 194.
28 The choice of Belém for commemorations of Portuguese historical events was not new.
From the end of the nineteenth century several commemorations took place in this neigh-
bourhood, as the case of the Commemorations of the Tercentenary of Camões (1880) and
the Commemorations of the 4th Centenary of the Discovery of the Maritime Route to
India (1894), among others. Elsa Peralta, “A composição de um complexo de memória:
O caso de Belém, Lisboa,” in Cidade e Império. Dinâmicas coloniais e reconfigurações pós-
coloniais, eds. Nuno Domingos and Elsa Peralta (Lisboa: Edições 70, 2013), 372–373.
29 Peralta, “A composição,” 367. Peralta interprets the neighbourhood of Belém as a “com-
plex of memory,” a “mnemonic complex,” in short, a “symbolic synthesis of the national
identity” where the Portuguese public memory is set up since the nineteenth century.
30 Inês Felgueiras, “1940. A Exposição do Mundo Português,” Oceanos 6 (1991): 38–44, 39.
Augusto de Castro words are suggestive: “It seems to me that from the first moment on
an Exhibition of the Portuguese World, which is to say, an Exhibition of the History of
Portugal, couldn’t turn away from the Tejo’s life, which is our highway, the historical path
Urbanising the History of “ Discoveries ” 269
space was fostered by two Manueline emblems that symbolized the time of the
empire’s formation, linked to the reign of Manuel I (1495–1521): the Jerónimos
Monastery and the Belém Tower.31
The choice of Belém was not free from controversy; the decision implied
the expropriation, eviction and demolition of some areas of the old neigh-
bourhood.32 Examples of this were the quarters annexed to the future Praça
do Império (Empire Square, former Vasco da Gama Square) and the area sur-
rounding the Belém Tower, whose gas factory was moved to the Matinha area,
situated in the eastern side of the city.33 Before the PWE, Belém was a periph-
eral neighbourhood of the city connected to the urban core of Lisbon through
Rua de Belém (Belém Street), a fishing based locality whose commerce activity
was rooted on the raw fluvial beaches. Nevertheless, it was an emblematic area
connected to the symbolic imperialism of the Monastery (legitimised in 1907
as a national monument) and the Tower. Both monuments were used in the
official discourse to justify the demolition of the surrounding houses: mainly
the three southern neighbourhoods of the Vieira Portuense Street (formerly
Cais da Cadeia Street) and a few houses on Belém Street (the ones which were
closest to the monastery where the future Empire Square was planned).34 The
demolition decision moulded the future growth of the south-western area
of the city. The strategy behind the PWE was to reurbanize Belém, highligh
ting the expansionist heritage of the fifteenth- and sixteenth centuries (lead by
the aforementioned monuments) to the detriment of the later urban develop-
ment. For such a purpose, a modernist aesthetic (mixing the traditional and
the modern) was applied, as is the case of the Padrão dos Descobrimentos
(Monument of the Discoveries, a monument that symbolically synthetized the
exhibition).
Everything started in 1938 when Duarte Pacheco (mayor of Lisbon and
the leader behind the reconstruction of the city) elected the urbanization of
Belém as the springboard behind the creation of a new capital of an extended
of our immortality, geographic centre of our Latin and Atlantic civilization.” Augusto de
Castro, A exposição do mundo português e a sua finalidade nacional (Lisboa: Edição da
Empresa Nacional de Publicidade, 1940), 15.
31 The Jerónimos Monastery was declared a national monument in 1907, and in 1983 the
Jerónimos Monastery and Belém Tower were inscribed in the List of World Heritage of
UNESCO.
32 Dias, Lisboa desaparecida, 202.
33 This move and the consequent urban renovation of the Belém Tower was planned for the
PWE but took place years later.
34 For a detailed description of the demolished areas see Helena Elias, “A emergência de um
espaço de representação: arte pública e transformações urbanas na zona ribeirinha de
Belém,” On the w@terfront 6 (2004): 43–135, 96.
270 Godinho and Sánchez
colonial empire. This urban expansion was based on the vision of the French
architect Alfred Agache who, in 1936, envisioned the new city expanding along
the marginal road of Lisbon-Cascais “facing the river, enamoured by the sea.”35
Following Agache’s study, Pacheco invited the Polish urbanist Étienne De
Groër, who collaborated with the engineer António Emídio Abrantes to carry
out the “Plan of Urbanization and Expansion of Lisbon between 1938–1940”
(see chapter 4 in this volume). The extension of Lisbon translated the ideologi-
cal foundations of the regime into urbanism, architecture, and art.36 As will be
demonstrated in what follows, the organization of urban space accorded with
differences in social class, thus reflecting the dictatorship’s hierarchical struc-
ture for the Portuguese society. Similarly, “public art” was used as an urban
device to instil values and shape social environment and in this case for a ped-
agogy of glorification of the nation’s history.37 It is via this urban-pedagogic
goal that some of the scientific symbols fashioned in the PWE were integrated
in the construction of the city. Such is the case regarding the armillary sphere.
In June 1938, the new Bairro Económico (Economic Neighbourhood) of
Belém was strategically opened, consisting of a set of houses aimed at revital-
ising the area.38 This was the beginning of a strategy for the partial destruction
of the old neighbourhood, resulting in a dramatic eviction of families and busi-
nesses, which were denied the right to protest and given minimal compensa-
tion. In a political context of censorship and repression, a dissenting voice for
urban and political contestation was the newspaper, Ecos de Belém. Although
isolated, this case expressed popular disapproval regarding the people’s urban,
cultural, and commercial loss of estate.39 Attempting to justify the evictions,
control the climate of unrest, neutralize any opposition, and save the image of
35 “A Cidade Futura: o plano do urbanista Agache para modernizar Lisboa tem a concordân-
cia do Governo”. Diário de Lisboa, 2 July 1936. See Paula André, “As cidades da cidade.
Lisboa na primeira metade do séc. XX: nova Lisboa (1936) e Lisboa nova (1948),” Urbana:
Revista Eletrônica do Centro Interdisciplinar de Estudos sobre a Cidade 7, 1 (December 2015):
89–111, 100.
36 Vasco Brito and Catarina Teles Ferreira Camarinhas, “Elementos para o estudo do Plano
de Urbanização da Cidade de Lisboa (1938),” Cadernos do Arquivo Municipal 9 (2007):
162–189.
37 See architect Paulino Montez in H. Elias, Arte pública e instituições do Estado Novo – Arte
pública das Administrações central e local do Estado Novo em Lisboa: Sistemas de enco-
menda da CML e do MOPC/MOP (1938–1960), PhD dissertation, University of Barcelona,
2006.
38 Dias, Lisboa desaparecida, 179 and ff. The book section devoted to Belém presents a set of
photographs that clearly show the urban area before and after the transformations made
by the PWE.
39 Dias, Lisboa desaparecida, 165 and 184.
Urbanising the History of “ Discoveries ” 271
40 Some local press reinforced this image, as the case of the Revista Municipal owned by the
city council. The words of Matos Sequeira are relevant: “The urbanization of the chosen
area implied a severe set of problems and difficult works, expropriations, street making,
paving, gardening, lighting, all essential for transmuting the undisciplined urban fringe,
provisional gardens and rough lands, uncultivated and abandoned, in an urban centre of
exhibition”. Sequeira, “A acção da Câmara Municipal de Lisboa na Exposição do Mundo
Português,” Revista Municipal II, 6 (1940): 24–26, 25.
41 Elias, “A emergência,” 94. There is no need to insist on the fact that the PWE was an issue
of “public utility” for the regime.
42 The thesis about the PWE’s lasting imprint on the Belém neighbourhood was defended
in recent works. See Pedro Nobre, “Belém e a Exposição do Mundo português. Cidade,
Urbanidade e Património Urbano” (Master dissertation, Universidade NOVA de Lisboa,
2010). This work analyses the urban transformations in the Belém neighbourhood before,
during and after the PWE.
43 In the providential rhetoric of the regime, the opening was a miracle, the “miracle of
Belém”. Sequeira, “A acção,” 25.
44 Sequeira, “A acção,” 26.
45 About the tempest, see, for instance, the issues of 16 and 23 February 1941 of Diário de
Notícias.
46 Others as Elsa Peralta had highlighted the “lasting impact” of the PWE in the “configu-
ration of Belém as a space of mystification of Portuguese national identity”. Peralta, “A
composição,” 362.
272 Godinho and Sánchez
Figure 9.2a Aerial image of the Belém area before the PWE
Photography from Arquivo Municipal de Lisboa (Municipal
Archive of Lisbon) (MBM000040)
History was the main tool of the politics of memory and national identity
intended to legitimize Salazar’s dictatorship. It glorified selected historical
periods and elements as part of a teleological narrative culminating in the
Estado Novo.47 The central tenet of this mythical history was Portugal’s mari-
time expansion (the so-called “Discoveries”),48 in which techno-scientific ele-
ments played a significant role.49 If the use of history and all the symbolism
of the location chosen for the PWE have already been discussed at length in
scholarly works, the role of science in the ideological construction of the exhi-
bition has not yet attracted much attention.
Central to every national celebration since 1880 – then mostly by the
republicans – the imperial dream, now appropriated by the Estado Novo,
proved useful once again considering political opposition and helpful in the
fabrication of a national consensus. Its seductive appeal accounted for the
regime’s political growing support despite divergences and was at the core of
the regime’s propaganda. As a result, a massive symbolic production ensued.
Instruments like the press, arts, cinema, commemorations, and, as we here
propose, urbanism, were used to ritualise the history of the “Discoveries” –
understood as the mythical genesis of the empire. As historian Fernando
Catroga pointed out, the focus on maritime expansion evidenced the “crucial
importance of the African problem for the regime,” which directly or indirectly
determined “the course of the most significant propagandistic manifesta-
tions of New State.” Considering that “summoners are the ones which conse-
crate themselves,” the commemorations were therefore used by the regime as
47 For a detailed study of the commemorative fever about the discoveries’ memory between
1880 and 1960 as a tool for the collective memory and national-imperialistic identity, see
Maria Isabel João, Memória e Império. Comemorações em Portugal (1880–1960), (Lisboa:
Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian and Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia, Ministério
da Ciência e do Ensino Superior, 2002).
48 According to Paulo S. Polanah the link between the maritime expansion and the “forma-
tion of the modern Portuguese national identity” came from the idea of colonial empire
built during the nineteenth century. Polanah, “‘The Zenith of our National History!’
National identity, colonial empire, and the promotion of the Portuguese Discoveries:
Portugal 1930s,” E-Journal of Portuguese History 9, 1 (2011): 1–24, 2.
49 According to Arlindo Manuel Caldeira the New State’s official history of Portugal was
opposed to change and stuck to traditional values, a messianic, providential, discon-
tinuous, Manichean, and ethnocentric history that overestimates the individual hero.
See Caldeira, “O poder e a memória nacional. Heróis e vilãos na mitologia salazarista,”
Penélope 15 (1995): 121–139.
274 Godinho and Sánchez
50 Catroga, “Ritualizações,” 580–587; Catroga, Nação, Mito e Rito. Religião Civil e Comemora
cionismo (EUA, França e Portugal) (Fortaleza: Edições NUDOC/Museu do Ceará, 2005),
126 and ff.
51 The sources used for this historical reconstruction of Portuguese science were not dif-
ficult to find. Since at least the last quarter of the nineteenth century, several Portuguese
historians have analysed the theme of Portuguese science in maritime expansion. In
1940 these studies already had a solid establishment through works of some central
figures of Portuguese historiography, such as Luciano Cordeiro, Sousa Viterbo, Ernesto
de Vasconcelos, Luciano Pereira da Silva, Joaquim Bensaúde, António Barbosa, Abel
Fontoura da Costa, and Carlos Viegas Gago Coutinho, among others. The works of these
authors were the basis of the scientific material exhibited at PWE, which was consulted,
by the way, by experts such as Quirino da Fonseca, who conceived the contents of the
Discoveries Pavilion and Sphere.
52 “Exposição,” 22; Guia da Exposição, no page. Previously, in 1923, the future president of the
Junta de Educação Nacional (Board of National Education) and the Instituto para a Alta
Cultura (Institute for High Culture), Augusto Celestino da Costa, defended the decisive
character of science in the Portuguese expansionist process, and consequently that of
Portugal’s fundamental role in modern civilization. See A. Costa, “O problema da investi-
gação scientífica em Portugal,” Homens Livres 2, 12 (December 1923), 3–4.
53 One of the few articles on the representation of science (in this case, contemporary sci-
ence and scientific politics, not historical science) in the New State political discourse is
Tiago Brandão, “A representação da Ciência no discurso político do Estado Novo,” in O
eterno retorno: estudos em homenagem a António Reis, eds. Maria Inácia Rezola and Pedro
Aires Oliveira (Lisboa: Campo da Comunicação, 2013), 545–561.
54 See Léonard, “Le Portugal”. Léonard uses the expression “stone sentinels” used by the
French writer and aviator Antoine de Saint-Exupéry to refer to the statues of Portuguese
poets, explorers, and conquerors represented at PWE. The author of the famous novel The
Little Prince (1943) was one of PWE’s distinguished visitors, and considered that “every-
thing was close to perfection,” and that Lisbon it was “a clear and sad paradise.” Quoted
in Léonard, “Le Portugal,” 27. The visit of important foreign personalities and the impact
that PWE had outside Portugal is an interesting question, but it goes beyond the limits
Urbanising the History of “ Discoveries ” 275
In 1940, the presence of the armillary sphere in the urban landscape of Lisbon
was not new. The model was represented in historical monuments such as
the Jerónimos Monastery and the Belém Tower. Moreover, since the end of
the nineteenth century and mostly during the Republican regime – when the
symbol was integrated in the national flag – the sphere was significantly
reproduced in the city’s public space. However, the urban presence of the
symbol increased significantly by virtue of the PWE. Controlling national sym-
bols allowed the political elites to control the past and regulate social order,
using them as instruments for legitimating and sacralising their position of
power.56 However, to generate consensus, national symbols required an open
and ambiguous polysemy. For the Estado Novo, the armillary sphere signified
the colonial empire – an appropriation from the Republican regime that lent
of this chapter. For example, on PWE echoes in England, see David Corkill, “The Double
Centenary Commemorations of 1940 in the Context of Anglo-Portuguese Relations,” in
Os descobrimentos portugueses no mundo de língua inglesa, 1880–1972, ed. Teresa Pinto
Coelho (Lisboa: Edições Colibri, 2005), 143–166. M.I. João referred to those sentinels as
“discovering heroes” and “conquering heroes” who personalized the epic and built the
empire. Among the first highlights are the figures of Vasco da Gama, Pedro Álvares Cabral,
and Fernão de Magalhães. Between the seconds the figure of Afonso de Albuquerque. See
João, Memória, 701 and ff.
55 The naturalistic motifs coming from the “Discoveries”, such as the elephants of India,
were frequent at PWE. In addition, flora and fauna played a prominent role “at the ser-
vice of the scientific expansion of the Portuguese Overseas” in the East Room (Sala do
Oriente) in the Colonization Pavilion. Guia da Exposição, no page.
56 Gabriella Elgenius, Symbols of Nations and Nationalism: Celebrating Nationhood
(Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 63.
276 Godinho and Sánchez
57 José M. Gomes, Educação Moral e Cívica: Para todas as classes do Ensino Primário (Lisboa:
Livraria Popular, 1941), 47.
58 J.M. Gomes, Educação Moral e Cívica, 47.
59 O Século (June 1940), 365.
60 Guia da Exposição; Sequeira, Mundo Português. Imagens de uma Exposição Histórica 1940
(Lisboa: Oficina Gráfica, Neogravura e Litografia Nacional, 1956), offprint.
61 The unexpected death of Quirino da Fonseca led Cottinelli Telmo to play a major role
in the realization of these pavilions, who, in turn, counted on the advice of Fontoura
da Costa, Gago Coutinho, Damião Peres, and Manuel Múrias, all of them historians and
naval officers with a strong vocation for the history of maritime expansion.
62 As in the case of the Monument of the Discoveries, the Portugal Ship, a technological
symbol of Portuguese maritime expansion, will be analysed elsewhere.
63 Costa Lima, “A Beleza das Exposições Comemorativas,” Brotéria (December 1940), 636.
Urbanising the History of “ Discoveries ” 277
Figure 9.3 Esfera dos Descobrimentos (Discoveries Sphere). This monumental building in
the shape of an armillary sphere was 30 meters in diameter and 24 meters high.
(1940), “Exposição do Mundo Português”
FUNDAÇÃO MÁRIO SOARES/ARQUIVO MÁRIO SOARES, PERMANENT
EXHIBITION PHOTOGRAPHY, http://hdl.handle.net/11002/fms_dc
_114733 (20202-1-16)
upper circles.64 The zodiac band was composed of the detailed constellations
of Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, and Virgo; each represented by relief
figures. This starry order suggested the submission of the individual to the
nation, as in the widespread regime’s slogan “everything for the nation, noth-
ing against the nation,” and the submission of the different colonies (qua the
different constellations) to the same political structure (qua the sphere itself).
A coeval cartoon pictured this submissive meaning of the zodiac figures.65
As in an armillary sphere, at the centre in the interior of the Discoveries
Sphere stood a terrestrial globe, a “great spinning globe” that “inscribed the
expressed the myth of the Portuguese golden age of “Discoveries,” which the
regime connected to the justification of the colonial empire. These ideological
associations, however, were already present before the PWE, as can be seen
with the magazine O Mundo Português published since 1934. Its cover included
an armillary sphere, and the journal’s aim was to arouse the public’s interest in
the exploitation of the colonies by promoting a so-called “imperial mystique.”74
Therefore, we argue that the most prominent symbol representing the idea
of the (colonial) Portuguese world was indeed the armillary sphere.
The plan for the Discoveries Sphere changed up until its official installation
for the exhibition. On 3 February 1939, the PWE commissary Augusto de Castro
published a text stating that there would be a “Great Sphere,” which “repre-
sents our Historical World” complementing a “preview of future Lisbon.”75 This
vision, presented as the apex of the PWE and part of the Pavilion of Lisbon,
consisted of a “huge, embossed model of the Lisbon of the future, [including]
the new Europe’s airport.” In this model, the old seaport, the point of departure
of the voyages of exploration, was connected to the new airport, from which
airplanes flying to all parts of the world departed. Old and new routes illumi-
nated the course of Portuguese history and by implication that of the world,
such that light connected, both metaphorically and literally, the routes of
the Historical World’s Sphere and the Vision of Future Lisbon. Although in the
PWE the Pavilion of Lisbon and the Sphere became two different buildings,
the luminous technology worked as a metaphorical device for the modernity
brought about by the Portuguese “Discoveries.” The game of darkness and light
in the interior of the Discoveries Sphere was also accentuated: “an amazing
dream voyage across the enlightened ways of History.”76
Moreover, the same light metaphor was used in the opening speech of the
Commemorations by Salazar on 4 June 1940. The dictator stated that Portugal’s
civilizing values were “guiding principles of universal action … irradiating
beams of light which enlightened the World.”77 In the exhibition catalogue
published sixteen years later, the Discoveries Sphere was described as “the
magnificent globe, whose interior was illuminated more by our wonder than
Figure 9.5 Image of the statue called “sovereignty” with an armillary sphere in the hands and
other armillary spheres at the top of the Portuguese people in the World’s pavilion
(Portuguese World Exhibition, 1940). The architect responsible for the pavilion
was Cottinelli Telmo and the author of the sculpture Leopoldo de Almeida
Photography from Mário Novais studio. In Art Library – Fundação
Calouste Gulbenkian (CFT003.061407.ic)
282 Godinho and Sánchez
by the splendour of its light, in which the Portuguese navigation routes, pro-
genitors of the modern world, were inscribed.”78 The light technology of the
twentieth century together with the astronomical technology of the fifteenth
century were thus mixed in this ideological cocktail in order to glorify the
Estado Novo and its colonial politics.
Besides the Discoveries Sphere, the representation of the armillary sphere
abounded in the PWE: from its appearance in many structures and a panoply of
promotional materials to a decorative ornament in many pavilions (Figure 9.5),
as well as other featured objects of the exhibition such as Portuguese pave-
ment. Examples of this myriad representation are the three large panels of
Portuguese sidewalk in the Empire Square (see chapter 1 in this volume), the
sculpture of the time zones in the Colonial Section, and the streetlamps used
in the exhibition.
The model of the armillary sphere most frequently used was a particular
ornament designed for the elite’s “income buildings,” and not only in Lisbon but
also throughout the country.80 This model was an ornament for the iron balcony
guards of the buildings’ windows that consisted of two metallic spheres of less
than a foot in length in each of its corners.81 It is likely that one of the first uses
of this ornament was in Areeiro Square (Figure 9.6), which was planned by the
architect Luís Cristino da Silva in 1938.82 Both its main tower and the adjacent
buildings include, to this day, an armillary sphere in the balconies of the first
floor. Afterwards, the same model was applied in many buildings constructed
in Lisbon, such as the buildings along the Sidónio Pais and António Augusto
Aguiar Avenues – considered to be the prototype of the regime’s “Português
Suave” (Soft Portuguese) architectural style, which mixed the modern and
the traditional.83 Other examples include the “Bairro dos Actores” (Actors
Neighborhood) and other buildings around D. Afonso Henriques Avenue and
António Sardinha Square in Penha de França.84 In an interview, Cristino da
Silva asserted the regime’s control over the city’s architecture stating that it
“imposed the condition of being city-like, of being Lisboner” and that it was
“very hard for an artist to embrace modern architecture and simultaneously
represent in its façades the architecture of a past epoch.”85 This statement
suggests that the use of the balcony spheres was a reference to the bygone
“Discoveries” age. Once more, as in the PWE, the armillary sphere was fash-
ioned as the scientific symbol of colonial expansion.
The second most prominent armillary sphere model used during the renova-
tion of the city can be found in entertainment and service buildings. This model
consisted of a large armillary sphere as a finial in the top of many buildings
80 These representations of the armillary sphere representation have not been addressed in
any study, but they can be integrated into what Inês Marques defines as “Public Art”. See
Inês Maria Andrade Marques, “Arte e Habitação em Lisboa 1945–1965: Cruzamentos entre
desenho urbano, arquitetura e arte pública” (PhD diss., University of Barcelona, 2012), 34.
81 The wrought iron with which the armillary spheres were made was considered by the SPN
as part of a group of “certain forgotten materials,” such as tile and cork, so that its use was
in line with the policy of reviving traditional materials in national production. António
Ferro, Catorze Anos de Política do Espírito (Lisboa: Secretariado Nacional da Informação,
1948).
82 It should be noted that another building in Restauradores Square, also designed by
Cristino da Silva integrates armillary spheres in the balcony guards, which reinforces the
architect’s association with the ornament.
83 Marques, “Arte e Habitação,” 34.
84 José Manuel Fernandes, Três Modernistas: Arquitectura do Modernismo em Portugal uma
síntese e alguns autores (Lisboa, Coimbra: Imprensa Nacional – Casa da Moeda, Imprensa
da Universidade de Coimbra, 2015), 78.
85 “Entrevista a Luís Cristino da Silva,” Arquitectura (January 1971).
284 Godinho and Sánchez
Figure 9.6b Photograph of the Monumental Cine-Theater in the Duke of Saldanha square
(Lisbon) with an armillary sphere at the top
Photographer: Horácio Novais’ Studio. In Art Library –
Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian (CFT164.160877)
spread across Lisbon. This is seen, for example, with the 1951 Cine-Teatro
Monumental (Monumental Cine-Theatre), in the Duque de Saldanha Square,
which displayed a large sphere in its central tower (Figures 9.6a and 9.6b). It was
once again featured in the 1952 Cine-Teatro Império (Empire Cine-Theatre),
along the D. Afonso Henriques Avenue, which had two monumental spheres in
both of its side towers. Besides these entertainment buildings various service
buildings ornamented with similar models, as for example the 1953 Central
Telegráfica e Telefónica de Lisboa (Telegraphic and Telephonic Central of
Lisbon) in D. Luís Square, located in Cais do Sodré. As in the case of the urban
“income buildings,” these monumental entertainment and service buildings
held a privileged material and symbolic status as evidenced by the inclusion
of the sphere.
7 Conclusion
The urban renovation carried out in Lisbon by the Estado Novo since the
1930s had its epicenter in Belém with the PWE. In this historical exhibition
286 Godinho and Sánchez
the glorious myth of “Discoveries” gave ideologues and urban planners the pro-
pagandistic framework for an imperial and colonial imagined community. We
argue that the presence of objects that materialize the role of past scientific
symbols within the city context are critical to fully understand Lisbon’s urban
history.
The PWE urbanised the scientific symbols of the Portuguese so-called
“Golden Age,” ritualising nationalism and sacralising the Estado Novo and its
colonial empire. As with all political strands of socio-cultural intervention,
such as public education, commemorations, press, and cinema, the new urban
space instilled the ideology of regime by representing the colonial “Portuguese
World.” Following the liberal and republican traditions once more, the histori-
cal and scientific right of possession of the overseas colonies anchored the
regime’s rhetoric of the civilizing mission of Portugal. Not only for the dicta-
torship, but also for many Portuguese intellectuals, the nation’s raison d’être
was overseas colonization. This was the nationalist keystone for the politics
of international legitimacy and colonial conservation. Given that colonization
was necessarily justified on civilizing competence, the regime produced an
account of the Portuguese inauguration of the modern world. The alleged pro-
ficiency in civilization and the modernity of Portugal were necessarily founded
on scientific knowledge, while the Estado Novo appropriated the historical
symbols of the maritime expansion in the urban renovation of Lisbon.
Thus, the dictatorship mixed urbanism, history, and arts in its city plani-
fication. For the construction of this Portuguese urbanized world, modernist
sculptors and architects crafted elements of the age of “Discoveries”, among
which the armillary sphere stood out. Thus, we argued that the sphere can be
understood as a scientific symbol for the materialization and normalization
of the idea of an extended Portuguese colonial empire. The symbol itself was
couched within a class-based framework and hierarchical distribution of the
city, which took advantage of areas that were under urban development at
the time. In upper- and middle-class housing, cine-theatres, restaurants, and
libraries, the sphere bestowed status to the buildings. Moreover, the symbol
was instilled in the rest of the population, but at physical and symbolic dis-
tance, through its display in the ubiquitous national flag as well as in places
people did not inhabit or used. Therefore, the urbanization of the sphere con-
stituted an important aspect of Lisbon’s transformation into an imperial capi-
tal by the Estado Novo. The representations of the armillary sphere aimed at
symbolically modelling urban spaces with the “empire’s spell” – the name of
a movie produced by the dictatorship.86 This empire, comprised of overseas
86 Feitiço do Império. dir. António Lopes Ribeiro (Agência Geral das Colónias/Missão
Cinematográfica às Colónias de África, 1940).
Urbanising the History of “ Discoveries ” 287
colonies, was the inalienable foundation for the nation’s identity legislated and
consecrated by the regime.87
Insofar as the new Lisbon should infuse feelings of pride, submission, ven-
eration, and greatness, such affects were revived daily via the symbols that rep-
resented Portugal as an historical agent of the global progress of civilization.
Tacitly disseminated in a hierarchy of urban spaces, these symbols aimed at a
permanent instillation of an identity and emotional bond of the city’s popu-
lation with the regime’s ideology. To live with objects that ritualized a myth
of a glorious past was a kind of enchantment: neutralizing critical attention
to political and social issues, normalizing the regime as the natural political
structure of the nation, and stating the collective illusion of an eternal colonial
dictatorship. What is more, the symbolic urbanization of Lisbon remains to
this day. It is still an open question to understand critically and historically, and
to contextualize, its repercussions, and to uncover the extent of its influence
on subsequent generations of city dwellers.
Acknowledgements
The authors would like to thank the FCT for the support it has given in carrying
out this research, as well as the members and advisors of the VISLIS research
project (UID/HIS/UI0286/2019 and UIDB/00286/2020 and UIDP/00286/2020)
for their enlightening comments about this text. The authors would like to
thank especially Ana Simões and Maria Paula Diogo for their efforts to bring
this text up to date.
87 Patrícia I. Vieira, “O Império como Fetiche no Estado Novo: Feitiço do Império e o
Sortilégio Colonial,” Portuguese Cultural Studies 3 (Spring 2010): 126–144.
Part 3
The Daily Life in the City
⸪
Introduction to Part 3
Maria Paula Diogo and Ana Simões
How did Lisboners experience science and technology in their city? And how
were they shaped by the new city to become “modern” citizens?
Developments in both science and engineering gave rise to a host of new
European cities, which are now associated with the period of economic indus-
trialization and laid the groundwork for the new modern bourgeois lifestyle:
Haussmann-like boulevards flanked by grands magasins, elegant and well-
structured green spaces, new organizations of labour-time and leisure-time in
light of the “technical night,” additional leisure spaces, efficient sanitary, as well
as innovations in the means of transportation and communication infrastruc-
tures. Lisbon, too, participated in this imaginary, whether by adapting foreign
models to local conditions or by devising entirely new, yet specific, solutions.
In part three, The daily life in the city, we attend to the ways in which Lisboners
made use of the city for purposes that were entirely their own, while looking
for STM expertise in everyday urban life. We focus not on canonical objects
typically used to highlight the bourgeois experience of living in a modern and
techno-scientifically driven city, but rather on “marginal” objects, which afford
additionally the condition of possibility for providing an account of the experi-
ence of the “new” city of Lisbon with respect to the working class itself.
In chapter 10, “A Liberal garden. The Estrela garden and the meaning of
being public,” Ana Duarte Rodrigues and Ana Simões analyse the Estrela gar-
den and suggest that the Estrela garden is best understood as an “urban Liberal
laboratory.” Firmly rooted in the political agenda of the liberal regime and the
techno-scientific expertise of its time, the garden became a privileged site to
test urbanism’s most progressive ideas, which included issues concerning rec-
reational common spaces, issues of hygiene, and sought out ways to address
the education needs of a growing public body. That said, despite the fact that
education was not something that was typically associated with the image of
public gardens, the Estrela Garden would be the site of Portugal’s first kinder-
garten in the entire country. Moreover, its public dimension announced the
emergence of outdoor urban spaces as new habitable spaces at the reach of
all citizens.
In chapter 11, Inês Gomes’s “Allies or enemies? Dogs in the streets of Lisbon
in the second half of nineteenth century” explores the entanglements between
humans and non-human animals in shaping urban development, unveiling
the strong existing tensions beneath the “civilizing” agenda that underlies the
building of modern Lisbon. Dogs are used to illustrate these opposing forces,
being, at the same time, city inhabitants, friends of residents, and invaders,
rabies-prone, and a danger to humans.
Chapter 12 returns the reader to the domain of human concern with Daniel
Gamito-Marques’ essay, “Intellectuals and the city. Private matters in the public
space.” With Gamito-Marques, we explore the conflicting relationship between
the socialist and revolutionary intellectual circle known as “the Cenacle” and
the bourgeois neighbourhoods of Lisbon. While this group of young rebels pre-
ferred to meet in more secluded public spaces located on the “wild bohemian
side” of the city, they attracted the attention of the educated public and had
a lasting impact on Lisbon society. Most notably was the Cenacle’s promotion
of a series of conferences intended to publicly address the causes of the back-
wardness of the Iberian countries while redeeming the virtues of science for
the sake of the moral and technical progress of humanity.
In chapter 13, “Working-class universities. Itinerant spaces for science, tech-
nology and medicine in republican Lisbon,” Ana Simões and Maria Paula Diogo
analyse Republican institutions of education in Lisbon and its image of educa-
tion as the precondition for the cultivation of the new Republican citizen. As
such, adult education soon became part of the pedagogic and civic mission of
the recently re-founded University of Lisbon and the new Technical Institute
connecting them with informal teaching institutions of higher learning such
as the Free and the Popular universities. By exploring the teaching of STM “on
the move,” the authors provide an account of what has long-since remained
invisible, and thus excluded, from urban historical accounts of Lisbon: the
invisible network of the circulation of teachers and people among various
locations across a sprawling, urban, Lisbon.
Finally, in chapter 14, “A Fascist Coney Island? Salazar’s dictatorship, popu-
lar culture and technological fun (1933–1943),” Jaume Valentines-Alvarez and
Jaume Sastre-Juan focus on the ideological agenda behind the three major
spaces of technological entertainment that blossomed during Salazar’s dicta-
torship, the Estado Novo: the short-lived Luna Park at the top of the Avenue of
Liberty, 1933–35; the amusement park of the 1940 Exhibition of the Portuguese
World in Belém; and the Feira Popular created in 1943 in the neighbourhood of
Palhavã. With each iteration, Valentines-Alvarez and Sastre-Juan limn the way
in which the cultural programs of the dictatorship selectively appropriated an
increasingly globalized culture of leisure and enjoyment within spaces orga-
nized around technology-as-source-of-entertainment.
These five chapters clearly exemplify the three axes upon which this book
is organized. Progress, modernity, and a cosmopolitanism anchored in sci-
ence and technology are the backbone of the socio-technical imaginaries of
Introduction to Part 3 293
the port city, the imperial metropolis, and the scientific capital. They not only
underlay the process of infrastructuring the city, but also the less obvious and
equally effective process of “infrastructuring” the citizens’ mind, by establish-
ing spaces for education and leisure, which are themselves conducive to the
modernist program of socially engineering a new urban order.
Chapter 10
1 Introduction
Following the rising interest of history of science and technology for gardens
and landscapes, fostering the interbreeding of formerly unconnected scientific
disciplines, this chapter explores how scientific and technological expertise,
including engineering, horticulture, botany, and, quite unexpectedly, educa-
tion, converged in the emergence and development of the Estrela Garden:
the first public garden of the Liberal regime created in Lisbon, in 1852. It is no
coincidence that this followed the establishment of a new Liberal government,
which marked the birth of the Regeneration Period and its characteristic eco-
nomic reforms, which helped propel techno-scientific change. Celebrated by
Lisboners and protected by both the national government and city council, the
Estrela Garden became a cornerstone of the Liberal agenda that viewed
the “greening” of the city of Lisbon as a fundamental part of urban renewal
in the second half of the nineteenth-century.
Despite Portugal’s political and social instability during the early nineteenth-
century,1 the institutional structure of public education was reformed accord-
ing to the utilitarian approach that matched the needs of the new Liberal state.
These reforms led to the founding of two major Lisbon institutions for higher
education – the Polytechnic School and the Army School. In addition to the
founding of these institutions, and due to the onset of the Regeneration Period
in 1851, Portugal endorsed a new paradigm of progress marked by a strong,
technology-driven, agenda, which focused on the building of a network of
century,” Garden History 45, 2 (2017): 224–250; Ana Duarte Rodrigues, and Ana Simões,
“Horticulture in Portugal 1850–1900: The role of science and public utility in shaping knowl-
edge,” Annals of science 74, 3 (2017): 192–213.
6 Sven Dierig, Jens Lachmund, and J. Andrew Mendelsohn, eds., Science and the City, Osiris 18
(2003).
7 Saraiva, Ciencia y Ciudad; Antonio Lafuente, and Tiago Saraiva, “The Urban Scale of Science
and the Enlargement of Madrid (1851–1936),” Social Studies of Science 34, 4 (2004): 531–569;
Oliver Hochadel, and Agustí Nieto-Galan, eds., Barcelona. An Urban History of Science and
Modernity, 1888–1929 (London: Routledge, 2016); Oliver Hochadel, and Agustí Nieto Galan,
“How to write an urban history of STM on the periphery,” STEP FORUM, Technology & Culture
57, 4 (2016): 962–972; Tiago Saraiva, and Ana Cardoso de Matos, “Technological Nocturne:
The Lisbon Industrial Institute and Romantic Engineering (1849–1888),” Technology and
Culture 58 2 (2017): 422–458; Tiago Saraiva, and Marta Macedo, Capital Científica. A Ciência
Lisboeta e a Construção do Portugal Contemporâneo (Lisboa: Imprensa Ciências Sociais, 2019);
Ana Simões, “From Capital City to Scientific Capital. Science, Technology, and Medicine in
Lisbon as Seen through the Press, 1900–1910,” in Agusti Nieto-Galan, Oliver Hochadel, eds.,
Urban Histories of Science. Making Knowledge in the City 1820–1940 (London: Routledge, 2019),
141–163.
A Liberal Garden 297
2 A Liberal Garden
The Estrela Garden occupies an area of the city, which historically belonged
to the monastic enclosure of the Benedictine convent of Our Lady of Estrela
during the sixteenth-century.
However, new neighbourhoods were built in this area during the eighteenth-
century: the neighbourhood of Santa Isabel was created in 1741, followed by
the Nossa Senhora da Lapa in 1770. In 1771, the English Cemetery – the oldest
cemetery in Lisbon – was built on a portion of the premises formerly used by
the convent and dedicated to the burial of deceased British citizens who lived
11 J. Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category
of Bourgeois Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991).
A Liberal Garden 299
Figure 10.1 Map of Lisbon by J. Henshall, indicating the Passeio Publico in green and the future
location of the Estrela Garden in blue, 1833. Detail from the Estrela Garden made in c.1910,
based on the map by Filipe Folque in 1858. AML, PT/AMLSB/CMLSB/UROB-PU/05/03
in the city. Moreover, the area gained additional significance with the erection
of the Basilica of Estrela, dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and built in
1789, under the patronage of the Queen Maria II. By consequence, this newly
minted neighbourhood attracted wealthy foreigners, diplomats, and ambas-
sadors to a particular area called Buenos Aires, which was located behind the
Basilica, and eventually became the area most favoured by Lisbon’s English
residents.12 However, and despite the particular charm of Buenos Aires, by the
mid-nineteenth-century the other area bordering the Basilica – in the direc-
tion of the British cemetery and the Estrela Garden’s future site13 – was still
seen as “cultivated lands of little value,” which displayed “a few small houses of
unpleasant and very poor appearance.”14
Eight years after the extinction of religious orders by the liberal regime, and
the ensuing expropriation of their properties, an open field approximately 750
meters northwest of the convent of Our Lady of Estrela, then belonging to a
private owner who eventually declared bankruptcy, was expropriated by the
City Council in 1842. The Liberal Deputy, state reformer, and then-president of
the Council of Ministers, Costa Cabral, decided that this piece of land should
become Lisbon’s first public garden.15 Cabral’s decision followed the recent
establishment of the City Council’s Department of Gardens and Green Grounds
12 A Handbook for Travellers in Portugal, 4th ed. (London: John Murray, 1887), 11.
13 Duarte José Fava, Carta topographica de Lisboa e seus suburbios (Lisboa: Caza do Risco das
Obras Publicas, 1833). BNP, C.C. 1067 R.
14 “O Passeio da Estrella,” Archivo Pittoresco 17 (1858): 129–130, 129.
15 “O Passeio da Estrella,” 129.
300 Rodrigues and Simões
16 “Vista do Interior do Passeio da Estrella,” Archivo Pittoresco 27 (1863): 209; and Synopse
1851: 12–13.
17 Otter, “Making Liberalism Durable.”
A Liberal Garden 301
23 Annaes 1856: 7. Reis is an Ancient Portuguese currency. Throughout this paper several
quantitative comparisons of salaries and expenses enable the reader to form an idea of
the relative amounts involved.
24 AML, Reports of Expenses, 1869, PT/AMLSB/CMLSB/OMUN-C/13.
25 AML, Reports of Expenses, 1869, PT/AMLSB/CMLSB/OMUN-C/13.
26 Maria Filomena Mónica, Artesãos e Operários: Indústria, Capitalismo e Classe Operária em
Portugal (1870–1934) (Lisboa: Instituto de Ciências Sociais da Universidade, 1986).
27 AML, Reports of Expenses, 1869, PT/AMLSB/CMLSB/OMUN-C/13.
28 Regulation 1859.
A Liberal Garden 303
3 A Techno-Scientific Garden
The uniqueness of the Estrela Garden also extended to its naturalistic design,
its so-called “semi-exotic” vegetation, and techno-scientific constitution. It is
for these reasons that the Garden became a site wherein modern precepts of
horticulture – including greenhouses and nurseries – intermingled with the
accommodation of “exotic” specimens, their popularisation, modern works of
urban infrastructure, and the latest trends in urban garden furniture, and all
while complying with the new principles of hygiene and public health.
The Garden itself was designed by Portuguese architects from the Ministry
of Public Works, who were heavily influenced by the French picturesque style.
Despite having roots in the English picturesque style, an offspring of the English
landscape garden style, the picturesque style was appropriated and adapted to
differing degrees across the European continent.36 With respect to the French
context, the picturesque style modified the English garden’s lawns, trees, and
shrubs and clearly displayed a taste for sculptures, kiosks, pavilions, and flow-
erbeds. Following Gabriel Thouin’s Plans Raisonnés de toutes les espèces de
Jardins (1820) – a copy of which was housed in the specialised library of the
Department of Gardens and Green Grounds37 – the small scale of the Estrela
Garden was inspired by natural landscapes and Arcadian ideals, and therefore
integrated trees, shrubs, lawns, flowerbeds, several lakes, pavilions, statues,
and garden-furniture in its landscape design.
Although the Estrela Garden was directly inspired by the French adaptation
of the English use of the picturesque, the garden’s local and national character
predated Haussmann’s renovation of Paris. which became a direct model for
other areas of Lisbon, such as the Avenue of Liberty (1879–1886) influenced
by the Champs Elysées or the project for the Campo Grande inspired in the
Bois de Boulogne (1903). Furthering the French picturesque style stressed by
Picon38 and inaugurated one decade after the Estrela Garden, the Parc des
Buttes-Chaumont’s construction took inspiration from Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s
passion for wilderness, and thus incorporated various representations of the
aesthetic category of the sublime. By contrast, and inspired by Thouin’s pro-
posals, the Estrela Garden’s relatively small elevation was not intended to
inspire an experience like the feeling provoked by mountains of incalculable
height, or valleys of immeasurable depth, but aimed at the satisfaction gained
from the Garden’s pleasing views that overlooked the Tagus River.
In addition to the natural beauty afforded by its location relative to the rest
of Lisbon and the river, the Estrela Garden also served as a site for city planners
to experiment with the new forms of grey infrastructures. In 1852, a hydraulic
system was installed via the excavation of stone channels under public streets
for the purposes of carrying water to the Garden.39 However, as the economic
36 John Dixon Hunt, Gardens and the Picturesque: Studies in the History of Landscape
Architecture (London and Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1994).
37 Gabriel Thouin, Plans Raisonnés de Toutes les Espèces de Jardins (Paris: l’auteur, 1820),
n. 47; Rodrigues, “Greening the city.”
38 Picon, “Nature et ingénierie”.
39 Synopse 1852: 25, 34 and 44.
A Liberal Garden 305
work until the City Council approved a cast and wrought iron chassis which
were not specified in the contract but were necessary for the stability of the
greenhouse.50
On 13 January 1880, the city council decided to install a heating system in
the greenhouse.51 One month later, Burnay submitted a budget that amounted
to 1,897$500 reis while the firm L. Dauphinet & V. Castay submitted another,
slightly costlier, budget that amounted to 1,940$000 reis. Both Burnay’s and
L. Dauphinet & V. Castay’s budgets were refused by the Department’s Councillor
on the grounds of their being too expensive.52 The Councillor additionally sug-
gested to use the same heating system in operation in the greenhouse of the
recently founded botanical garden of the Polytechnic School of Lisbon, which
was more than four times less expensive,53 as it did not depend on imported
expertise and was built under local technical supervision. Still, nine months
later, on 15 November 1880, the Councillor was still waiting for the decision
from the works department.54
Following international trends, infrastructures at the Estrela Garden also
included garden furniture and other facilities meant to provide modern ame-
nities to citizens in public spaces. As such, in 1859, the department’s Councillor
purchased twenty-four iron benches with wooden seating.55 Moreover, and in
line with international trends, garden benches were rented, while the number
of seats and its maximum rental price was subjected to regulatory measures.56
By distributing the exploration of the seat rental system among specific insti-
tutions supporting the underprivileged, a social service was offered by the
public garden.
Moreover, included among the architectural practices of a rentier system of
financing public seating in parks, were plans for the Estrela Garden to serve as
the site for musical events and balls, thereby establishing recreational struc-
tures in public gardens. Therefore, from 1873 to 1874, a total of 1,200$000 reis
was spent on the construction of the Garden’s bandstand.57 A Spanish travel-
ler highlighted the Estrela Garden with “a pond, greenhouses, beasts, arbors
[small pavilions], ducks, and roller coasters” and most especially its bandstand
58 De Madrid á Oporto pasando por Lisboa. Diario de un caminante por Modesto Fernandez Y
Gonzalez (Madrid: Imprenta y Fundicion de M. Tello, 1874), 243.
59 AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 3 August 1869.
60 AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 3 August 1869 and AML, Drawings of several
urinals established in public squares and gardens, UROB-E/23–0001/5782.
61 Jules Daveau, “Les Jardins de Lisbonne,” Revue Horticole (1879): 226–228.
62 Charles de Franciosi, Lisbonne, souvenirs de Voyage (Lille: Impr. de L. Danel, 1884), 8–9; A
Handbook for Travellers in Portugal, 27–28.
A Liberal Garden 309
nurseries.63 In 1890, the work of transplanting these palm trees into the Estrela
Garden exhausted the municipality’s budget for the rest of the year64 – by the
turn of the century the palm tree would become the favoured photographic
backdrop for the garden’s visitors.
What is more, due to the Estrela Garden’s dual function as horticultural sta-
tion – supplying public gardens with trees, plants, and flowers – and determin-
ing agent in the afforestation of Lisbon, transplant techniques and instruments
for plants’ transplantation were, here, brought to perfection. Transplantation
of large trees was made possible by the acquisition of a specialized vehicle in
France. Moreover, staircases, ladders, and several instruments for the cutting
of treetop branches were essential to create shapes and shadows, while turf
rollers facilitated the maintenance of lawns befitting of a modern garden.
As a horticultural site that experimented with new horticultural techniques
and instruments, the Garden was further enhanced by the newly assigned
functions to the gardener-in-chief, including his leadership role of a “school
of practitioners” that would train a new generation of Lisbon’s gardeners,
expected to apply their knowledge to other green spaces within the urban
landscape. As such, the status of the gardener in Portugal became, for the first
time in the country’s history, comparable to the status held by gardeners in
France or England.65
At the end of the nineteenth-century, recreational facilities were planned
for the Estrela Garden to create an atmosphere of leisure and entertainment
that would attract a greater portion of the Lisbon public. Following Gabriel
Thouin’s proposals66 for the carving of a circular path, the Estrela Garden’s
“Montanha” – a portion of green elevation that at times accommodated the
“Montanha Russa” roller coaster, from where one could get a great view over
the Tagus River.
On 17 August 1895, Lisbon’s City Council received a five-year plan for an
organised series of evening concerts, balls, various forms of children’s enter-
tainment, and other forms of public leisure from an entrepreneur backed by
63 Ana Duarte Rodrigues, “Between Usefulness and Ornamentation: Palm Trees in the
Portuguese Empire in the Second Half of the Nineteenth Century,” in Maria João Castro,
ed., Império e Arte Colonial/Empire and Colonial Art (Lisboa: CHAM, 2017), 209–232.
64 A.J. Simões de Almeida, A Situaçao dos Serviços Municipaes em 5 de Novembro de 1890 (…)
(Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional, 1890), 20.
65 Regarding the ‘School of Practitioners’ see Archivo, February 80 (1860), 61. On the status of
gardeners in Portugal during the early modern period see Ana Duarte Rodrigues, “O que é
um jardineiro? Nomes, privilégios e funções de hortelãos e jardineiros na Idade Moderna
em Portugal,” Tritão, 1 (2012): 299–308.
66 Thouin, Plans Raisonnés.
A Liberal Garden 311
the director of the Mercantile Bank of Lisbon.67 The municipality was willing
to hand over the exploration of the garden’s recreational facilities insofar as
the City Council retained the right to the Garden for three nights per month
in order to organize fundraising events for asylums. Aside from the allotted
time reserved for the City’s use, entrepreneurs could explore the garden as
long as twenty percent of their revenues were transferred to the City Council.
Moreover, entrepreneurs oversaw covering the costs of the Garden’s electric
lighting system, expenses for an accountant, the wages of four gatekeepers,
four guards, the police, fire fighters, and the expenses to cover both the public
toilet and its personnel.
The Garden’s private financiers were additionally responsible for cover-
ing the costs of any damage caused to flower beds and plants, or to any other
equipment, which included the mobile wooden enclosure located in the
Garden’s “Montanha” area. Tents, kiosks selling newspapers and refreshments,
as well as cafés and restaurants were only to be established with the consent
of both the City Council and entrepreneurs. And once this five-year contract
came to an end, all recreational structures were to be removed.68 These were
the terms of the official agreement between the City Council and the entrepre-
neurs however, on 13 May 1895, the Ministry of the Kingdom rejected the afore-
mentioned agreement.69 As a dynamic urban structure, the Estrela Garden
was under constant transformation, demonstrating the city’s concern with
modern infrastructures, botanical novelties, horticultural practices, and rec-
reational facilities.
In the first three decades of its existence, the Estrela Garden’s development
proceeded under the aegis of the Liberal government’s infrastructure program
characteristic of the Regeneration period, creating the conditions for citizens
to profit from contact with a domesticated nature mediated by several tech-
nological amenities. During the 1880s, and with the completion of the mate-
rial realisation of the Estrela Garden, Portugal’s Liberal government began to
address another of its defining issues: children and their social and educational
needs who may frequent the garden from time to time. As the future of this
70 Teófilo Ferreira, AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 6 June 1881.
71 AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 12 December 1881.
72 AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 23 November 1881.
73 Ann Taylor Allen, “‘Let us Live with our Children’: Kindergarten Movements in Germany
and the United States, 1840–1914,” History of Education Quarterly, 28, 1 (1988): 23–48, 25.
74 The kindergarten did not aim to supplant the family: it was restricted to four hours a day.
In the Session of the Lisbon City Council, 26 July 1883 (AML), it was decided that children
should have holidays in August.
A Liberal Garden 313
75 W.A. Baldwin, “Kindergartens and Kindergartners,” The Journal of Education, 55, 19 (1378)
(1902): 297; Roberta Wollons, ed., Kindergartens and Cultures: The Global Diffusion of an
Idea (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000); James C. Albissetti, “Froebel crosses the
Alps: Introducing the Kindergarten in Italy,” History of Education Quarterly 49, 2 (2009):
159–169; Allen, “Let us live with our Children’.”
76 Sally Gregory Kohlstedt, “‘A Better Crop of Boys and Girls’: The School Gardening
Movement, 1890–1920,” History of Education Quarterly 48, 1 (2008): 58–93; and Teaching
Children Science: Hands-On Nature Study in North America, 1890–1930 (University of
Chicago Press, 2010).
77 Rogério Fernandes, O Pensamento Pedagógico em Portugal (Lisboa: Ministério da
Educação, 1992); António Nóvoa, Do Mestre-escola ao Professor do Ensino Primário.
Subsídios para a História da Profissão Docente em Portugal (séculos XVI–XX) (Cruz
Quebrada: Fac. De Motricidade Humana, 1999); António Candeias, Ana Luísa Paz, and
Melânia Rocha, eds., Alfabetização e Escola em Portugal nos séculos XIX e XX: os Censos e
as Estatísticas (Lisboa: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, 2007).
78 Maria João Mogarro, “Cultura Material e Modernização Pedagógica em Portugal (séculos
XIX–XX),” Educatio Siglo XXI, 28, 2 (2010): 89–114, 98.
79 Carlos Manique da Silva, and Sónia de Castro Lopes, “Pensamento e ação de Teófilo
Ferreira em defesa da Instrução Primária em Portugal no Final de Oitocentos,” VIII
Congresso Luso-Brasileiro de História de Educação,” accessed on 6 April 2019; Maria
de Lourdes Cró, “Educação de Infância em Portugal: perspetiva histórica,” Revista de
Educação – PUC Campinas (accessed at Linked in on 5 June 2018).
314 Rodrigues and Simões
encircled by a garden plot whose awnings enabled children to work and play
outdoors irrespective of weather conditions.
On 21 April 1882, marking the centenary of Froebel’s birthday, a party orga-
nized by Ferreira inaugurated the Estrela kindergarten with pomp and circum-
stance. Many public figures were invited, including the prominent republican
intellectual Teófilo Braga,87 promoter of the 1880 Camões’ celebrations and
future president of the First Republic. The chalet, which housed the kinder-
garten, was an elegant but modest building with capacity for 200 children, and
whose construction costs came out to a total of 2,500$000 reis.88 Having in
mind that formal educational institutions for children from three-to-six-years
of age did not exist previously, this was a considerable level of investment,
while improvements in the building were already undertaken in the year fol-
lowing its inauguration.89 Moreover, in early 1891, protective grids, gates and
shrubs, designed by the chalet’s architect, were built to enclose the garden plot
encircling it.90
87 AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 18 April 1882; Letter from the head of the Lisbon
city council, Rosa Araújo, to Teófilo Braga, held at the Azores Regional Archives, BPARPD/
PSS/TB/188/026.
88 Value spent up until 1882. AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 16 March 1882.
89 AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 19 January 1883.
90 AML, Cx. 113 DSU, PT/AMLSB/CMLSB/UROB-PU/09/01952.
316 Rodrigues and Simões
91 Simões Raposo, “Os Jardins d’Infancia de Froebel,” Froebel: Revista de Instrucção Primária 1
(1882): 4–6.
92 Ann Taylor Allen, “Spiritual Motherhood: German Feminists and the Kindergarten
Movement, 1848–1911,” History of Education Quarterly, Special Issue: Educational Policy
and Reform in Modern Germany, 22, 3 (1982): 319–339.
93 AML, AC, Livro 8º de Registo de Diplomas, fl. 21.
94 AHP, Parliamentary Debates, Kingdom Chamber of Peers, Session of 16 July 1890, 633;
Caetano Pinto, “Jardim d’Infancia em Lisboa,” O Occidente: revista illustrada de Portugal e
do estrangeiro 146 (1883): 11–14, 12.
95 AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 31 December 1883.
96 AML, AC, Livro 8º de Registo de Diplomas, fls. 83, 56 and 60.
97 Caetano Pinto, “Jardim d’Infancia em Lisboa” (cit.n.111), on p. 12.
98 Maria José da Silva Canuto, “Froebel,” Froebel: Revista de Instrucção Primária, 1882, 1 (1882):
3–4, 3; Lucy Latter, School Gardening for Little Children (London: Swan Sonnenchein &
Co., 1906), xviii; W.E. Watkins and A. Sowman, School Gardening (London: George Philip
& Son, 1909).
A Liberal Garden 317
As the first public garden in Lisbon without entrance fee, the 1858 instructions
for the municipal police to secure public’s safety leaves no doubts concern-
ing the practical meaning of a garden “for all.” Any visitor should be properly
dressed, while admission was denied to drunkards, the mentally ill, men carry-
ing freights, and unsupervised children under the age of ten.104
Aside from the special events mentioned in previous sections, which gath-
ered a substantial number of occasional visitors, inhabitants of the nearby
neighbourhoods were probably the Garden’s most frequent visitors. The “reg-
ulars” of Estrela often belonged to Portugal’s elite and bourgeoisie, but also
included foreigners that were often from the English upper-class/aristocracy,
or of German and French background – these were usually women associ-
ated with the diplomatic personnel and ambassadors’ residences, which con-
centrated in the area.105 Thus, in addition to the large group of children who
regularly attended schooling at the newly founded kindergarten, the Estrela
Garden fashioned a spectacle of progress and modernity out of a heteroge-
neous crowd. It is no exaggeration to say that, daily, the Estrela Garden encour-
aged the taste for botany, horticulture, and gardening since a very early stage.
As a materialization of political urban ecology of science, the garden became
a symbolic international showpiece of the Liberal government, intended to
demonstrate, and foster (upper-) middle-class ideals, to shape a new more
civilised and educated elite relative to that of the ancien régime.
And yet, in the decades that followed its initial opening, the Estrela Garden
was a far cry from its supposed availability/accessibility for all of Lisbon’s
inhabitants. Gatekeepers and guards secured public order, the right of admis-
sion and ensured that the Garden did not suffer any damages, and that proper
behaviour was followed “with all civility.”106 The public’s safety was also secured
by security who enforced the law requiring all dogs to be accompanied by their
owners and to wear a leash.107 This was a reaction to the mounting number of
stray dogs populating the city (see chapter 11 in this volume), a problem that
worried the City Council and many of its councillors, to the extent that propos-
als for their extermination were put forward in the 1870s. Furthermore, and
except for military officers, no men on horseback were admitted.108
Since its inception, the Estrela Garden attracted experts, including horticul-
turists of international rank. For example, when Ernest Bergman, the secre-
tary of the International Congress of Horticulture visited Lisbon in 1889, Jules
Daveau, the French botanist, regular consultant to the municipality, and chief-
gardener of the recently founded botanical garden of the liberal Polytechnic
School of Lisbon, took Bergman on a guided-tour around the city’s gardens.
Bergman’s enthusiasm for the Estrela Garden left no doubts as to its standing
as a public green space in which horticultural practices and acclimatization
experiments took the lead, thereby adding to its exquisite appearance to be
enjoyed by everybody.109
The garden’s visibility ranged from the royal family and aristocracy to the
accidental tourist and public at large.110 At a time when tourism was being
reassessed at the international and national level, the Garden became a pres-
ence in various cultural representations of the city – from traveller’s memo-
ries, travel guides, illustrated magazines – to such an extent that foreign tourist
guides considered the Garden as one of the main attractions of Lisbon. To the
traveller, it was certainly “a source of no ordinary delight as it is to locals, who
enjoy it when the weather is fine, and where a band of music is frequently play-
ing in the evening.”111
The public character of the Garden was also reflected in monetary or mate-
rial donations – which included seeds and plants, by entrepreneurs, capitalists,
and regular citizens – and through its organization of major events, most of
which were parties held for humanitarian and/or charitable purposes. Estrela
Garden received financial and community support from Lisboners of a variety
of backgrounds, mostly Lisbon’s elite, politicians, bourgeoisie, but also from
foreigners, local institutions, and neighbours. On 4 August 1879, the substitute
councillor applied on behalf of a solicitor and the City Hall of the island of
Flores, Azores to operate amusements in the Estrela Garden, for fund raising
purposes for the island’s hospital.112 This request prompted a requirement to
the effect that no concession agreement should be granted except when ben-
efitting charitable institutions.113 The request was most probably approved.
Moreover, in 1904, the Press Association organized a party whose profit went
to the journalists’ widows and orphans on St. John’s Day. Various institutions
109 Ernest Bergman, Une Excursion en Portugal: Notes de Voyage (Meaux: impr. Destouches,
1890), 56; “Notes Horticoles sur le Portugal,” Journal de la Société Nacionale d’Horticulture
de France (1890), 76.
110 It was visited by King Fernando II (Fernando of Saxe-Coburg-Gota) and his second wife
Countess of Edla. AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 14 April 1873.
111 A Handbook for Travellers in Portugal, 27–28.
112 AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 4 August 1879.
113 AML, Session of the Lisbon City Council, 11 August 1879.
320 Rodrigues and Simões
of the neighbourhood helped organize the event: the Oficinas de São José
(St. Joseph’s workshops), the charity commission of Lapa, and the Primary
Teachers’ Society all installed tents selling various products.
This practice of organizing social events, gathering huge crowds, would only
be further accentuated during the first years of the Republic.114 A rich iconog-
raphy proves that on special occasions hundreds of people visited the garden
for specific purposes. To these instances one should add the episodic visitors
mentioned above, and all the regular garden attendants, including garden
workers and experts, as well as teachers and children attending the kindergar-
ten daily. Together, they enable the historian to capture the elusive public, and
build for once a clear view of the different categories of people who made the
garden their own.
From experts to lay people, from royalty to elites and to the common
people – whether foreigner or local, man or woman, young or old – a great vari-
ety of citizens profited from the garden’s multifarious functions in their daily
routines. As the first liberal garden in Lisbon, it was used to mould a new sort
of citizenry, encompassing all social strata in principle, if not in practice. This
space that was both green and public was to be enjoyed by them while it incor-
porated scientific knowledge and technological amenities in everyday life. At
the same time, the Garden played the role of an educational site for children
under the age of six. As such, it provided the opportunity for experimenting
with the very meaning of being public, and thus contributed, indirectly, to
the emergence of what Jurgen Habermas understands by the concept of the
114 José Joubert Chaves, “A Festa da Flor,” Illustração Portugueza 590 (11 June 1917): 462–468;
António Maria de Freitas, “A Festa da Flor,” Illustração Portugueza 640 (27 May 1918):
401–406.
A Liberal Garden 321
“public sphere.” People who attended the garden were much more than passive
recipients of liberal ideology; they became active citizens who participated in
the life of the garden. Thus, the Garden afforded its visitors an active role in
their participation in urban life as well, sharing concerns and entertaining col-
lective actions geared towards specific aims. Originally founded as a garden for
the public, Estrela quickly became a garden of the public.
6 Concluding Remarks
As the first public garden of the Liberal regime, the Estrela Garden invites
us to rethink how scientific and technological expertise matched new urban
structural and social demands in the second half of the nineteenth-century.
As one of the regime’s crowning achievements its privileged status was crystal-
lized in its location next to the Portuguese Parliament, in its ranking vis-à-vis
the Public Promenade, and in the concerted action of government and City
Council, which supported both its construction and development. The Estrela
Garden assumed primacy and became a chief concern within the hierarchy
of the Department of Gardens and Green Grounds of the City Council, and
in the decisions of urban experts, including councillors, architects, engineers,
gardeners, and entrepreneurs – which informed the appropriation of interna-
tional garden styles into a local materialization.
Moreover, techno-scientific knowledge and expertise were behind the
construction of the Estrela Garden. Examples include the construction and
development of infrastructures supporting greenhouses and nurseries, where
concrete horticultural practices were experimented and where plants to be
transplanted to other public gardens in Lisbon were acclimatized, providing
the ground for the public display and popularization of botanical novelties.
The relation of the garden to its publics was central to the ideological agenda
of the liberal regime. The Estrela Garden moulded not only the urban land-
scape, but also a liberal public by fostering the awareness of public duties and
rights, and the promotion of new forms of articulation of state with civic soci-
ety. Last but not the least, the Garden’s striking singularity in the European
context stemmed from its pioneering role in education at the kindergarten
level. The importance of children for the future of the liberal nation was
behind its choice for the establishment of the first kindergarten, which took
Froebel’s pedagogical ideas as a model for the education provided in Portugal’s
first liberal, public garden.
The conjunction of all these strands reveals how a relatively small green
space acted as a social laboratory that enabled one to grasp the arc of Lisbon’s
322 Rodrigues and Simões
Acknowledgments
We thank Tiago Saraiva for comments on an earlier version of this chapter. This
work was supported by the Portuguese Foundation for Science and Technology
under research projects IF/00322/2014, VISLIS – PTDC/IVC-HFC/3122/2014,
and UID/HIS/UI0286/2013, UID/HIS/UI0286/2019 and UIDB/00286/2020
UIDB/00286/2020.
Chapter 11
Inês Gomes
Supreme derision!
[The dog] living in the domestic intimacy, being our loyal compan-
ion and not infrequently our true friend; he, who witnesses to us
in the silent language of his caresses and fondles, the purest affec-
tions, the noblest sentiments, which so often make him a hero and
meritorious; the same animal to which nature bestowed such gifts,
so docile, so good, so generous, becomes a vile murderer, when
rabies pervert his instincts, spreading terror in villages, dragging in
his miserable existence, a danger before which, even the animals
instinctively run away in terror.1
⸪
On 28 May 1887, at eight o’clock in the morning, shouts and barks were heard in
the streets of downtown Lisbon. Manuel Martins, an employee of the Abegoaria
da Limpeza (cleaning department of the City Council of Lisbon), was passing
by the Praça do Comércio (Commerce Square) and saw a dog lying down on
the western sidewalk of Rua do Ouro (Gold Street). Manuel Martins grabbed
him, waiting for the stray dog pickup carriage to approach. Upon witnessing
Manuel Martins grasping the dog, two soldiers of the Municipal Guard who
were standing guard at the Banco de Portugal (Bank of Portugal) grabbed and
punched Martins, eventually injuring him. The dog ran away. The civil police,
who regularly accompanied the municipal employees in the service of picking
up stray dogs, were forced to intervene.2
1 António Júlio Lobo da Costa, Diagnose da raiva nos carnívoros domésticos, dissertação inau-
gural (Lisboa: Instituto de Agronomia e Veterinária, 1904), 26–7.
2 Ofício da Superintendência de Limpeza dirigido ao vereador do Pelouro de Saúde e Higiene,
de 30 de maio de 1887 – Arquivo Histórico da Câmara Municipal de Lisboa (Lisbon City
Council Historical Archive), here after AHCML, SGO, caixa 74.
Cities were often the scene of conflicts in which nonhuman animals3 were
one of the main actors. Despite the division commonly assumed between
humanity and nature, the ubiquity of animals in cities is undeniable.4 Human
and animal lives have always been entangled, such that animals can change,
influence, and shape people’s attitudes and practices, transforming societies
and their natural surroundings in the process.5
Recent historiography uncovered the animal-dimension of urban growth.6
The expansion of the nineteenth-century metropolis depended on intimate
linkages between nature and the city,7 integrating animals as both a valuable
food resource and as a labouring member of urban society.8 Animals served as
actors in spectacles, such as zoos or bullfights, while some wild animals were
publicly displayed in gardens.9 In addition to their social status as friends and
companions,10 animals were also viewed as undesirable pests who harboured
deadly diseases.11 Therefore, the truth of Almeroth-Williams’ reflections on
3 For simplicity, from now onwards, the term “animals” will be used to refer to “nonhuman
animals.”
4 Caroline Hodak. “Les animaux dans la cité: pour une histoire urbaine de la nature,”
Genèses: Sciences du politique 37, (1999):156–169.
5 Harriet Ritvo, “On the Animal Turn,” Daedalus 136, (2007): 118–122. See also, for example,
“Animals, Science and Technology: multispecies histories of scientific and sociotechnical
knowledge-practices,” Special Issue HoST. Journal of History of Science and Technology 13,
2 (2019).
6 Peter Atkins, ed., Animal Cities: Beastly Urban Histories (London and New York: Routledge,
2016); Frederick L. Brown, The City Is More Than Human: An Animal History of Seattle
(London: University of Washington Press, 2016); Thomas Almeroth-Williams, City of beasts:
How animals shaped Georgian London (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2019);
Juliana Adelman, Civilized by beasts: Animals and urban change in nineteenth-century
Dublin (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2020); Andrew A. Robichaud, Animal
City: The Domestication of America (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press,
2019).
7 William Cronon, Nature’s Metropolis: Chicago and the Great West (New York: W.W. Norton
& Company, 1991).
8 Paula Young Lee, ed., Meat, modernity, and the rise of the slaughterhouse (Hanover, NH:
University Press of New England, 2008); Clay McShane and Joel A. Tarr, The Horse in the
City: Living Machines in the Nineteenth Century (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 2007).
9 E. Robbins Louise, Elephant slaves and pampered parrots: Exotic animals in eighteenth-
century Paris (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001).
10 John K. Walton, “Mad Dogs and Englishmen: The Conflict over Rabies in Late Victorian
England,” Journal of Social History 13, 2 (1979): 219–239.
11 Dawn Biehler, Pests in the City: Flies, Bedbugs, Cockroaches, and Rats (Seattle and London;
University of Washington Press, 2013).
Allies or Enemies? 325
Following other European and North American cities, the Society for the
Protection of Animals (SPA) was established in Lisbon in 1875, with offices
housed in the Civil Government building.17 Two years later, on 14 January, the
Society launched a journal, O Zoophilo (The Zoophile), which publicised the
importance of their activities, and spread the SPA’s ideals. Although animal
protection movements were a novelty in Portugal, to advocate for the virtue
of animal welfare societies remained “a banality among the most cultured
nations.”18 The SPA, however, often mentioned the laws enacted in France or
Great Britain, and viewed The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals (RSPCA) as a role model to be emulated.19 As the SPA put it, it was
“urgent” and “indispensable,” “to evangelize by all means the creation of such
institutes” in Portugal.20 Thus, the new Society advocated that Lisbon needed
to transform itself – a new sensitivity in the ways of dealing with animals – in
order to become a modern, cultivated, and enlightened European capital.
That said, the SPA did not intend to prevent the eating of meat from cows
and chickens or to prohibit the elimination of parasites and worms. The “util-
itarian” and “humanitarian” purposes of the SPA were “to diminish the use-
less pain against useful animals, to improve the conditions of their short and
precarious existence among us, their natural masters.”21 Moreover, “if animals
[were] not protected, one could not study the […] improvement of useful
beings, the domestication, […] the acclimatization, the influence of animals
on human’s work and food, their instincts, diseases, hereditary transmissions,
[…] hybridity, […] cattle’s hygienic or economic food.”22 Thus, the SPA argued
that societies dedicated to ensuring the welfare of animals were responsible
for “great advances in agricultural and livestock science.” For the Society, it was
clear that without the protection of animals there would be no oxen for farm-
ing, mules/workhorses for transport, dogs for hunting, recreational birds, and
no insectivorous birds to defend the fields.23
17 See, for example, Harrison, “Animals and the State”; Benjamin Brady, “The Politics of the
Pound: Controlling Loose Dogs in Nineteenth-Century New York City,” Jefferson Journal of
Science and Culture, 2 (2012): 9–25, http://journals.sfu.ca/jjsc/index.php/journal/article/
view/7.
18 “Duas palavras de introdução,” O Zoophilo, 1 (1877): 1.
19 The RSPCA was a model followed in different cities, for instance in New York: Brady, “The
Politics of …”
20 “Duas palavras de introdução,” O Zoophilo, 1 (1877): 1.
21 “Duas palavras de introdução,” O Zoophilo, 1 (1877): 1.
22 Edital, O Zoophilo, 4 (1887): 1–2.
23 Edital, O Zoophilo, 4 (1887): 1–2.
Allies or Enemies? 327
for entertainment purposes with respect to dogs, cats, birds, and other harm-
less animals.29
Some of the SPA’s proposals were already outlined in municipal regulations,
even if they were not always properly enforced. One of the key factors behind
the difficulty of their enforcement was the fact that attempts at controlling
Lisboners – humans and animals – could lead to violent physical alterca-
tions. In 1877 and confronted by the municipal disinterestedness regarding
the enforcement of its own regulations, which depended on prepared men, the
SPA paid the Civil Government for three of its civil police guards to enforce the
articles of the Lisbon Municipal Ordinances that already protected animals.
These police officers were placed throughout the capital’s three main districts
and, from seven in the morning until ten at night every day, surveyed the areas
designated by the Society. SPA members and Lisboners who were not indiffer-
ent to the mistreatment of animals could resort to these policemen and inform
them of abuses they witnessed, so that offenders could be admonished, and
cruelty avoided. Moreover, it was the SPA’s position that intimations, which
were not heeded, should result in the prosecution of wrongdoers.30
To summarize, a new sensitivity towards animals, led by the SPA, provided
a novel perspective on the management of conflicts between the humans and
animals of Lisbon. Alongside ordinances, regulations, instructions, or guide-
lines to enforce a more humane relationship between humans and animals,
the Society, like the RSPCA of London, had a major role, not only in lobbying
for, but being an active agent in the legislation of new laws.
2 Stray Dogs
The protection of stray, and sometimes rabid, dogs in the streets of Lisbon,
was one of the main targets of the Society’s action.31 Dogs are illustrative of an
emerging sensitivity towards animals. The problem posed by stray dogs was
a problem long felt in the Portuguese capital. In 1822, José Pecchio, an Italian
traveller, noted, “if travellers wrote that Lisbon was inhabited at daytime by
men and at night by dogs, they would be telling the truth.” In Cais do Sodré
(Sodré Pier), throughout the night there usually gathered “a court of dogs that
by their continuous barks wakened Enoch and Elijah.”32 Moreover, during the
French invasions Junot ordered the killing of dogs that walked at night through
the streets of Lisbon, fighting, barking, and howling.33
The situation must have improved during the first half of the nineteenth-
century given Hans Christian Andersen’s 1866 account claiming to have not
seen any “vicious dogs” as he expected given the usual descriptions of the
city.34 Regardless, from 1875 onwards, the Society demanded that the City
Council end the practice of killing dogs in the streets of Lisbon, which it con-
sidered tantamount to (dog) murder.35 New ways of living the streets should be
encouraged, shaping Lisbon inhabitants’ quotidian. On this issue, the SPA was
categorical: “it was hard to believe that there was a city council, in a city that
was reputedly civilized, which adopted such means to exterminate animals.”36
Despite municipal ordinances condemning the mistreatment of animals,
the Lisbon City Council, which should ostensibly set an example and “hon-
our its regulations,” carried out “repugnant” acts wherein dogs “were poisoned
[with strychnine cakes], bending in horrible agony before passers-by who
witnessed the situation in dismay.”37 The methods used by the municipality
to control stray dogs were, thus, inefficient, and in many cases led to painful
suffering without the reprieve of death. Given such practices, Lisbon’s inhab-
itants “cursed and stigmatized the perpetrators of such cruel and disgusting
means of exterminating these poor animals, who, despite their brutality, are
eminent examples of sweetness, fidelity and loyalty to many beings of the
human race.”38 The SPA was not opposed to “purging the city of these packs of
stray dogs that at every step [were] found in the streets,” but protested “against
the barbaric and disgusting way in which this service was implemented, and
complained especially against the abuses that were committed, not respecting
the animals that had owners, carried a leash, and even wore a muzzle.”39 To
make matters worse, the municipality’s dog killers, ignoring Lisboner’s right of
32 Enoch and Elijah are Biblical figures who did not die but were taken by God.
33 José Pecchio, Cartas de Lisboa: 1822 (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte, 1990), 30.
34 Hans Christian Andersen, Uma visita a Portugal em 1866 (Sintra: Feitoria dos Livros,
2015), 49.
35 O Zoophilo, 17 (1877): 2.
36 O Zoophilo, 7 (1877): 2–3.
37 O Zoophilo, 7 (1877): 2–3.
38 O Zoophilo, 7 (1877): 2–3.
39 O Zoophilo, 7 (1877): 2–3.
330 Gomes
property, poisoned all dogs whether or not they had an owner. As the SPA put
it, this was an “undeniable crime.”40
The municipality recognised the danger that strychnine cakes posed to
humans and other animals, especially given the prominence of rejected or
partially uneaten cakes on the streets of Lisbon. Moreover, the municipality
understood the importance of precautionary measures against “unpleasant
scenes,” so often observed on the evening streets of Lisbon, of poisoned and
dying dogs that remained after the municipal cleaning department completed
its working hours. Despite the municipality’s concern, the sanitary question
posed by such “unpleasant scenes” was not properly addressed and became a
pressing problem.41 In response, the SPA pleaded for ending the municipality’s
use of strychnine cakes, a “barbaric” means for killing dogs and “only adopted
in Portugal and Spain, which were also bullfighting countries”42 – foreign
countries already adopted other methods, which “did not repel the passers-by
nor affect the morality of society.”43
According to the Society, a truly civilized city such as London should serve
as Lisbon’s model. Near Battersea Park station, a place easily accessible to all
London districts, there was a vast and well-placed establishment for collecting
stray dogs. The asylum had 16 huts, a wide, open-air, area where dogs could
freely run, a kitchen, and an infirmary. Stray dogs were fed twice a day, at seven
in the morning and at four in the afternoon, while police officers – hired by the
asylum – were responsible for bringing in additional strays. Usually, 30 to 40
dogs per day were admitted and stayed there for three days, unless they were
claimed by their proven owners and paid a fee for their release. The unclaimed
dogs were sold, thereby providing a source of revenue for the asylum. The insti-
tution was, therefore, visited by many people, and dogs that did not find an
owner were killed without suffering.44
In 1879, after observing London’s approach to stray dogs, the SPA petitioned
the City Council for the construction of a similar institution.45 Closely aligned
with the emerging sensibility of Europe’s urban centres, the SPA’s proposal
40 O Zoophilo, 11 (1879): 4.
41 Acta da 36.ª sessão da presidência da comissão executiva da Câmara Municipal de Lisboa,
de 17 Agosto de 1882, 459–60 – AHCML.
42 Edital 22 de Maio de 1879, O Zoophilo, 10 (1879): 1–3.
43 Edital de 27 de Junho de 1878, O Zoophilo, 12 (1878): 1–2; Edital 22 de Maio de 1879,
O Zoophilo, 10 (1879): 1–3.
44 Edital de 22 de Abril de 1877, O Zoophilo, 8 (1877): 1–2.
45 Edital 22 de Maio de 1879, O Zoophilo, 10 (1879): 1–3.
Allies or Enemies? 331
46 See, for instance, Chris Pearson, “Stray Dogs and the Making of Modern Paris,” Past &
Present 234, 1 (2017): 137–172.
47 Edital 22 de Maio de 1879, O Zoophilo, 10 (1879): 1–3.
48 Edital 22 de Maio de 1879, O Zoophilo, 10 (1879): 1–3.
49 Edital de 27 de Junho de 1878, O Zoophilo, 12 (1878): 1–2.
50 Edital de 27 de Junho de 1878, O Zoophilo, 12 (1878): 1–2.
51 Harrison, “Animals and the State”.
52 O Zoophilo, 19 (1878): 3.
332 Gomes
This public service campaign reflected the SPA’s belief that internalising more
humane behaviours would decrease the need for external coercion.
The SPA’s ambitions concerning solutions for the problem of stray dogs
compelled the Society to establish its own “as yet modest […] asylum for lost or
abandoned animals, victims of disasters and other accidents.”53 They eventu-
ally considered admitting dogs with owners for a fee, so that they may be treated
and/or kept under surveillance.54 The asylum’s life was ultimately ephemeral
due to financial problems. With its inaugural opening on 1 October 1877 at
Rua Formosa 47 (Formosa Street), the asylum had 3 employees – a guard and
2 veterinarians – and did not accept dogs with symptoms of a rabies infection.
Some dogs were sold or offered to those who could guarantee their humane
treatment.55 Moreover, to cope with financial constraints, the SPA opened a
subscription, for which it requested the cooperation of its members and all
those who sympathized with the Society’s aims.56
Regulations proposed by the SPA turned out to become compulsory after
more than ten years.57 However, from 1889 onwards, the Society remained criti-
cal of the municipality due to conflicts stemming from the presence of stray
dogs in public. Moreover, dogs continued to be cruelly and brutally collected
in the streets at an inconvenient hour, with collections sometimes taking place
until two in the afternoon; those with a leash, and thus, a possible owner, were
separated from the presumably stray dogs. And to add insult to injury, while
the former were given a light meal and water, the latter were offered neither
food nor drink. After forty-eight hours, instead of being killed in accordance
with the means suggested by the SPA, strychnine cakes were given to the dogs.
Death was, therefore, painful, and the strays that did not die from poisoning
were summarily beaten to death.58
Municipal employees in charge of picking up the dogs also outraged Lisbon’s
population. On 17 March 1889, for instance, in the neighbourhood of Alcântara,
municipal staff “grabbed a dog by the legs, leading him to the wagon, and as the
animal stumbled and yelped they made a tie with the whip and threw it at his
neck, [a method that risked] … killing the poor animal.”59 In fact, witnessing
any dog being caught led invariably to quarrels and fights,60 at times entailing
the interruption of the municipal dogs’ pick up service.61
In the press, the conflict between humans and dogs was a relevant topic.62
Descriptions, followed by critics and concrete suggestions, both in O Zoophilo
and in other outlets, point to the construction of a new urban identity, based
on a modern sensitivity commonly found in other European countries. On the
other hand, in Frédéric Vidal words, “descriptions contribute[d] to the [man-
agement of] urban space … identifying and valuing [as well as reproaching]
specific habits,” and allowing for the emergence of new civilized practices and
habits.63 Thus, what emerged from the descriptions of Lisbon’s newspapers
was an attempt to influence and shape urban ways of life. Such narratives,
which abhorred animal abuse for its cruelty, were used to support claims that
sought to justify the intervention of public authorities, at the same time cre-
ating a system of self-policing in which the moral condemnation of animal
mistreatment justified new practices, not only from authorities but also from
Lisbon inhabitants. Moreover, descriptions of animals’ abuse that revealed the
location of the offenses and the name of the perpetrators to “public abomi-
nation” were common, “so that the ferocious instincts of such souls may be
known to all, and clarify what mankind can expect from them, when they do
so to helpless and unconscious beings.”64
Just as news reporting on the social problem posed by criminality contrib-
uted to the construction of a shared morality, newspapers reporting instances
of animal cruelty played a fundamental role in the construction of a social
morality, and opened the doors for the legitimation of a new set of behaviours
on the part of authorities and the population as a whole.65 As Rita Garnel puts
it, in Lisbon “the streets, far from being exclusively routes of circulation, were,
Figure 11.1 Cart for driving dogs and cats (Model 1887)
Gomes de Mello, Phot. Amateur. PT/AMLSB/CMLSB/AURB/67/0001/
000018. Courtesy CML
in the first place, an extension of the house, places for playing, chatting and
gossiping, spaces for fighting and aggressing.”66 Violence in Lisbon in the early
decades of the nineteenth century was, to a large extent, the result of sociabil-
ity: “the result of the tensions of coexistence.”67 Both the tavern and the street
were at the centre of popular sociability: “the street [was] a living channel of
social interaction […] an integral and essential part of the pedestrian city, with
its dramas, daily rhythms, noises and buildings.”68 Dogs were inhabitants of
Lisbon, and as such an “integral and essential part” of its streets; so familiar
that they had to be protected from the cruelty of municipal authorities, like
any other member of the urban family. Situations involving Lisboners insulting
the police while refusing to obey their orders, often involved the management
of dogs in public.69
66 Garnel, “Os Espaços,” 48. See also Maria Alexandra Lousada, “Public space and popular
sociability in Lisbon in the early nineteenth century,” Santa Barbara Portuguese Studies IV,
(1997): 220–232.
67 Garnel, “Os Espaços,” 59.
68 Lousada, “Public space,” 227.
69 Lousada, “Public space,” 223.
Allies or Enemies? 335
3 Rabies
The problem of stray dogs was not only a humanitarian issue, but a question
of health and sanitation as well. The intimate relationship between stray dogs,
public streets, and sanitary problems, i.e. rabies, was itself a source of tension
and led to divergent opinions regarding the necessity of following interna-
tional trends.
José G. Allen, an aspiring military officer and a twenty-eight-year-old healthy
man, died on 18 October 1888. The case was widely discussed; both in Lisbon’s
daily press and in the Sociedade de Ciências Médicas (Medical Sciences
Society); and generated fierce debate among health professionals due to the
lack of consensus regarding the cause of death. Allen’s case, however, was not
unique. In the 1880s, rabies (i.e. hydrophobia) was slowly becoming the order
of the day as an increasing number of cases were being reported. In addition to
stories such as Allen’s death, newspapers reported on the most recent, and at
times alleged, medical treatments. Louis Pasteur’s work on rabies, as well as his
communications to the Academy of Medical Sciences of Paris, was explained
and given detailed description in both newspapers and medical journals.73
70 Ferreira da Silva and Sousa argue that “Lisbon’s transformation was the result of tensions
and compromises between different actors”: Silva and Sousa, “The ‘Script’,” 65.
71 McNeur, Taming Manhattan; Brady, “The Politics;” Neil Pemberton and Michael Worboys,
Mad Dogs and Englishmen: Rabies in Britain, 1830–2000 (Houndsmills: Palgrave Macmillan,
2007).
72 Almeroth-Williams refers to watchdogs in London, but the same can be said to stray dogs
in Lisbon: Almeroth-Williams, City of beasts, 211.
73 Rabies is an infectious disease caused by a virus that affects the nervous system of mam-
mals. Transmission occurs from the infected animal to the healthy ones through saliva
contact, usually by biting. This is how humans are infected by dogs. The first symptoms
are anxiety, depression, headaches and hallucinations. Later, despite the desire to drink,
the individual feels a phobia about water – hence the disease is also known as hydro-
phobia. After a state of extreme excitement, the patient goes on to the paralytic phase
where he may perish by suffocation. In 1885 Pasteur wrote his first detailed report on
rabies to the Academy of Science describing his discoveries on a method for attenuate
the rabies pathological agent, which allowed him to try a preventive treatment (vac-
cine), that would be exported worldwide. About rabies and Pasteur’s works see for
336 Gomes
In short, the subject was making headlines considering the severity of the
threat posed by rabies to Lisbon’s general population. What is more, this case
of a human being contracting rabies, as confirmed by the Pasteur Institute
in Paris, was both an etiological argument and a reflection of the discourse
around the methods of its treatment and prevention in the Portuguese capi-
tal. Should an anti-rabies institute be built according to Pasteur’s method, or
should measures be taken on stray dogs and on the hygiene of wounds in cases
of bites?
At the epicentre of the controversy was Eduardo Abreu: a physician who
studied newly developed methodologies and medical practices, and special-
ised in practices devised in response to epidemics, and eventually worked
with Pasteur during his time abroad. According to Abreu, “the best prophy-
laxis to avoid rabies in men would be to prevent rabies in dogs.” Thus, wrote
Abreu, it seemed “illogical to establish anti-rabies institutes for man alone.”74
Abreu, moreover, was reluctant about Pasteur’s methods for treating rabies,75
and urged the Portuguese Medical Sciences Society to implement restrictions
for the control of the circulation of stray dogs in the streets, and incorporate
washing, cleaning and cauterising of their injuries as standard practice.76 Thus,
for Abreu, regulating the modus vivendi of stray dogs assumed primacy over
the founding of a bacteriological institute.77 The fight against rabies finds its
proper setting in the streets of the city, precisely because it is, above all, a fight
against the stray dogs that wander the streets of Lisbon. Hence, Abreu’s pro-
posal for enacting control measures in public, which restricted the circulation
of potentially dangerous animals. By contrast, in Germany, the extermination
of stray dogs had led to the extinction of rabies.78 This led some veterinary
instance: James H. Steele, “History of rabies,” in The natural history of rabies, volume I,
ed. George M. Baer (London: Academic Press, 1975), 1–32; Bruno Latour, The pasteuriza-
tion of France, trans. Alan Sheridan and John Law (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1988); Gerald L. Geison, The private science of Louis Pasteur (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1995).
74 “Acta da Sessão de 25 de Junho de 1887,” Jornal da Sociedade de Ciências Médicas, LI, Ano
LII, 11 (1887): 335–342.
75 Eduardo Abreu went to Paris in 1886 to study the Pasteur’s anti-rabies vaccine, conclud-
ing that there was no certainty about the efficacy of the vaccine: Eduardo Abreu, A Raiva
(Imprensa Nacional, 1886); Alexandra Marques, O tratamento anti-rábico e a criação
do Instituto Bacteriológico em Lisboa, unpublished master thesis (Lisboa: Faculdade de
Farmácia da Universidade de Lisboa, 2010), 15–29.
76 “Acta da Sessão de 16 de Julho de 1887,” Jornal da Sociedade de Ciências Médicas, LII, Ano
LIII, 1 (1888): 20.
77 “Acta da Sessão de 14 de Maio de 1887,” Jornal da Sociedade de Ciências Médicas, LI, Ano
LII, 10 (1887): 286.
78 “Acta da Sessão de 14 de Maio de 1887,” 286.
Allies or Enemies? 337
theses to support this policy and considered that Abreu’s “prophylaxis” was the
most “energetic and effective” treatment. Moreover, the immediate and deep
cauterization with iron was essential.79
What was at stake, however, was not the relevance of municipal ordi-
nances regarding prophylactic measures; even Pasteur’s supporters, such as
the famous physician Miguel Bombarda – Abreu’s main rival in the on-going
debate – acknowledged the importance of sanitary measures, thus recognising
Lisbon’s obviously inadequate sanitary conditions,80 and viewing the practice
of cauterisation of wounds as entirely appropriate.81 Rather, what was at issue
was the effectiveness of Pasteur’s method. Unconvinced by the prestige and
novelty of the new aseptic laboratory in the medical sciences, Abreu focused
his attention on the need for improving public hygiene considering Lisbon’s
dirty streets. In turn, Pasteur’s supporters praised him for applying “positive
and certain methods,” applauded the “mathematical certainty” of his deduc-
tions and the “precision of [his] predictions.” Pasteur’s discovery of the chol-
era bacillus was “not [regarded as] useless;”82 rather, a revolution in medical
practice was under way. Vaccination, a therapeutic prophylaxis, was being
converted into a curative method, able to suppress the development of rabies
after being bitten by a rabid dog. For Pasteur’s supporters, the value of such a
discovery was something that “the spirit of man has never dared to dream of.”83
Aside from these medical arguments, was a set of economic reasons: the
large sums spent on sending patients to Paris seemed sufficient to justify the
creation of an anti-rabies institute in Lisbon. A new rationale focused not only
on intervening in the urban environment, via regulation and the restriction of
circulation, but also on prioritizing the treatment, protection, and well-being
of Lisbon’s human inhabitants. Thus, and despite the acknowledged impor-
tance of prophylactic measures, and considering inadequate sanitary policy,
those procedures no longer served as the grounds for justifiable approaches
toward mitigating the effects of rabies among the human population.
From 1870 to 1950, laboratory-based medical sciences in the United
Kingdom were adopted and promoted as part of a broader process of social
79 António Maria Mendes Abreu, A Raiva Canina. Tese de Veterinária (Lisboa: Instituto Geral
d’Agricultura, 1883).
80 “Relatório apresentado a 7 de março de 1889 por Alfredo da Costa à Sociedade de Ciências
Médicas sobre a fundação em Lisboa de um instituto anti-rábico,” Jornal da Sociedade de
Ciências Médicas, LIII, Ano LIV, 4 (1889): 100.
81 “Acta da Sessão de 16 de Abril de 1887,” Jornal da Sociedade de Ciências Médicas, LI, Ano
LII, 9 (1887): 267.
82 Edital de 30 de Agosto de 1884, A Medicina contemporânea, II, 35 (1884): 277–278.
83 Edital de 30 de Agosto de 1884, 277–278.
338 Gomes
84 Steve Sturdy, and Roger Cooter, “Science, Scientific Management, and the Transformation
of Medicine in Britain c. 1870–1950,” History of Science 36, 4 (1998): 421–466.
85 The establishment of a Bacteriologic Institute in Lisbon, and the choice of its head, was
a complex and troubled process which opposed diverse important Portuguese doctors:
Marques, O tratamento, 19–33.
86 Howell, “Between the Muzzle;” Walton, “Mad Dogs;” Pemberton and Worboys, Mad Dogs.
87 “Polícia e outras precauções,” O Zoophilo, 7 (1892) 2–3.
88 “Raiva e cães vadios,” A Medicina contemporanea X, 17 (1892): 135–6.
89 “Raiva e cães vadios,” 135–6.
Allies or Enemies? 339
Figure 11.2 “Muzzle the dog and let your child drown”, O Zoophilo, no. 4, 1892, p. 5
did not see a significant decrease in public conflicts regarding the threat of
canines, both rabid and stray.90
Portuguese society, however, was not convinced of the muzzle’s efficiency,
which could put Lisbon’s human inhabitants at risk insofar as muzzles pre-
vented faithful dogs from helping their owners. Stories about the dangers of
muzzles were regularly published in O Zoophilo:
A man, wishing to bath his dog in the Tagus River, near the train station
of St. Apolonia, commissioned a minor to accomplish the task. The child
was so careless that the dog dragged him, falling in the water. Fortunately,
another dog, seized the little child by the shirt, bringing him back to land.
A muzzle would never have allowed the happy ending of this story!91
almanacs, newspapers, and primary school teachers98 – should give dog own-
ers full knowledge of the police provisions, facilitating the means for compli-
ance as well as inform them of the first symptoms of rabies and the means to
avoid the most dangerous of its side-effects. This would be preferable to the
policy of forcing dogs to always wear a muzzle, which bothered them without
any the same advantages. For the SPA, rabies could effectively be circumvented
through this principle of liability intended to compel dog owners to pay par-
ticular attention to the health of their animals.99 In this context, the Lisbon
health sub-delegate, physician, and proponent of prophylactic measures, Silva
Carvalho, argued for the elaboration of popular instructions, by municipal vet-
erinarian, or herdsman,100 with a clear set of guidelines regarding symptoms
of rabies (especially for dogs and cats); how to proceed with suspect animals;
instructions on cleaning any object to previously come in contact with rabid
animals in order to limit contagion; as well as instructions on the adminis-
tration of first aid to individuals bitten by sick or suspicious animals.101 Once
more, inculcating new behaviours was considered central to decrease the city’s
dependence on police enforcement alone.
In addition to the circulation of publicly accessible health guides and the
implementation of controls regarding every day, the municipality advocated for
the creation of an information gathering process that would inform the advice
issued by medical and governmental authorities. Thus, to guarantee accuracy
regarding the general development and severity of the “terrible [rabies] dis-
ease,” and to “deduce from the results the nature and intensity of the measures
of administrative prophylaxis to be employed,”102 the civil governor adopted
several provisions to organise a “rabies statistics” in the district of Lisbon.103
When a case of rabies is reported in any of Lisbon’s districts, whether the vic-
tim is human or animal, the head of the respective district should inform the
county administrator and, if necessary, the districts sub-delegate of public
health in order to organise a detailed report for the Civil Governor.104
Nevertheless, the problem was not a lack of regulations, but their enforce-
ment.105 Municipal ordinances were at odds with popular sentiment: in
Lisbon, “it [was] rare for anyone to dislike having a dog,” and owners often let
them wander freely in the streets, and even near police stations. The fear of
rabies did not modify these habits. As the journal Contemporary Medicine puts
it, “mankind is generally cynophile, and so the old, sentimental theory that ele-
vates dogs to men’s best friends has so strong roots that the ephemeral fear of
the danger of rabies [can] not be snatched away.”106 Sporadically, clamours for
public safety recalled the truism that “a man’s life is worth that of all dogs,”107
but these protests were never successful to expel stray dogs from the Lisbon
streets.108 “Humanitarians” prevented the death of stray dogs while influential
citizens did not consider police reprimands. Moreover, given the possibility
of being fined, they usually complained of the behaviour of the civil guards,
who were often admonished by their superiors.109 “Above laws and municipal
regulations [were] the national customs that nullified them all.”110 Thus, “dogs
[won].”111
In sum, the various conflicts surrounding the threat of rabies in Lisbon
reveal the ambiguities generated by the circulation of ideas, techniques, indi-
viduals, and institutional models, which link contexts that span the interna-
tional, national, and local, wherein the realisation of a specific idea or practice
remained entirely conditioned by its local context. That is to say, the contours
of local appropriation are deeply entangled with people’s interests and expec-
tations. Municipal ordinances and the establishment of an anti-rabies institute
not only depended on, and was influenced by, municipal and governmental
ambitions: urban life – an intricate net reflecting conflicts over different ways
of living in Lisbon – was also central.
105 Obstruction of dogcatchers’ work is common to many cities. The application of fines to
those who prevented this public service was not always enough to avoid conflicts: Howell,
“Between the Muzzle;” McNeur, Taming Manhattan.
106 “Raiva e cães vadios,” 135–6.
107 Comparisons were frequent. See, for instance, Wang, “Dogs ” or McNeur, Taming
Manhattan.
108 “Raiva e cães vadios,” 135–6.
109 “Raiva nas ruas,” A Medicina contemporanea, X, 33 (1892): 264–5.
110 “Raiva nas ruas,” 264–5.
111 “Raiva e cães vadios,” 135–6.
Allies or Enemies? 343
4 Final Remarks
Aknowledgments
Daniel Gamito-Marques
In one of the streets that led to the Royal São Carlos Theatre, Lisbon’s fashion-
able opera house, and facing the building where the city’s Civil Administration
was housed, the informed Lisboner could find the head office of the nineteenth-
century literary periodical Portugal’s Gazette (Gazeta de Portugal). It was there
that the agronomy senior Jaime Batalha Reis met one of the gazette’s collabo-
rators, a relatively unknown lawyer named Eça de Queirós, who would decades
later become famous for his novels. The year was 1866, and the young Eça
was by then regarded an eccentric writer, authoring short stories and essays
composed in an unusual style and filled with Romantic scenes. The attrac-
tion between Reis and Eça led to a dinner, which developed into a late-night
conversation, and soon they had become best friends.1 The encounter marked
their personal and intellectual paths. Initially drawn together by their literary
interests, they later created an informal group of intellectuals that vied for the
opening of Portuguese society to the new ideas of their century. This group,
later known as the Cenáculo (Cenacle) developed a particular relationship
with Lisbon, frequenting spaces in and around the city in which any idea or
theoretical system could be safely dissected away from the public bourgeois
gaze.2 These private discussions served as a training ground for both Reis and
Eça to refine their socialist politics and ultimately confront their contempo-
raries in full view of the public eye.
1 Jaime Batalha Reis, “Introdução,” in Eça de Queirós, Prosas Bárbaras (Porto: Lello & Irmãos
Editores, 1912), 9–10.
2 The Cenacle’s members belonged to what has been termed the “Generation of 1870,” or a
generation of new Portuguese intellectuals that had a profound cultural influence in the
country since the 1870s. There are numerous studies on the Generation of 1870. For example,
see Álvaro Manuel Machado, A Geração de 70 – uma revolução cultural e literária (Lisboa:
Instituto de Cultura e Língua Portuguesa, 1981); João Medina, Eça de Queiroz e a geração de
70 (Lisboa: Moraes Editores, 1980); António José Saraiva, A Tertúlia Ocidental. Estudos sobre
Antero de Quental, Oliveira Martins, Eça de Queiroz e outros (Lisboa: Gradiva, 1995); Amadeu
Carvalho Homem, Teófilo Braga, Ramalho Ortigão, Antero de Quental. Diálogos difíceis
(Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade de Coimbra, 2009).
In this chapter, I will show that frequenting spaces in and around Lisbon
that escaped the bourgeois gaze was essential for the maturation of the
Cenacle’s radical views and allowed its members to have a greater impact
when they decided to disseminate these views to the educated public. I will
also show that these conceptions stemmed from a notion of progress that was
simultaneously cultural, social, and material. Although the Cenacle’s mem-
bers were more interested in discussing the philosophical and artistic mean-
ings of new scientific developments, they were not dismissive of science and
understood that social progress could only be achieved by embracing the new
scientific ideas of the century and by relying on the participation of technosci-
entific experts.
Mid-nineteenth century Lisbon was a city under a slow, but seemingly irrevers-
ible transformation. Since 1834, when the Liberals took power and expelled all
male religious orders from the kingdom, the government had been convert-
ing most of the buildings of former convents that spread throughout Lisbon
for practical military, healthcare, cultural, or administrative needs.3 Although
there was no integrated plan of urban modernization in place, some central
areas underwent substantial intervention. Exemplary of the kinds of modern-
ization projects of this period is Rossio – one of Lisbon’s biggest and busiest
squares. By 1866, and after the demolition of its last shacks and the installa-
tion of a cobbled pavement (known as Portuguese pavement), it had become
a pleasant space for the Portuguese bourgeoisie with trees and benches along
its perimeter (see chapters 1 and 2 in this volume). In fact, this renovated urban
space now stood as a monument to the new regime: it had been renamed
King Pedro IV Square, after the Liberal monarch who had granted the current
Constitution. The new square had a statue of its namesake, which was tempo-
rarily removed for the construction of a higher pedestal, and led to the new
Queen Maria II National Theatre, a remodelled palace that had belonged to
the extinct Portuguese Inquisition and a symbol of national culture that occu-
pied the majestic and most conspicuous building facing the square.4 A few
Figure 12.1 Map with the indication of places where the Cenacle’s group stopped, including their
residences
1. Praça D. Pedro IV (Rossio); 2. Teatro Nacional D. Maria II; 3. Casa da família Eça de
Queirós, c.1866; 4. Entrada do Passeio Público; 5. Real Associação Central de Agricultura
Portuguesa, c.1868–80; 6. Real Teatro de S. Carlos; 7. Redacção da Gazeta de Portugal;
8. Livraria Bertrand; 9. Grémio Literário, c.1854–69; 10. Grémio Literário, c.1869–75; 11.
Teatro Ginásio; 12. Teatro da Trindade; 13. Casino Lisbonense; 14. Jardim de São Pedro de
Alcântara; 15. Rua com várias redacções de jornais; 16. Loja maçónica do Grande Oriente
Lusitano; 17. Casa de Jaime Batalha Reis, c.1866–69; 18. Rua com sedes de clubes políticos
de esquerda; 19. Conservatório Real de Lisboa
Courtesy José Avelãs Nunes
meters past the theatre, there began the Public Promenade (Passeio Público), a
large enclosed garden where the educated classes enjoyed taking a stroll, espe-
cially on warm nights, replete with music concerts lit by the newly introduced
technology of gas lighting.5
It was in this amenable bourgeois neighbourhood that the Queirós family
had been living for some years, in an apartment in one of the buildings that
surrounded the square, and it was there that the young Eça arrived in the sum-
mer of 1866.
As a recent law graduate from the country’s secular and sole university,
which was in the northern city of Coimbra, Eça was now forced to turn his
5 On the Public Promenade, see Françoise Le Cunff, “Parques e Jardins de Lisboa 1764–1932. Do
Passeio Público ao Parque Eduardo VII” (MA diss., NOVA University of Lisbon, 2000).
Intellectuals and the City 347
back to the comforts of student life and find a respectable job. Lisbon stood
as an attractive option, since it was Portugal’s capital, a city with better and
more numerous career opportunities, and where his family had contacts. Eça’s
father had relocated with the rest of the family from northern Portugal four
years before and was doing well as a magistrate. Now, it was time for his son to
follow in his footsteps.6
Moving to Lisbon meant abdicating much of the privacy Eça enjoyed while
living in Coimbra with other students. He now had to share his living space with
his two parents and three brothers, and he had to deal with familial pressures
to make a living and acquire an appropriate position in the social hierarchy of
his time. Middle-class expectations weighed on Eça’s mind, and the most cher-
ished spaces of his new neighbourhood served as a constant reminder. The
Queen Maria II National Theatre was more than just a place to see comedies
or social and historical dramas, as much as the Public Promenade’s attraction
hardly resided on its botanical specimens.7 These were spaces of sociability that
the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie used to make themselves noticed amongst
their peers and judge the social prestige of others. Eça was, therefore, living in
an intensely exposed Lisbon, where he was constantly submitted to the bour-
geois gaze, even at night under the light of modern gas lamps or enjoying the
electrical lighting and special effects at the opera house.8 Meeting Reis, how-
ever, provided him an escape route from educated society’s inquisitive eyes.
Born in Lisbon in 1847, Jaime Batalha Reis was finishing his studies by 1866
in Agronomy at the Lisbon Agrarian Institute, which, at the time, was the
only technoscientific institution of higher education devoted to such matters
in Portugal. However, it is around this time that Reis’ parents relocated to a
rural province several miles north of Lisbon, where they had some land and
vineyards.9 Reis lived with his Galician butler in a modest flat in Bairro Alto, a
neighbourhood quite different from Rossio (Figure 12.2).
Figure 12.2 Photograph of Atalaia Street in Bairro Alto, between 1898 and 1907. This was
one of the largest streets of the neighbourhood
Arquivo Municipal de Lisboa, PT/AMLSB/CMLSBAH/PCSP/003/
FAN/001641
Intellectuals and the City 349
Bairro Alto spread across the slope of one of Lisbon’s various hills and was
the opposite of Rossio. Old and dirty, filled with narrow streets and dark alleys,
mostly inhabited by lower-class families crammed into small apartments, the
atmosphere of Barrio Alto effectively drove away the city’s upper classes.10 And
in some of its houses, one could drink cheap wine and listen to fado, a melan-
cholic musical genre played with guitar and mostly sung by female sex-workers
and other people engaged in activities outside the law. This was a neighbour-
hood where the worlds of bohemia, prostitution, and crime intersected at these
dubious taverns, which also attracted a variety of middle-class people and even
some aristocrats enchanted by these musical laments.11 And yet, Bairro Alto
also served as a place of intellectual activity, housing the offices of some of the
city’s most dynamic newspapers, including the Daily News (Diário de Notícias),
the Lisbon Royal Conservatory, and the secretive and most prominent Masonic
lodge of the Grand Orient of Portugal (Grande Oriente Lusitano).12 In this way,
Bairro Alto enjoyed a dual reputation and was a neighbourhood where differ-
ent social types crossed ways, creating a peculiar atmosphere.
It is against this novel background of Bairro Alto’s diversity that Eça and
Reis built an alternative lifestyle by carefully selecting the urban spaces they
frequented to avoid as much as possible the inquisitive eyes of bourgeois soci-
ety. They usually had dinner together in less frequented restaurants and then
indulged in several cups of coffee that left them energized to discuss every sub-
ject in the privacy of Reis’s home during the evening; conversations that would,
at times, continue until the morning. On other occasions, they would walk all
night across Bairro Alto’s labyrinth of narrow streets or extend their wanderings
to other lower-class neighbourhoods, such as Mouraria, Alfama, Sé, and Castelo,
10 There are vivid descriptions of the neighbourhood in Júlio de Vilhena, Lisboa Antiga –
Bairro Alto. Volume 5 (Lisboa: Antiga Casa Bertrand – José Bastos, 1904).
11 On the evolution of fado, see Rui Vieira Nery, Para uma História do Fado (Lisboa: Público,
2004). On the links between fado and prostitution, see José Machado Pais, A prostituição
e a Lisboa boémia do séc. XIX aos inícios do séc. XX (Lisboa: Querco, 1985). For a descrip-
tion of a night in a fado house in Bairro Alto, see João do Rio, Fados, Canções e Dansas de
Portugal (Rio de Janeiro: H. Garnier, 1909), 6–12.
12 On the presence of the press in Bairro Alto, see Paulo Martins, O Bairro dos Jornais (Lisboa:
Quetzal, 2018). On the spaces of the Royal Conservatory of Lisbon, see Carlos Alberto
Faísca Fernandes Gomes, “Discursos sobre a «especificidade» do Ensino Artístico: a sua
Representação Histórica nos Séculos XIX e XX” (MA disser., University of Lisbon, 2002),
53–8. On the Grand Orient of Portugal, see A.H. de Oliveira Marques, “Organização admin-
istrativa e política,” in Nova História de Portugal. Volume X: A Regeneração, ed. Fernando
de Sousa, A.H. de Oliveira Marques (Lisboa: Presença, 2004), 245–7.
350 Gamito-Marques
stopping by a tavern when they felt hungry. During summer, when Bairro Alto’s
poorly isolated buildings became uncomfortably warm, and especially under
a full moon, Eça and Reis would take long walks across the sparsely inhabited
periphery of Lisbon or along the Tagus River, going as far as Belém. They wanted
to feel free to discuss any topic that might be considered inappropriate to the
members of their class. Occasionally, they would invite like-minded individuals,
but their only recurrent partner was Salomão Sáraga, a young man from a rich
Jewish family. It was a small bohemia, like those that had germinated in Paris in
the 1830s. And since Eça’s lifestyle would hardly fit his family’s routines, he would
sleepover in Reis’s house when they returned to Lisbon in the morning.13
Despite their attraction towards the bohemian lifestyle, Eça and Reis did not
live on the margins of bourgeois society, and they did much to avoid margin-
alization. Based on Reis’s personal correspondence with Celeste Cinatti, the
young middle-class lady he was courting, he and his closest friends frequented
the spaces of sociability of nineteenth-century bourgeois Lisbon in Rossio and
nearby Chiado, the neighbourhood where most of the fashionable shops, coffee
houses, and theatres were located (see Figure 13.3a).14 For example, Reis used
his family’s reserved opera box at the São Carlos National Theatre whenever he
pleased, as all the upper-class bourgeois and aristocrats did; he strolled in the
Public Promenade, one of the few spaces where he could be physically near his
beloved Celeste; he had long conversations with other intellectuals in the cof-
fee houses around the area, including the Central Coffee House (Café Central);
and he sometimes went to balls and concerts organized at the Portuguese
Assembly (Assembleia Portuguesa). Walking up and down Chiado’s streets was
also a necessity: it was in its shops that he could find the books he wanted (if
he still had money to buy them) or go to the Literary Club (Grémio Literário)
to use its reading room, which had various literary and scientific journals that
were accessible to the public. Moreover, Reis also frequented the houses of the
respectable Castelo Branco and Enes families and paid periodic visits to his
sister and his uncle, who also lived in Lisbon.15
How could Reis, Eça, and their friends balance their bohemian inclina-
tions with bourgeois sociability? Part of the answer lies within Lisbon’s urban
geography. The city centre was quite small and most of its spaces were within
13 Reis, “Introdução,” in Queirós, Prosas Bárbaras, 11–6, 42–7. On the French bohemians, see
Jerrod Seigel, Bohemian Paris (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986).
14 On Chiado neighbourhood, see Júlio de Castilho, Lisboa Antiga – Bairro Alto. Volume 2
(Lisboa: Antiga Casa Bertrand – José Bastos, 1903), 214–7.
15 Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal (BNP). Espólio E4. On the São Carlos opera house, see
Augusto M. Seabra, Ir a S. Carlos (Lisboa: Correios de Portugal, 1993). On the Literary Club,
see José-Augusto França, O Grémio Literário e a sua História (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte,
2004).
Intellectuals and the City 351
walking distance of each other. At the city’s centre was Chiado, which was situ-
ated between the neighbourhoods of Rossio and Bairro Alto, and thus, Lisbon’s
intellectuals circulated among these three. For them, it was as easy to enter
the intensively exposed opera as it was to reach Reis’s secluded house. Equally
important was their wealth of free time. When Eça started to meet regularly
with Reis, they were both recent graduates. Freed from their educational
responsibilities and not yet trapped in a job with a fixed schedule, they had
plenty of available time. Eça wrote short stories for the Portugal’s Gazette, but
he only published one per week, which left much room for dilettantism.
From 1866 to the late 1868, when the Cenacle was a relatively small group,
bohemia was given primacy over bourgeois sentiment, and not without exter-
nal resistance. Eça’s father did not want an idle lifestyle for his son and tried
to find him a respectable position. First, his father arranged a job for him in
a friend’s office and afterwards, placed a newspaper advertisement offering
Eça’s services as a lawyer, to which no one replied. This is not surprising, how-
ever, since at this point in his life Eça had no professional reputation in Lisbon.
Given his interest in writing, Eça’s father secured him a position as the head
editor of a newspaper run by his friend José Maria Eugénio de Almeida, one of
the wealthiest Portuguese landowners. For this reason, early in 1867 Eça was
forced to move to the Southern city of Évora, which he disliked, since it was a
rural region devoid of any of his acquaintances and miles away from the capi-
tal and its cultural scene. However, Eça returned to Lisbon by August of the
same year and against his father’s wishes, ready to resume his bohemian incur-
sions.16 During this period, Eça and his close friends essentially lived from their
families’ earnings and surely made the most of them. Yet, they knew that such
a situation could not last forever.
The dilettante duo formed by Eça and Reis mostly engaged in artistic discus-
sions: Eça was strongly interested in literature, while Reis preferred music and
opera. The Cenacle would have limited itself to artistic conversations were it
not for an important change that took place at the end of 1868: the introduc-
tion of Eça’s friend Antero de Quental to the group.
Born in 1842, Antero de Quental was raised by a wealthy, aristocratic fam-
ily. Like Eça, he had studied law at the University of Coimbra and had liter-
ary interests. When Eça, who was three years younger than Antero, had met
him at Coimbra, he had been captivated by Antero’s entrancing presence,
which had already earned him a reputation among other students.17 Antero
was an eccentric person, well known for his natural kindness and desire to
help others, as well as his sharp and inquisitive mind that easily slid into
obsession and occasional fits of rage. He had probably a bipolar disorder and
struggled all his life with his mental condition. When he was introduced to
the Cenacle, he was already a published poet, and he aspired to systematize
his philosophical ideas. Antero, therefore, had all of the appeal of a romantic
hero. In his college years, he was struck by the works of the French anarchist
(utopian socialist using Marx’s terms) Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, which shaped
his strong socialist inclinations throughout all his life. He repeatedly tried to
find an occupation that suited his peculiar temperament but to no avail. When
he was introduced to the bohemian group in Lisbon, he had already engaged in
a literary controversy that ended in a duel (which he won), considered joining
Garibaldi’s armies, fancied leaving bourgeois Europe for Portugal’s colonies in
Asia, considered becoming a full-time philosopher, worked as a typographical
officer in both Lisbon and Paris, and spent a few months living as a hermit in
the Azores. With a character such as Antero’s, adjusting his high aspirations to
a fulfilling way of living seemed all but impossible.18
From the very beginning, the arrival of Antero changed the Cenacle’s dis-
cussions. According to Reis, when Eça and other friends introduced him to
Antero, they immediately jumped to a political discussion on the advantages
of an “Iberian revolution;” that is, of unifying the kingdoms of Portugal and
Spain.19 Less than two months before, Queen Isabel II had been overthrown
in Spain and the provisional government was considering different options
regarding the establishment of a new regime. Some within the Cenacle group
argued for the unification of Portugal and Spain, following what had happened
within the Italian peninsula and in the annexation of German-speaking ter-
ritories by Prussia.20 Public opinion in Portugal, however, was largely opposed
17 Eça has a beautiful description of the night he discovered Antero. See Eça de Queirós,
“Um genio que era um santo,” in Anthero de Quental in memoriam (Porto: Mathieu Lugan,
1896), 481–3.
18 On Antero’s life, see José Calvet de Magalhães, Antero – a vida angustiada de um poeta
(Lisboa: Bizâncio, 1998); Ana Maria A. Martins, O essencial sobre Antero de Quental (Lisboa:
Imprensa Nacional – Casa da Moeda, 2001). On the evolution of Antero’s thought, see
Ana Maria A. Martins, ed., Antero de Quental. Cartas I – 1852 a 1876 (Lisboa: Imprensa
Nacional – Casa da Moeda, 2009).
19 Jaime Batalha Reis, “Annos de Lisboa (algumas lembranças),” in Anthero de Quental,
441–3.
20 On the geopolitical transformations in Europe during the nineteenth century, see
Paul W. Schroeder, “International Politics, Peace, and War, 1815–1914,” in The Nineteenth
Century. Europe 1789–1914, ed. T.C. Blanning (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003),
158–209.
Intellectuals and the City 353
to an Iberian union, fearing for the likely loss of the country’s autonomy, as it
had already happened in the late sixteenth century.21 Contra public opinion,
Antero argued for Portuguese-Spanish unification on the basis of his socialist-
anarchist beliefs, for he dreamed of the formation of a federal republic formed
by the two nations. Although these discussions were subsumed under larger
philosophic debate on the advantages of metaphysics versus positivism,
Antero remained committed to the idea of an Iberian federal republic, very
much in line with Proudhon’s ideas of federalism. Before the end of 1868, he
published a booklet expounding his views and was even in contact with the
republican supporters of the Spanish politician Emilio Castelar, who also
called for Iberian unification. The plan to join a periodical founded by Spanish
republicans ultimately failed, but Antero’s dream persisted.22
Antero’s strong personality, sharp intelligence, and deep political engage-
ment transformed the Cenacle. He was responsible for converting the group
to Proudhon’s ideas, effectively ending the predominance of purely artistic
discussions within the group. Antero gave them a higher purpose to their
bohemian reunions, which the group accepted, seeing the figure of a leader in
Antero (Figure 12.3).23
Figure 12.3 Some of the Cenacle’s members in 1889. From left to right: Eça de Queirós,
Oliveira Martins, Antero de Quental, Ramalho Ortigão, and Guerra Junqueiro
Augusto Bobone, “Vencidos da Vida,” DG/A01/G04, PT/CPF/
CNF/001557. Reproduced by permission of Centro Português de
Fotografia
21 On the Iberian unification, also known as “the Iberian question”, see A.H. de Oliveira
Marques, “A conjuntura,” in Nova História de Portugal. Volume X, 487–88.
22 Letter from Antero to Alberto Sampaio, late 1868 apud Martins, Antero de Quental.
Cartas I, 171–2.
23 Eça, “Um genio que era um santo,” in Anthero de Quental, 499–501.
354 Gamito-Marques
The timing for such a turn could not be sharper since important politi-
cal changes had been occurring in Portugal in previous years. Lisbon in the
late 1860s was teeming with political unrest. The municipal elections of
1 January 1868 resulted in disturbances across the kingdom, culminating in
uprisings in both Lisbon and Porto, the country’s second biggest city. The direct
cause of the uprisings had been the imminent implementation of a new and
controversial consumption tax, which would require additional declarations
of goods from traders. It was one among several unpopular measures that the
current executive had enacted to respond to the joint effect of a financial crisis
of international dimensions (1866) and a sharp decrease in the remittances
from emigrants in Brazil due to the Paraguayan War (1864–70). The election’s
unfavourable outcome for the governmental forces and the mobilization of the
masses in what was probably one of the first examples of effective mass poli-
tics during the Portuguese constitutional monarchy, led to the executive’s res-
ignation in early 1868, and the abandonment of the most controversial reforms
by its successor.24
The political changes in Portugal in this period had been the result of a
peculiar set of circumstances. In contrast to what had been common practice
since 1851, neither of the two main parties had been ruling the country in isola-
tion in the years leading to 1868. Three years prior, the centre-Left Historical
Party (Partido Histórico) and the centre-Right Regenerator Party (Partido
Regenerador) reached an agreement and governed in coalition, even though
politicians linked to the latter ultimately gained power over their coalition part-
ners. Leftists who opposed what they saw as a diffuse centrist alliance, includ-
ing renowned dissidents from the Historical Party, founded the Reformist Party
(Partido Reformista) to present a clear Leftist alternative. Its organization,
however, was only one of the responses to the so-called “fusion.” Other Leftist
dissidents formed new political centres in Lisbon, mobilizing the middle class,
the petty bourgeoisie, and even the proletariat, to the horror of traditional
Liberal politicians, who despised what they regarded as untrustworthy and
potentially violent masses. These new Leftist political clubs were more pre-
cisely defined by their meeting places rather than by their ideological differ-
ences, and they blossomed in working-class neighbourhoods (see chapter 3
in this volume), such as the Salema Patio (Pátio do Salema) near Rossio, or
in Bairro Alto, especially on Queimada Cross Street (Travessa da Queimada).
Although the masses drawn to these political clubs had not gathered in suf-
ficient numbers to make Lisbon’s inhabitants fear a major upheaval, their
mobilization in the capital, as well as in Porto and other cities, was sufficient
24 A.H. de Oliveira Marques, “A conjuntura,” in Sousa and Marques, Nova História, 484–5.
Intellectuals and the City 355
25 On politics during this period, see Manuel Maria Cardoso Leal, “A Rotação Partidária em
Portugal. A Aprendizagem da Alternância Política (c. 1860–1890)” (PhD diss., University
of Lisbon, 2016); Rui Ramos, “A Regeneração e o Fontismo (1851–1890),” in História de
Portugal, ed. Rui Ramos (Lisboa: A Esfera dos Livros, 2010), 521–48. On social mobilization
in the January 1868 revolt, see Diego Palacios Cerezales, Portugal à Coronhada: Protesto
popular e ordem pública nos séculos XIX e XX (Lisboa: Tinta da China, 2011), 95–114. On the
Portuguese political parties, see A.H. de Oliveira Marques, “Organização administrativa e
política,” in Sousa and Marques, Nova História, 229–45.
26 The term “anarchist socialism” (“socialismo anarquista”) was used by António Sérgio, a
major figure in Portuguese culture and himself a disciple of Antero, to encompass the
complexity of Quental’s political stands. Joel Serrão, “Do pensamento político-social de
Antero de Quental (1868–1873)”, Análise Social, vol. XVI (61–62) (1980): 343–361, 349.
27 Reis, “Annos de Lisboa,” in Anthero de Quental, 443–53.
28 Rui Ramos, História de Portugal. Volume VI: A Segunda Fundação (1890–1926) (Lisboa:
Estampa, 2001), 64–6.
356 Gamito-Marques
close. Since his arrival in Lisbon, Antero was living in the Baixa neighbour-
hood (Lisbon’s downtown); but as he spent almost all his time with Reis, they
decided to find a larger apartment in which they could live together. In 1869,
Antero and Reis moved just a few meters north of Reis’s initial house, transfer-
ring to one of the entrances to Bairro Alto that faced the new São Pedro de
Alcântara public garden.29
In a certain sense, Antero’s arrival did not significantly change the relation-
ship the Cenacle’s members had with Lisbon. Now expanded to include Antero
and other men, the group continued to prefer secluded spaces in which they
could discuss their radical opinions while shielded from bourgeois judgment.
They continued to take long walks at night by the river and in the peripheral
Monsanto fields, and when they wanted to remain closer to city centre, they
could jump the wall of the Prazeres Cemetery (Cemitério dos Prazeres) and
have their talks in the company of the dead, certain that no one would dare to
frequent such place at night. On other occasions, they crossed the road from
Reis’s and Antero’s new house and reached the small São Pedro de Alcântara
public garden (see chapter 10 in this volume), which could be easily accessed
since it was not fenced. This was a quite suitable space in their opinion, since
it was frequented by few people, even during the day, and had a special charm,
with its beautiful panoramic view of Lisbon that included most of the Public
Promenade.30
From another perspective, Antero’s arrival did change some routines. His
personal connections with working-class socialist militants in Lisbon made it
possible for some of the members of Cenacle to engage with Lisbon’s prole-
tariat, such as the elusive Giuseppe Fontana. Fontana was born in the Italian
canton of Ticino in Switzerland, in 1840, to an Italian father and a Portuguese
mother. Following his father’s death, his mother sold all the family’s goods
and left Switzerland, and eventually returned to Portugal with her children.
Fontana ended up working at the Bertrand bookshop in the Chiado neighbour-
hood, an opportunity that was surely facilitated by his mother’s hereditary
ties to the Bertrand family.31 Fontana had connections with other politically
engaged workers across Europe and became one of the fiercest militant social-
ists in Lisbon. Given Fontana’s political connections, it is likely Antero met him
during his stint as a writer who published articles in praise of socialism for
32 For a discussion over the Cenacle members’ political allegiances, see Rui Ramos, “A for-
mação da intelligentsia portuguesa (1860–1880),” Análise Social 27 (1992): 483–528. For a
personal account of their incursions in working-class underground movements, see Reis,
“Annos de Lisboa,” in Anthero de Quental, 449–53.
33 Mónica, Eça de Queirós, 80–1.
358 Gamito-Marques
clear in the case of Antero, the Cenacle’s members considered that science and
technology were important tools for the moral and material progress of their
nation. At the same time, even Reis’s efforts to find a career were not entirely
directed to a scientific field. He also moved influences to become a member
of parliament, although his outspoken socialist sympathies probably compro-
mised the plan, and he applied for a diplomatic position abroad, as his friend
Eça also did.38
38 BNP. Espólio E4. Caixa 59, 2. Letter from Reis to Celeste Cinatti, September[?] 1870.
39 Reis, “Annos de Lisboa,” in Anthero de Quental, 460.
40 BNP. Espólio E4. Caixa 58, 3(5). Letter from Reis to Celeste Cinnati, May[?] 1871.
41 Letter from Antero to Teófilo Braga, April 1871 apud Martins, Antero de Quental. Cartas I,
186–8.
360 Gamito-Marques
42 Ibidem.
43 On the Music-Hall, later Lisbon Casino, see Pinto de Carvalho (Tinop), Lisboa d’Outros
Tempos. Volume II: Os cafés (Lisboa: Parceria António Maria Pereira – Livraria Editora,
1899), 266–8. On the popularity of music-halls, see Dagmar Kift, The Victorian Music Hall
(Irthlingborough: Cambridge University Press, 1991). On the can-can, see Nadège Maruta,
L’Incroyable Histoire du Cancan (Paris: Parigramme, 2014).
44 Reis calls the director a friend in Reis, “Introdução,” in Queirós, Prosas Bárbaras, 45. It is
possible that he occasionally attended the Cenacle’s meetings.
Intellectuals and the City 361
45 On the Gymnasium Theatre, see Pinto de Carvalho (Tinop), Lisboa d’Outros Tempos.
Volume I: Figuras e scenas antigas (Lisboa: Livraria de António Maria Pereira, 1898),
166–77. On the Trindade Theatre, see Júlio César Machado, Os Theatros de Lisboa (Lisboa:
Livraria Editora de Matos Moreira & C.ª, 1874), 191–236.
46 Antero de Quental, Causas da Decadencia dos Povos Peninsulares nos ultimos tres seculos.
(Porto: Tipografia Comercial, 1871). A good modern edition with a foreword by Eduardo
Lourenço was published in 2010 by Tinta-da-China. There is a significant body of litera-
ture on the Democratic Conferences. Some examples are António Salgado Júnior, História
das Conferências do Casino (Lisboa: Tipografia da Cooperativa Militar, 1930); José Augusto
França, ed., As Conferências do Casino no Parlamento (Lisboa: Horizonte, 1973); João
Medina, ed., As Conferências do Casino e o Socialismo em Portugal (Lisboa: Dom Quixote,
1984); Carlos Reis, As Conferências do Casino (Lisboa: Alfa, 1990).
47 On the decadence of Iberian philosophical and scientific thought, see Quental, Causas da
Decadencia, 15–7, 91. On the consequences of the Age of Expansion, see ibidem, 14, 37–42,
46–7.
362 Gamito-Marques
Cenacle’s members’ attitude toward science and technology: they were ready
to embrace new developments as long as they were part of broader social and
cultural reforms that would give them a higher civic purpose. The sharp criti-
cism that Antero and other Cenacle members directed at Portuguese politi-
cians was based on their perception that current political reforms gave an
excessive emphasis to the material development of the country.48
Antero’s analysis was so striking that even his housemate Reis was
galvanized,49 but the conference’s bold statements were opposed by the catho-
lic press and earned Antero the label of dangerous revolutionary. In any case,
the reaction also had the advantage of bringing much publicity to the event,
which drew in more and more people, even if the initial intent of attracting
elements from all social classes remained unfulfilled. The conferences were
the culmination of years of readings and discussions by the Cenacle’s mem-
bers, and it comes as no surprise they mostly caught the attention of the edu-
cated middle class: they were made by and for intellectuals and were regarded
as sophisticated as controversial.50
The following two conferences were focused on literature and continued
to be attended on average by two hundred people, which was a fairly good
number, but it was precisely their success that brought their downfall. During
the fifth conference, while discussing the state of education in Portugal, the
speaker went as far as dismissing the professors at the ancient University of
Coimbra as incapable of producing new knowledge. Even liberal newspapers
turned against such attacks, and the government ultimately intervened. The
Minister of the Kingdom prohibited further conferences and used the gesture to
exemplify his personal stance towards public manifestations that were directly
or indirectly aligned with the Parisian Communards.51 This unprecedented
decision for this period of Portuguese politics took educated public opinion
by surprise. After Antero stumbled upon the official notice of prohibition
nailed to the door of the Lisbon Casino on the day the sixth conference was
supposed to take place, he rallied various attendees and walked furiously down
the street to the nearby Central Coffee House, where he wrote a reply to the
minister that he later published in the press. The government’s decision was
not reversed, but the controversy indeed grew until it reached parliament.52
The ban made the Cenacle’s members realize that their ideas were too radi-
cal to be openly discussed in public spaces. Although they voiced their com-
plaints in the press, they understood the need to return to their usual spaces
of privacy, and they acted accordingly. However, neither Antero nor Reis,
two of the most politically engaged members of the group, felt intimidated.
In fact, only one month after the abrupt end of the conferences, they agreed
to meet with Spanish representatives of the First International and played
an active role in the founding of its Portuguese branch, collaborating with
Fontana and other working-class socialists. Reis reassured his girlfriend that
he would not take part in any armed revolution, but he and Antero helped
groups that certainly wanted it. Even as the Paris Commune was declared dead,
their socialist enthusiasm was gaining momentum in the underground spaces
of Lisbon.53
By the end of 1871, however, things started to change. A new executive led by the
experienced leader of the conservative Regenerator Party, who presented him-
self as the reliable alternative to a period of domestic instability, was in place
in September. He was able to navigate these troubled waters and maintain
his party in power in the following years.54 But there were also changes at the
level of the Cenacle itself. In November, Antero moved to the northern city of
Porto to work on a philosophical treatise away from any distracting revolution-
ary activities.55 In the first months of 1872, Reis’s involvement in agricultural
matters finally paid off and he was appointed Head of Agricultural Services
at the Agrarian Institute, which gave him his first stable job and allowed him
to finally marry his girlfriend and have a family. Eça, who had won second
place in an earlier call for diplomats, was by then appointed to a position in
Havana, Cuba. Before the end of the year, Reis was now happily married and
sharing a new house with his wife away from the bohemian Bairro Alto, Eça
53 On the Portuguese socialist movements of this period, see Carlos da Fonseca, A Origem da
1.ª Internacional em Lisboa (Lisboa: Estampa, 1978); Maria Filomena Mónica, O Movimento
Socialista em Portugal (1875–1934) (Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional/Casa da Moeda e Instituto
de Estudos para o Desenvolvimento, 1985); Ramos, “A formação da intelligentsia,” 483–528.
54 Leal, A Rotação Partidária, 151–2.
55 Letter from Antero to Oliveira Martins, 19 or 20 November 1871 apud Martins, Antero de
Quental. Cartas I, 239–41.
364 Gamito-Marques
was starting a new life an ocean away, and Antero was living alone in Lisbon.56
This does not mean that any of them gave up their plans of having an impact
on Portuguese society, as it is exemplified by later projects; however, they now
had responsibilities that were no longer compatible with extended bohemian
incursions.57 The spatial dispersal of the main members of the Cenacle led to
the group’s dissolution.
It was during a time of political instability, from the late 1860s to the early
1870s, that a group of young Portuguese intellectuals formed the Cenacle, a
group in which they discussed ways to transform their society and open it to
the new ideas of their century. The group’s members attracted the attention of
their contemporaries with critical analyses of the country’s situation and bold
reformist proposals, but they were unable to leave enduring marks in the city.
The Democratic Conferences – their only attempt to transform Portuguese
society – stumbled upon the politicians’ fears of social strife motivated by the
rise of the Paris Commune. On the contrary, it was Lisbon that imposed itself
on the Cenacle’s members. The city left such a strong impression on Eça, for
example, that he placed the action of his most important novels in Lisbon
and filled them with countless references to its urban spaces and social types,
despite the fact that he spent the remainder of his life as a diplomat in foreign
countries.58 Lisbon ultimately proved too small for the Cenacle’s ambitions
and could only be properly engaged with inside the minds and in the writings
of its members, the only places in which they succeeded in praising Lisbon’s
few virtues and criticizing its many vices.
Reis was the only member of the Cenacle who had a scientific background
and frequented scientific spaces in the city. Although his scientific studies and
the Cenacle’s activities constituted different worlds, evolutionism became an
important topic for its main members in later years. That said, in 1873, Antero
was already discussing the views of Ernst Haeckel, the most important popula-
riser of evolutionism in Europe.59 From 1874 to 1888, Eça served as a diplomat in
56 On Antero’s return and Reis’s marriage, see letter from Antero to João Lobo de Moura,
early October 1872 apud Martins, Antero de Quental. Cartas I, 268–9. On Eça’s appoint-
ment, see Mónica, Eça de Queirós, 149–50.
57 One of these later projects was the publication of the Western Magazine (Revista
Ocidental) in 1875, another attempt at creating a common platform to unite Portuguese
and Spanish intellectuals.
58 Such are the cases of Cousin Bazilio (O Primo Basílio) and The Maias (Os Maias), but also
of the posthumously published works To the Capital (A Capital!) and The Tragedy of the
Street of Flowers (A Tragédia da Rua das Flores). For examples, see Marina Tavares Dias, A
Lisboa de Eça de Queiroz (Lisboa: Quimera, 2001).
59 Letter from Antero to Oliveira Martins, 26 September [1873] apud Martins, Antero
de Quental. Cartas I, 320–5. On the importance of Haeckel, see Eve-Marie Engels,
Intellectuals and the City 365
Britain and his novels incorporated the controversies he followed over Darwin’s
theory of evolution.60 From the second half of the 1870s, other Portuguese
intellectuals connected to the Cenacle and its discussions addressed evolu-
tionism in their published works on history, sociology and anthropology.61 It
is possible that Reis was responsible for introducing the theory to the group,
since he explicitly mentioned it as early as 1871, while the topic was generally
restricted to Portuguese academic circles.62 In spite of the Cenacle’s dominant
political discussions, from the late 1870s onwards not only did these intellec-
tuals embrace evolutionism, they even placed it at the heart of their views.
Evolutionism was a powerful theory to reinforce their ideas on the need for
social and cultural reforms in Portugal because it argued that change went as
far as being even constitutive of organic life, thus opposition to it amounted
to the violation of a natural law. Moreover, change was understood as advanta-
geous, a view that cohered with the nineteenth century’s tendency of viewing
higher levels of complexity, prosperity, and civilization as direct consequences
of evolution.63 Such Spencerian views persisted among the Cenacle’s members
and mobilized scientific authority to strengthen their interventions in the fol-
lowing years. As a result, the Cenacle helped legitimize the actions of techno-
scientific experts who vied for the modernization of the country.
Acknowledgements
Research for this chapter was supported by the Foundation for Science and
Technology, under projects PTDC/IUC/HFC/3122/2014, UID/HIS/UI0286/2013,
UID/HIS/UI0286/2019 and UIDB/00286/2020 UIDP/00286/2020. I wish to
thank Ana Carneiro for her comments and suggestions to earlier versions of
this chapter.
Thomas F. Glick, “Editors’ Introduction,” in The Reception of Charles Darwin in Europe.
Volume I, ed. Eve-Marie Engels, Thomas F. Glick (Norfolk: Continuum, 2008), 1–22.
60 Patricia Silva McNeill, “Echoes from Albion: The Reception of Darwin by José Maria
de Eça de Queiroz,” in The Literary and Cultural Reception of Charles Darwin in Europe.
Volume 4, ed. Thomas F. Glick, Elinor Shaffer (Fakenham: Bloomsbury, 2014), 553–79.
61 Ana Leonor Pereira, Pedro Ricardo Fonseca, “The Reception of Charles Darwin in Portugal
(1865–1914) with Special Reference to the Role of the ‘Generation of 1870’,” in Glick and
Shaffer, The Literary and Cultural Reception, 527–52.
62 See the excerpt from Jaime Batalha Reis, Carta ao Ex.mo Sr. Marquês de Ávila e Bolama
(Porto: Tipografia Comercial, Belmonte, 1871) apud Medina, ed., As Conferências do
Casino, 86–90.
63 On the links between evolution and progress in the nineteenth century, see Peter J. Bowler,
Evolution: The History of an Idea (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press,
2009), 274–6.
Chapter 13
1 Introduction
When Halley’s comet graced Portuguese skies with its presence in May 1910,
many seized on this astronomical phenomenon and its worldwide media cov-
erage to promote the republican movement, with science and technology at
the centre of its political agenda. In fact, economic frailty, along with political
and social instability, had led to an inexorable decline of the monarchy, open-
ing the way for the republican party to rise to power with its new forward-
thinking and progressive policies.
On 5 October 1910, a few short months after Halley’s appearance, the
Republic was established and the process of shaping the “new republican
citizen” began to take form. It became imperative to reform the educational
system from bottom to top, from children to adults, men and women, and
naturally, higher education played a vital role in this process. The secular
monopoly of the University of Coimbra was challenged on the occasion of the
founding of the University of Lisbon and the University of Porto in 1911. Both
cities established their own Faculties of Medicine and Sciences. Additionally,
in the field of engineering, the Faculty of Engineering was created in Porto, and
the Technical Institute was set up outside the university, in Lisbon.
In Lisbon, the Faculty of Sciences was set up in the Polytechnic School build-
ing, with the rectory being located in a building right next door, convenient for
a university represented by rectors emerging from the sciences, throughout
the whole of the first Republic (1910–1926).1 The Faculty of Medicine occupied
a newly constructed building in Campo de Santana, one of several additions to
the new romantic Lisbon expanding into the north according to modernization
1 Ana Simões, Ana Carneiro, Maria Paula Diogo, Luís Miguel Carolino, and Teresa Salomé
Mota, Uma História da Faculdade de Ciências da Universidade de Lisboa (1911–1974) (Lisboa:
FCUL, 2013).
2 José-Augusto França, Lisboa. História Física e Moral (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte, 2008); David
Harvey, Paris, Capital of Modernity (New York and London: Routledge, 2006).
3 Sven Dierig, Jens Lachmund, and J. Andrew Mendelsohn, eds., Science and the City, Osiris, 18
(2003).
4 Fialho de Almeida, “Lisboa Monumental. I e II,” Ilustração Portuguesa, 36 (1906): 396–405;
39 (1906): 497–509; Ana Simões, “From capital city to scientific capital. Science, technology,
and medicine in Lisbon as seen through the press, 1900–1910,” in Urban Histories of Science.
Making Knowledge in the City 1820–1940, eds. Agustí Nieto-Galan, and Oliver Hochadel
(London: Routledge, 2019), 141–163.
368 Simões and Diogo
From that moment onward, these institutions etched the scientific “face” of
the hills of Lisbon. However, it must be recognized that other informal institu-
tions of higher learning also left a significant mark on urban Lisbon, albeit in
a more transient and short-lived way. The Universidade Livre para a Educação
Popular (Free University for the Education of the People, or Free University
for short) (1912) and the Universidade Popular Portuguesa (Portuguese Popular
University) (1919) traversed the educational scene of Lisbon. Just as Halley’s
comet temporarily marked the skies of Lisbon, these informal institutions of
education were in existence for a relatively short duration. Contrary to conven-
tional universities, these “universities of the people” aimed at educating adults
with little formal schooling and were of an itinerant nature despite having for-
mal headquarters.5 This itinerancy allowed them both to fulfil their goals of
democratizing education, and to leave a clear mark that would trail all the way
across the capital’s urban and political scene.
Within the history of scientific education, the Faculty of Sciences, the
Free University and the Popular University have been studied separately, an
approach which has accentuated the dichotomy between the formal and infor-
mal teaching of the sciences and technology; between those being educated as
part of an elite in the higher education institutions and the education of the
people in non-academic institutions, such as the free and popular universities.6
From the perspective of urban history of science in Lisbon – a very recent
research field within history of science in Portugal – historians of science have
mainly addressed major scientific institutions and spaces, the role of experts,
and to a lesser degree the impact of science in everyday life.7 Following in the
footsteps of Sven Dierig, Jens Lachmund and J. Andrew Mendelsohn,8 his-
torians of science have explored instances of the co-production of science and
5 Their history went back to the mid-nineteenth century. Agustín Requejo Osorio, “As uni-
versidades populares: Contexto e desenvolvimento de programas de formação de pessoas
adultas,” Revista Lusófona de Educação, 8 (2006): 133–153.
6 Filomena Bandeira, A Universidade Popular Portuguesa nos anos 20 –os intelectuais e a edu-
cação do povo: entre a salvação da República e a Revolução Social, MSc dissertation (Lisboa:
Faculdade de Ciências Sociais e Humanas da Universidade Nova de Lisboa, 1994); Rogério
Fernandes, Uma experiência de formação de adultos na 1ª República. A Universidade Livre para
Educação Popular, 1911–1917 (Lisboa: Câmara Municipal de Lisboa, 1993).
7 Tiago Saraiva, Ciencia y Ciudad. Madrid y Lisboa, 1851–1900 (Madrid: Ayuntamiento de
Madrid, Area de Gobierno de las Artes, 2005); Tiago Saraiva, and Marta Macedo, eds., Capital
Científica. A Ciência Lisboeta e a Construção do Portugal Contemporâneo (Lisboa: Imprensa de
Ciências Sociais, 2019); Tiago Saraiva, and Ana Cardoso de Matos, “Technological Nocturne:
The Lisbon Industrial Institute and Romantic Engineering (1849–1888),” Technology and
Culture, 58(2) (2017): 422–458; Ana Simões, “From Capital City to Scientific Capital.”
8 Dierig, Lachmund, and Mendelsohn, “Science and the City.”
Working-Class Universities 369
the city, in the process of integrating scientific innovation within urban envi-
ronments outside of those circumscribed to the capitals of the great European
powers.9
In this chapter we explore the intersection between the history of science
education and the urban history of science, not only with respect to fixed geo-
graphical locations but also itinerant routes of formal and informal higher edu-
cation institutions. This approach allows us to unveil the networks established
between the Faculty of Sciences, the Faculty of Medicine and the Technical
Institute and the Free University and the Popular University.
To this end, we will look at the map of Lisbon from the standpoint of
the teaching of science and technology “on the move,” taking a closer look
at the circulation of teachers, associated with the University of Lisbon’s exten-
sion (or outreach) project, among the various locations of the informal teach-
ing institutions of higher learning.10 We underline the direct involvement
of rectors João de Almeida Lima and Pedro José da Cunha, and a myriad of
other teachers, as well as their impact on the informal structures of education,
founding entities, and organs of management. Concomitantly we give voice to
a multitude of anonymous inhabitants of Lisbon, from the middle and work-
ing classes, who actively participated in these educational activities, in a quite
unique “bottom-up” movement, which illustrates the most recent populariza-
tion of science historiographical trends.11
9 Exemplary works on major European capitals include: Harvey, Paris, Capital of Modernity;
Miriam Levin, Sophie Forgan, Martina Hessler, Robert Kargon, and Morris Low, eds., Urban
Modernity. Cultural Innovation in the Second Industrial Revolution (Cambridge, Mass.: The
MIT Press, 2010); Deborah R. Coen, Vienna in the Age of Uncertainty. Science, Liberalism
and Private Life (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2007). For other European cities see:
Antonio Lafuente, and Tiago Saraiva. “The Urban Scale of Science and the Enlargement
of Madrid (1851–1936),” Social Studies of Science, 34 (4) (2004): 531–569; Saraiva, Ciencia
y Ciudad; Oliver Hochadel, and Agustí Nieto-Galan, eds., Barcelona. An Urban History
of Science and Modernity, 1888–1929 (London: Routledge, 2016); Oliver Hochadel, and
Agustí Nieto-Galan, “How to write an urban history of STM on the ‘Periphery’,” FORUM
Step matters, Technology and Culture 57(4) (2016): 978–88; Agustí Nieto-Galan, and
Oliver Hochadel, eds., Urban histories of science. Making Knowledge in the City 1820–1940
(London: Routledge, 2019).
10 Simões et al, Uma História.
11 See for example: Bernadette Bensaude-Vincent, and Anne Rasmussen, eds., La science
populaire dans la presse et l’édition. XIX et XX siècles (Paris: CNRS, 1997); Roger Cooter,
and Steve Pumphrey, “Separate spheres and public spaces: reflections on the history
of science popularization and science in popular culture,” History of Science, 32 (1994):
237–67; Stephen Hilgartner, “The dominant view of popularization: conceptual problems,
political issues,” Social studies of science, 20 (1990): 519–39; Faidra Papanelopoulou, Agustí
Nieto-Galan, and Enrique Perdiguero, eds., Popularizing science and technology in the
European Periphery, 1800–2000 (Oxon: Ashgate, 2009); James A. Secord, “Knowledge in
370 Simões and Diogo
It is our conviction that the analysis of the connections between the dif-
ferent kinds of teaching institutions of higher learning and those designed
for adult learning will unveil new relations between scientific and technical
training and the popularization of science and technology in Lisbon. It will
further identify new target groups and the creation of new centres of learn-
ing on Lisbon’s educational landscape. Often traced through their appearance
in newspapers and print-media,12 these new centres of learning left an indel-
ible, but episodic, mark and provide one with a fresh look at the structural role
of science and technology in the formation of the republican citizen, and the
transformation that made Lisbon the scientific capital of Portugal.
The republican project linked schooling to the new citizenship, to the building
of the “new man.”13 The end of the University of Coimbra’s monopoly, the cre-
ation of the two new universities in Lisbon and in Porto, and the sedimentation
of techno-scientific teaching aligned with the overall visions of the republican
political line. This vision, strongly influenced by Comte and Littré’s positivism,
proposed both science and technology as fundamental and constitutive ele-
ments in the construction of republican citizenship.
Contrary to the polytechnic schools that preceded them, the faculties of the
sciences defended the pursuit of disinterested research rather than the search
for solutions to pressing practical problems. As stated in April of 1911, the three-
fold mission of universities was:
transit,” Isis, 95 (2004): 654–72; Terry Shinn, and Richard Whitley, eds., Expository Science.
Forms and functions of popularization (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1995); Josep Simon et al., eds.,
Beyond Borders. Fresh perspectives in history of science (Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars
Publishing, 2008); Jonathan Topham, ed., FOCUS: Historicizing “Popular Science”, ISIS,
100 (2009): 310–18.
12 The sources pertaining to the Free University and to the Popular University, if they exist,
are scattered among private individuals, making their historical analysis extremely dif-
ficult. In this context, news in the periodical press, despite far from being easily and sys-
tematically available, constitute a very important source of information. News used in
this chapter were collected during the project An open window to representations of sci-
ence and technology in the Portuguese press (1900–1926) (PTDC/HCT/68210/2006).
13 There is an extensive bibliography on the First Republic. Examples are: Fernando Rosas,
and Fernanda Rollo, eds., História da I República Portuguesa (Lisboa: Tinta da China,
2009); Rui Ramos, ed., A Segunda Fundação, in História de Portugal, dir. José Mattoso,
vol. 6 (Lisboa: Editorial Estampa, 2001); Fernando Catroga, O Republicanismo em Portugal.
Da Formação ao 5 de Outubro de 1910 (Lisboa: Casa Letras, 2010).
Working-Class Universities 371
a) To spur the progress of science, through the work of its masters and to
create a student elite commanding the methods of discovery and scien-
tific invention; b) To administer the general teaching of science and its
application, providing the essential basis for careers that require scien-
tific and technical qualifications; c) To promote the methodical study of
national problems and to disseminate “high culture” to the population at
large, by means of the extension programs of the universities.14
However, decreeing a new mission for higher education in Portugal was easier
said than done. Replacing previous practices was a complex task given the
fact that these new schools were taking on facilities, teachers, students, and
staff directly from its institutional predecessors. For example, on 15 May 1911,
at the time of the promulgation of the statutes of the newly formed Faculty of
Sciences of the University of Lisbon, republican legislators decided to transfer
teachers and pupils from the Lisbon Polytechnic School to the new Faculty of
Sciences, maintaining the former director as head,15 and occupying the same
building located in Rua da Escola Politécnica, a main street in the heart of the
“Hill of the Sciences.” This decision corroborated the Polytechnic teachers’
mistaken perception that there was a link or continuity of purpose between
the two institutions, a link which was emphasized for political reasons by the
mathematician, former rector of the University of Lisbon and ex-director of
the Faculty of Sciences Pedro José da Cunha, in the speech delivered on the
one-hundredth anniversary of the Polytechnic School (1937).
The organization of the space in which the Faculty’s teachers and students
developed their teaching and research activities became crucial for the emer-
gence and consolidation of novel scientific practices.16 However, conflation
with former spatial options taken from the Polytechnic School, the aims of
which were incongruous with those of this newer model of higher education,
may have complicated or impeded the implementation of a new research
ethos.
Operational, security, and efficiency issues were a constant source of worry.
Year after year, both annual reports and the Council of Faculty of Sciences
raised the issue of inadequate facilities while continuously discussing various
14 Decree of 19 April 1911, published in 22 April 1911 – Bases da Nova Constituição Universitária.
15 Diário do Governo, 15 May 1911.
16 David Livingstone, Putting science in its place: Geographies of scientific knowledge (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2003); Robert Kohler, Landscapes and labscapes. Exploring
the lab-field border in biology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002). For the role
of locality in Lisbon see Saraiva, Ciencia y ciudad. For the special case of the Faculty of
Sciences see Ana Luísa Janeira, Sistemas epistémicos e ciências. Do Noviciado da Cotovia à
Faculdade de Ciências de Lisboa (Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional-Casa da Moeda, 1987).
372 Simões and Diogo
entire first Republic: the mathematician and military engineer Augusto José da
Cunha, the physicist who would later become a general, João de Almeida Lima
and the mathematician and military engineer Pedro José da Cunha.19
Rectors like Cunha and Lima believed that the new university should follow
the example of the American technical universities and should integrate tech-
nical and professional institutions existing in Lisbon.20 In this way, they coun-
teracted past erudite learning, promoting a kind of learning based on practical
application, able to answer the need for economic development in the coun-
try. Equally inspired by the-then already “well-recognized” University of Rome
and University of Berlin, they claimed that this new way of doing could only
succeed if based on strong and original scientific research.21 This issue was rel-
evant for all schools of the University of Lisbon, and its persistence testified to
the resistance to change felt everywhere.
Parallel to this, the rector Pedro José da Cunha followed in the footsteps
of his predecessors by paying special attention to the role of the university
extension as an integral part of the university’s “social mission.” This aspect
resonated with the popularization of science dear to republicanism.22 The
new universities were meant to form the nation’s elites, but at the same
time they should propagate “high culture” throughout the various layers of
a largely unlettered population. These issues were addressed in Cunha’s first
talk at the beginning of the academic year of 1916–17, shortly after taking up
the role of rector. Discussing the role of universities in post-war societies, and
following primarily the example of American universities, Cunha considered
it vital to articulate the university’s two-fold dimensions – the technical and
humanistic – a virtuous fusion that would turn the university into an active
agent of economic development and a guardian of the unity of the “nation’s
soul.”23 For Cunha, the university’s connection to civil society took centre stage
in his considerations.24 Thus, in order to educate the masses, a network would
have to be created and, to this end, Cunha reached out to several partners.
19 ARUL, Minutes of the Senate, 23 May 1914, pp. 67–8, 24 March 1917, p. 49, 10 May 1917, p. 61,
10 February 1920, p. 307. Simões et al., Uma História.
20 ARUL, Minutes of the Senate, 10 December 1919, 292.
21 ARUL, Minutes of the Senate, 13 May 1919, 189–90.
22 Ana Simões, and Luís Miguel Carolino, “The Portuguese astronomer Melo e Simas (1870–
1934). Republican ideals and the popularization of science,” Science in Context 27 (2014):
49–77. For the Spanish case see Agustí Nieto-Galan, “A Republican natural history in
Spain around 1900. Odón de Buen (1863–1945) and his audiences,” Historical Studies in the
Natural Sciences 42 (2012): 159–189.
23 ARUL, Minutes of the Senate, 10 January 1917, 24.
24 ARUL, Minutes of the Senate, 10 January 1917, 23, 24.
374 Simões and Diogo
As we have seen, the agenda surrounding the formation of the “new republican
[and] complete man” as an “individual and as a social being”35 largely centred
on educational reforms.36 If the problem of illiteracy was of great concern to
the Republic, popular instruction for adults was always of relevance. Thus, and
following the rest of Europe, popular universities occupied a central role in the
context of what were “private courses as part of the university extension.”37 In
Lisbon, both the Free University and the Portuguese Popular University sought
to maintain a cross-class appeal with the general public, targeting individu-
als from the middle and lower middle class, alongside the poor and working
classes.
However, even before the establishment of the Republic, in 1904, the repub-
lican agenda for university expansion was already underway via the Academy
for Free Studies, and later with the National League of Education, in 1907.
Common to both the Academy for Free Studies and the National League of
Education was the republican programs support by teachers linked to Masonry
and Republicanism.
The Academy of Free Studies (est. 1889) was founded in the working
class neighbourhood of Alto do Pina, in the East of Lisbon, by the masonic
lodge, Kindness and Unity, though, from 1904 onward, it became known as
the Academy of Free Studies – Popular University.38 In the same year, the
Academy integrated the Marquês de Pombal School, which was founded in
1882 by the Masonic lodge Triumphant Reason, which offered daytime classes
for poor children of both sexes, and night classes for adults. The Academy of
Free Studies carried out free courses, lectures, and school trips as part of its
mission to popularize science and culture to the masses. Amongst its promot-
ers were many well-known members of the Portuguese cultural and politi-
cal scene, often of republican leanings, such as Bernardino Machado, future
president of the Republic. Many of the courses and lectures gave preference to
patriotic themes, linked to Portuguese History and Literature, while included
classes on scientific topics deemed fundamental for the modern education
proper to the ideal of the “new man.” Such was the case of the lecture entitled
“The Portuguese night sky. Lessons in Astronomy,” by Pedro José da Cunha.
The same themes dictated the choice of school trip destinations, in which
national history landmarks and emblematic locations linked to present eco-
nomic issues dominated.
In 1907, The National League of Education was founded under the super-
vision of José Francisco Trindade Coelho (a writer, pedagogue, magistrate
and politician) and Manuel Borges Grainha (high school teacher, pedagogue,
politician and mason). The overall goal of the League: “to improve national
schooling, in all areas of study, but mainly targeting primary and popular edu-
cation.” One of its missions was to “promote the development of the so-called
Popular Universities, forming a nucleus of lecturers and speakers able to visu-
ally convey, in a pleasant manner, topics of interest to the various popular
associations.”39 Such republican endeavours were so successful that, while its
headquarters were located in Lisbon, it maintained branches all over the coun-
try and its African colonies (Bié and Benguela in Angola).
Figures 13.3a–b The headquarters of the Free University, Plaza Luís de Camões, Chiado.
Arquivo Fotográfico da Câmara Municipal de Lisboa, PT/AMLSB/
CMLSBAH/PCSP/004/PAG/000460; Portuguese Popular University
headquarters
picture by authors
378 Simões and Diogo
Founded in 1912 during the first Republic, the Free University would con-
tinue to pursue its educational function for roughly 20 years. According to
António Cabreira, mathematician, journalist and publicist, behind its genesis
was the Royal Institute of Lisbon (or the “19th of September Institute”) founded
in 1894 by Cabreira himself; an institution dedicated to professional training
and qualification.40 From the very beginning, the Free University established
a privileged relationship with another of António Cabreira’s projects, the
recently formed Academy of Sciences of Portugal, whose first president, from
1915 onward, was Teófilo Braga, who would also serve as the second president
of the Portuguese Republic.
The Free University was inaugurated on 28 January, in the Coliseum room,
which was, then, still located in Rua da Palma. Its sponsor was the promoter of
republican associativism, Alexandre Ferreira (an entrepreneur who donated
his properties to build the Commercial Invalids Nursing Home). The inau-
guration was graced by the presence of the Republic’s President, Manuel de
Arriaga, along with teachers from primary and technical schools to teachers
at the university level, and even a handful of high-profile individuals from the
regime.41 The public announcement of the Free University’s inauguration was
issued via pamphlet, which stated its objectives while simultaneously encour-
aging the participation and contribution of all those described to be “patriots
and lovers of progress.”
With strong connections to Freemasonry, the new institution’s anti-clerical
discourse and activities were geared towards post-primary education, both
of a medium level and of a supplementary nature when compared to official
schooling. Within the secular context of the Freemasons, post-primary educa-
tion aimed at cultivating informed citizens via their “moral, social, aesthetic
and scientific education”42 that included a proactive approach aiming to o
“combat vices as a whole and particularly workers’ attraction to the taverns.”43
Thus, the Free University’s curriculum embraced a vision of continuous educa-
tion, in order to complement the schooling of those who reached out for it, no
matter what their level of education, including lectures, courses, and cultural
excursions, often on scientific topics.
The Portuguese Popular University was founded on 27 April 1919, seven years
after the Free University’s inauguration and in the wake of the dictatorship
of Sidónio Pais. Even though the Popular University would come to an end
in 1950, practically speaking it had ceased all significant activity from 1933
onward given the rise of Salazar’s dictatorship, the Estado Novo (New State).
At the inauguration ceremony, there were two proselytes of the popular educa-
tion movement, Pedro José da Cunha and Leonardo Coimbra. Cunha, who was
rector of the University of Lisbon at the time and president of the Organizing
Committee, delivered the speech introducing the new institute, followed by an
address by the philosopher, pedagogue, and Minister of Education, Coimbra.
Given the significance of the event, the President of the Republic was the one
who presided over the session. On 10 May, the government attributed the stat-
ute of public service to the Popular University in order
The Popular University gathered intellectuals and workers with the aim of
popularizing and spreading education and culture. Its headquarters were
based in the neighbourhood of Campo de Ourique, but it had sections in
other working-class neighbourhoods (see chapter 3 in this volume) in order
to reach as many workers as possible. The University’s Administrative Council
was made up of five teachers and seven workers, a group of men politically
involved not only in republicanism, but also in left wing politics, which aligned
them with organizations such as the Democratic Unity Movement and the
Portuguese Communist Party. The founder of the Popular University and first
director was António Augusto Ferreira de Macedo, who was a mathematician,
professor at the Technical Institute, co-founder of the journal Seara Nova, and
a member of the National Library Group. After Macedo, it was Bento de Jesus
Caraça, a mathematician, professor at the Institute of Economic and Financial
Sciences, and active opposer of the New State regime who would serve as the
Council’s director. Both Macedo and Caraça would go on to participate in the
Mathematical Movement but were eventually expelled from the University
during the political purge of 1947.
Teaching and lecturing on scientific topics and culture were favoured meth-
ods in spreading the new “gospel” of positivism both at the Portuguese Popular
University and at the Free University. Science, in this context, was viewed as
capable of emancipating individuals from old beliefs, both superstitious and
religious. It was a vehicle of progress, and the privileged road to a new republi-
can ethos, in all its different facets, including that of politics. In these informal
universities, the preferred means and method of instruction were visual aids,
including slideshows, diagrams, and pictures, reflecting the popular educa-
tional techniques of the time.
controlled by the working classes albeit within the Republican agenda to cre-
ate the “new Man”. This is exemplified nowhere better than the institution’s
lecture-based format and the places where lectures were held. The concept
underlying the Free and Popular universities was never to deliver formal or
structured courses – a task that was part of the mission of commercial and
industrial schools and public institutes – but to introduce a wide range of top-
ics to the working classes, even if they were not directly useful to their profes-
sional life. On the other hand, these lectures were held in the professional and
cultural spaces of everyday working-class life, and hosted by affiliated institu-
tions such as unions, mutual aid groups, and cultural associations.
In line with this working-class leadership, the lecturers – mostly univer-
sity teachers – perceived these “teaching duties” as part of their mission as
Republicans: they answered without charging any fees to the requests from
workers’ associations as a contribution to the Republican political agenda. In
this context, the concept of university extension used by the rector scientists
of the University of Lisbon is very different from the top-down approach that
usually characterizes this type of movement.
The Free and the Popular universities were political tools of empowerment
of the Lisbon working class in the context of the Republican agenda and as
part of a growing influence of urban unionist and anarcho-syndicalist groups.
These itinerant institutions aided in the eventual overthrow of the monarchy
in 1910 and became some of the most outspoken defenders of workers’ aspira-
tions in the following decades. For what lay behind the practices of republi-
cans and anarchists alike, was a vested interest in upholding the Baconian idea
of scientific and technological knowledge as a source of power and progress,
contributing to mould the new republican citizen and, by consequence, a new
society.
Among the speakers from the Free University who went to the working-
class neighbourhoods of Lisbon were several scientists, many of whom were
associated with the University of Lisbon. Notable participants include: Melo
e Simas and Eduardo dos Santos Andrea, who addressed astronomy topics;
João Maria de Almeida Lima, José Júlio Rodrigues and Charles Lepierre, who
addressed physics and chemistry; Artur Ricardo Jorge, Rui Teles Palhinha, and
Baltazar Osório, who addressed natural science, and Pedro José da Cunha who
addressed mathematics.52 With the exception of Melo e Simas (astronomer at
the Astronomical Observatory of Lisbon) and Charles Lepierre (chemist at the
Movements in Europe, 1890–1930, edited by Barry J. Hake and Tom Steele, 175–202. Leeds,
1997.
52 Fernandes, Uma Experiência, Annex 2, 123; BMUL, ano 1, nº 1, Jan 1914, 5.
Working-Class Universities 383
Campo Pequeno 8
IST
Alamena
Parque
Florestal de
Monstanto
4 Alto do
Pina
Parque
Eduardo VII
Marquês
de Pombal
Marquês
de Pombal
5
FM 12
Campo de UL 1 1 N
Ourique FC 8
3 11 14 Fac. Medicina FM
Jardim da 5
UP Estrela 2 2 3
Castelo de Fac. Ciências FC
9 S. Jorge
4 7
UL UL Inst. Superior Técnico
9 IST
6
13
Terreiro do Univ. Livre UL
Paço Rio Tejo
(Belém) 6 Univ. Livre (sessao) x
Univ. Popular UP
7 10
(Barreiro) (Alfeite) Univ. Popular (sessao) x
Figure 13.4 Map of Lisbon with the location of the Faculty of Sciences and the Faculty of Medicine, as
well as the sections of the Free and Popular universities
FM: Fac. de Medicina, Cp. Mártires Pátria; FC: Fac. de Ciências, R. Escola Politécnica; IST:
Instituto Superior Técnico, Alameda
[UP]: Universidade Popular (headquarters); [1]: Centro Escolar Republicano Dr. António
José de Almeida – Trav. Nazaré; [2]: Associação de Classe dos Caixeiros de Lisboa – Trav.
Nova S. Domingos; [3]: Associação do Pessoal do Arsenal do Exército – Cp. Santa Clara;
[4]: Sindicato Único das Classes Metalúrgicas – Cl. Combro; [5]: Sindicato dos Operários
Chapeleiros – R. Arco Marquês Alegrete; [6]: Secção de Belém da Federação de Construção
Civil – Belém; [7]: Sede do Sindicato Único da Construção Civil (de Lisboa), Cl. Combro,
38; [8]: Secções da Construção Civil e Metalúrgica do Alto Pina – Alto Pina; [9]: Secção do
Sindicato dos Chauffeurs – R. Era
[UL]: Universidade Livre (sedes); (1): Centro Escolar Republicano Dr. António José de
Almeida, Tr. Nazaré, 21; (2): Associação da Classe dos Caixeiros de Lisboa, Tr. Nova de
S. Domingos; (3): Centro Republicano Radical Português, R. Glória; (4): Clube Estefânia,
R. Alexandre Braga; (5): Associação do Registo Civil e do Livre Pensamento, Lg. Intendente;
(6): Sociedade Promotora do Ensino Popular, R. Alcântara; (7): Instituto Ferroviário,
R. Heliodoro Salgado 50, Barreiro; (8): Associação dos Socorros Mútuos dos Empregados
do Comércio e Indústria, R. Palma; (9): Associação da Classe dos Ourives, R. Atalaia;
(10): Operários do Arsenal do Alfeite e da Cordoaria Nacional, Alfeite; (11): Sociedade de
Geografia de Lisboa, R. Portas Sto. Antão, 100; (12): Faculdade de Medicina de Lisboa, Cp.
Mártires Pátria; (13): Sociedade de Instrução Militar Preparatória, Santos-o-Velho; (14):
Caixa Económica Operária, Rua Voz do Operário
Courtesy of José Avelãs Nunes
384 Simões and Diogo
material and moral usefulness of the sciences, in their own right and in regards
to the formation of the new republican citizen.
Simultaneous with these lectures were talks held in various locations. During
the academic years of 1913–14, 1914–15, and 1915–16 for which we have docu-
mentation, 132 talks were recorded, 73 of which revolved around topics such as
medicine and technology, delivered by 7 different speakers. “The human body”,
“Dental hygiene” and “Industrial hygiene” were the selected themes for talks
related to medicine and public health. Included in the list of speakers were the
doctor and pedagogue Ladislau Piçarra, the naturalist and teaching assistant
at the Faculty of Sciences of the University of Lisbon, Antero Seabra,56 den-
tist Carlos Cília, and Manuel de Vasconcelos, a specialist in analysis of water
and residues. Talks dedicated to the theme of technology and related issues,
included lectures on resources, machines, and construction projects associ-
ated with both transport and communication. Given the available documenta-
tion, notable topics included: “The metallurgical nature of iron”, “White coal
and the transmission of force from a distance,” “The steam-powered machine,”
“Sea ports,” and “Lighthouses and high towers,” with a list of speakers that
included Agostinho Fortes (Faculty of Humanities of the University of Lisbon)
and Frederico Simas (Minister of Public Education and teacher at the Army
School).
Of the many distinguishing factors proper to the Free University, mobility
was to become its chief characteristic. It was common practice for speakers
and lecturers from the Free University to make their way around the heart of
the capital city, filling venues, usually dedicated to other ends, with scientific
knowledge. Not simply confined to the distance between the University and
the Workers’ Savings Bank, speakers and attendees would travel to various
workers’ centres, professional associations, and republican centres,57 as well as
to the Society of Geography of Lisbon, the Faculty of Medicine, and the Society
of Preparatory Military Instruction.58
56 Seabra studied metropolitan and ultramarine fauna at the then National Museum of
Lisbon, under the guidance of Barbosa du Bocage. He was also the director of the Vasco
da Gama Aquarium, and later professor of natural sciences at the University of Coimbra.
57 Centro Escolar Republicano Dr. António José de Almeida, Associação da Classe dos
Caixeiros de Lisboa, Centro Republicano Radical, Clube Estefânia, Associação do Registo
Civil, Sociedade Promotora do Ensino Popular, Instituto Ferroviário, Associação dos
Socorros Mútuos dos Empregados do Comércio e Indústria e Associação da Classe dos
Ourives, Operários do Arsenal do Alfeite e da Cordoaria Nacional.
58 BMUL, Vida Associativa da UL. Relatório do Conselho de Administração 1911–3, 220;
Fernandes, Uma Experiência, 82.
386 Simões and Diogo
It is noteworthy that at the 40 talks that took place during the first two years
(1912–14) approximately 15,000 persons were in attendance.59 In the 1914–15
school year of the 5,725 people in attendance, 4,765 were male and 960 were
female. Thus, on average, between 12% and 16% of the audience was female.60
The Free University also delivered “practical courses,” consisting of several
lessons of an immediate professional application. Subjects such as literature,
history, and foreign languages would be paired with more scientific disci-
plines, such as elementary mathematics, mathematics applied to commerce,
algebra, natural sciences, and geography. These and similar courses began on
17 November 1912, a date that marks the Free University’s temporary move
from its headquarters Rua dos Fanqueiros, 267–1ºEsq, to Praça Luís de Camões,
46.61 Regarding archived documentation of attendance, the Free University’s
Monthly Bulletin detailed the number of students frequenting these courses,
including their profiles, which were ranked according to qualifications and
profession.62 In terms of demographics, a vast majority of its students were
also trade and commerce employees, while an equally significant number
held other professions (including tailors, barbers, plasterers, labourers or fac-
tory workers, army and navy personnel and locksmiths). In other words, these
courses were sought after by people with a very basic level of education or
those who were barely literate. Its student body did not greatly differ from that
of the Portuguese Popular University, considering its proximity to the labour-
force side of society.
The Portuguese Popular University was installed on the second floor of
the building of the Cooperativa A Padaria do Povo (Cooperative the People’s
Bakery) in Campo de Ourique, a neighbourhood where the middle-class
rubbed shoulders with the working class. From 1921 onward, and with the sup-
port of the anarchist trade union, Confederação Geral do Trabalho (General
Confederation of Labor), and its representative on the board of directors of the
Popular University, ten sections were opened in several trade union buildings
across Lisbon, Barreiro, and Setúbal. In this manner, further to their headquar-
ters at the Cooperative the People’s Bakery, the other branches of the Popular
59 BMUL, 1–1-14, 5, 7.
60 Fernandes, Uma Experiência, 82.
61 Fernandes, Uma Experiência, 66.
62 BMUL, ano 1, n. 5, Maio 1914, 87 – Mapa do grau de habilitações dos indivíduos que se
inscreveram nos cursos práticos de 1913–14; BMUL, ano 1, n. 6, Junho 1914, 103 – Mapa das
profissões dos indivíduos que se inscreveram nos cursos práticos de 1913–14; BMUL, ano 2,
n. 20, Agosto 1915, 163 – Mapa do grau de habilitações dos indivíduos que se inscreveram
nos cursos práticos de 1914–15; BMUL, ano 2, n. 20, Agosto 1915, 164–5 – Mapa das pro-
fissões dos indivíduos que se inscreveram nos cursos práticos de 1914–15.
Working-Class Universities 387
University in Lisbon were located, similarly with the Free University, at various
workers’ centres, trade unions and professional associations.63
Until the end of the first Republic, around five hundred lectures were held,
and roughly a fifth of them dedicated to scientific, technological, and medi-
cal subjects.64 In total, the lectures covered 13 different subject matters, three
of which were clearly of a scientific, technical, and medical bent. The first
included cosmography, physics, chemistry, mineralogy, botany, zoology and
biology; the second, included human anatomy, physiology, general hygiene,
physical education, sports and educational games, social hygiene and child-
care; and the third focused on raw materials and useful products for everyday
life, as well as technology and other fundamental industries. Also covered was
the subject of history, which included discussions on the history of the discov-
eries and innovations that arose from developments in science and technology.
Around 70 speakers delivered one or more of these lectures, in different sec-
tions of the university. The scientific topics were normally hosted at the head-
quarters (1st section), in the 4th section, the Associação do Pessoal do Arsenal
do Exército (Association of Army Arsenal Personnel) and in the 5th section,
the Sindicato Único das Classes Metalúrgicas (Trade Union of Metallurgists),
as well as at the Faculty of Medicine, situated on the “Hill of Medicine.”
Among the speakers from the Faculty of Sciences was the prolific and omni-
present Pedro José da Cunha, who was the main lecturer on “Astronomy” as
well as “Female Education” (an area of study that he fought for); the doctor
and naturalist, Bettencourt Ferreira, who, as already mentioned, was an active
popularizer of science who was a constant presence in the daily press, lectured
on “Applied Zoology” and “Animal Protection;” and Ferreira’s colleague, doctor
Barbosa Sueiro, offered lectures on the subject of “Bones and Articulations.”
The visible presence of doctors from the Faculty of Medicine is indicative of
the proselytizing spirit that characterized the group, which centred and grew
from two key figures, Celestino da Costa and Ferreira de Mira. While Celestino
da Costa gave a conference on the theme “What the microscope teaches us,”
Ferreira de Mira lectured on the topic of “Food Hygiene.” Moreover, from
amongst Celestino da Costa’s disciples, Simões Raposo presented the theme
“The educational value of scientific investigation” and “The moral value of
science,” while his other student, Adelino José da Costa, lectured on “The
peripheral nervous system.” Lopo de Carvalho, the doctor who worked with
Egas Moniz (who was to win the Nobel Prize) and Pedro Almeida Lima, son
of the rector Almeida Lima, chose to speak on the subject of “Tuberculosis in
Portugal,” a serious public health problem; Henrique de Vilhena talked about
“The History of Anatomy” and Sebastião da Costa Sacadura spoke on “Social
Hygiene and Childcare.” From the Technical Institute, chemist Charles Lepierre
delivered a lecture on “The Metallurgy of Iron,” a topic which he had also spo-
ken on at the Free University, and the mathematician Ferreira de Macedo
focused on issues concerning the “Great Inventions and Scientific Discoveries”
and “The import of science in everyday moral and social life,” wherein Macedo
included discussions on Kepler and Newton’s laws.
The available information on the Free University and the Portuguese
Popular University makes it clear that various scientists and physicians, who
were also professors at the Faculty of Sciences or the Faculty of Medicine of
the University of Lisbon, circulated with noteworthy intensity among these
various premises scattered around the city. As republican intellectuals, they
considered it their mission, not only to train the new regime’s elite, but to take
knowledge, both scientific and technical, to the people, henceforth providing
them with the educational tools they needed to be reborn as the new republi-
can man.
The tight connection between the University of Lisbon, and the Free and
Popular universities, was materialized into palpable events, geographically sit-
uated. They created an invisible network criss-crossing all over urban Lisbon,
as these experts moved from the premises of the Faculty of Sciences at Rua da
Escola Politécnica (situated in the so-called Hill of the Sciences), and the build-
ing of the Faculty of Medicine at the Campo de Santana (in the so-called Hill
of Medicine) to the middle-class and mostly working-class neighbourhoods of
Graça, Campo de Ourique, Alcântara or Alto do Pina, carving science deep in
the urban landscape. They bestowed upon the city a new identity, founded on
the Republic’s educational project in which science played centre stage.
5 Conclusions
Throughout the entire duration of the first Republic, Lisbon’s urban landscape
was animated by the appearance of several venues, whose transient quality
takes nothing away from their remarkable character. These were spaces where
scientific, technological, and medical topics were transmitted to many dif-
ferent target audiences. No longer confined to the halls of the University of
Working-Class Universities 389
Lisbon, scientists from the Faculty of Sciences and doctors from the Faculty of
Medicine lectured on basic health, public hygiene and science-related themes
at the various outposts of the Free and Popular universities in working-class
associations and trade union spaces. And to a lesser extent, teachers from the
Technical Institute addressed technological issues concerning the emergence
and integration of new means of communication and new raw materials.
Often splitting their time between various tasks and obligations, both inside
and outside the university, they reserved a significant portion of their time and
energy to the education of these new target-groups. Thus, despite differences
in specialization, what unifies these professors-cum-public intellectuals was
a shared commitment to the idea that education and raising consciousness
regarding science, technology and medicine were the necessary preconditions
for the making of the new, republican, man and woman.
Parallel to this, in a singular bottom-up movement, the middle- and working-
class population of Lisbon actively accessed these forums in which scientific
and technological knowledge was debated, often in parallel with trade unions’
and associativist activities. The Free University conferred greater emphasis on
science in their lessons, and to medicine in their lectures, while the Popular
University prioritized medicine. Teachers from the University of Lisbon were
predominantly present in these universities, amongst whom stood their
rectors.
It was for these reasons that a plethora of places sprung up between the
“Hill of the Sciences” and the “Hill of Medicine”, forming a dynamic network
contributing to the affirmation of the capital as the scientific capital of the
country. Although the imagined bridge that the writer and doctor, Fialho
de Almeida, so wanted to see unite the “Hill of the Sciences” to the “Hill of
Medicine” was nothing more than an elitist techno-scientific utopia anchored
on a structure of formal and classic architecture, it could be said that dozens
of much less impressive locations ended up being much more effective in
the long-run. They succeeded in bringing the two hills of the city together by
means of teaching and popularization of knowledge by doctors, scientists and
engineers who addressed a large fraction of the inhabitants of Lisbon, rang-
ing from the elite who frequented the faculties of the University of Lisbon, to
the middle- and working-class people who worked in the city and massively
participated in the activities of the Free University and the Portuguese Popular
University. Their invisibility has been the result of their transient character but
also of the historians’ ways of addressing formal and informal institutions of
higher learning in a disconnected way.
390 Simões and Diogo
6 Acknowledgements
This chapter is an adapted translation of the chapter Ana Simões, Maria Paula
Diogo, “Ciências para o Povo: espaços de ensino superior para adultos na
Lisboa Republicana,” in Capital Científica. A ciência lisboeta e a construção do
Portugal Contemporâneo, eds. Tiago Saraiva, Marta Macedo (Lisbon: Imprensa
de Ciências Sociais, 2019), 251–282. We thank the editors for their permission
to publish the chapter in this new version. Research behind this chapter as well
as the translation of the original version into English were supported by the
Foundation for Science and Technology, under projects UID/HIS/UI0286/2013,
UID/HIS/UI0286/2019 and UIDB/00286/2020 UIDP/00286/2020.
Chapter 14
∵
1 Introduction
Ode Triunfal was the first poem of engineer Álvaro de Campos, the futurist
heteronym of Fernando Pessoa. Published in 1915, it is a vanguardist hymn to
the objects, rhythms and perceptions brought about by the machine age, in
which the poet abandons himself in a sensual and patriarchal fusion with “all
things modern”.1 Just as his predecessor Cesário Verde, who sang the romantic
“technological nocturne” of Lisbon’s avenues illuminated by gas in 1880, Álvaro
de Campos embraced the infrastructures and forms of life of the industrial
city as the materialization of a new aesthetics and subjectivity.2 Among the
icons of urban mass culture described in the poem, Álvaro de Campos includes
“Luna-Parks”. However, while factories, bridges, music-halls, battleships, and
floating docks could all be found in Lisbon in 1915, the first big-scale amuse-
ment park in the city would only be inaugurated two decades later.
In June 1933, the press announced that Lisbon would “finally have an amuse-
ment park” with “the greatest international rides”.3 Two hundred trucks had
1 Álvaro de Campos. Obra completa (Lisboa: Tinta da China, 2014 [1915]), 52.
2 Tiago Saraiva and Ana Cardoso de Matos. “Technological Nocturne: The Lisbon Industrial
Institute and Romantic Engineering (1849–1888),” Technology and Culture 58, no. 2 (2017):
422–458.
3 Diário de Notícias, June 10, 1933, 3 [advertisement].
been rented and were ready to carry the mechanical rides that were about to
arrive in two ships from the port of Antwerp.4 The newspaper Lisbon Daily
(Diário de Lisboa) welcomed the amusement park as a sign of modernity that
would “transform the peaceful and insipid physiognomy” of the city and bring
“happiness, modern life, [and] civilized movement” to Lisbon.5 “All the great
capitals of the world”, claimed the weekly newspaper Illustrated News (Notícias
Ilustrado), “have a Luna Park. Berlin, Paris, London, New York all possess since
a long time ago wide enclosures where the so-called ‘attractions’ rise in a fairy
illumination, attracting every night, and many afternoons, the city crowd,
eager of the air, movement, youthfulness and joy of a few hours that take them
away from the nightmare of the job, the school, the daily work. Lisbon has just
imitated these other capitals”.6 The amusement park was called Luna Parque
(Luna Park) after its original homonym in Coney Island.
Amusement parks were indeed a global phenomenon of urban mass cul-
ture. They took a standard shape in the United States at the turn of the century
and quickly spread all around the world.7 In the first decades of the twentieth
century, the engineered fun of roller coasters, water-chutes, bumper cars, and
other mechanical thrill rides was globalized and circulated in heterogeneous
spaces that ranged from big enclosed amusement parks to small traveling fairs.
Cultural and social historians have analysed amusement parks as “industrial
saturnalia” in which social and gender codes were negotiated.8 However, as
already analysed by John Kasson and Tony Bennett, the fact that bodies were
turned upside down did not necessarily mean that social relations were also
temporarily inverted as in carnivals.9 Historians of technology such as Arwen
Mohun have paid attention to the design, production, and international
4 “Lisboa vai ter…,” Notícias Ilustrado, June 11, 1933, 15; “O Luna Parque…,” Notícias Ilustrado,
June 18, 1933, 8.
5 “Lisboa vai ter…,” Diário de Lisboa, June 13, 1933, 5.
6 “O Luna Parque…,” Notícias Ilustrado, June 18, 1933, 8.
7 Arwen Mohun. “Amusement Parks for the World: The Export of American Technology
and Know-How, 1900–1939,” ICON 19 (2013): 100–112; Carroll Pursell. From Playgrounds to
Playstation: The Interaction of Technology and Play (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 2015).
8 Gary Cross and John Walton. The Playful Crowd: Pleasure Places in the Twentieth Century (New
York: Columbia University Press, 2005). In his 1937 novel Capitães da Areia, Jorge Amado
beautifully depicts the socially heterogeneous publics of a traveling carousel in Salvador da
Bahia.
9 John Kasson. Amusing the Million: Coney Island at the Turn of the Century (New York: Farrar,
Strauss and Giroux, 1978); Tony Bennett. “Hegemony, Ideology, Pleasure: Blackpool,” in
Popular Culture and Social Relations, eds. Tony Bennett, Colin Mercer and Janet Woollacott,
135–154 (Philadelphia: Open University Press, 1986). In a previous work (see note 11), we inac-
curately attributed to John Kasson a different point of view in this regard.
A Fascist Coney Island? 393
10 Arwen Mohun. Risk: Negotiating Safety in American Society (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 2013).
11 Jaume Sastre-Juan and Jaume Valentines-Álvarez. “Technological Fun: The Politics and
Geographies of Amusement Parks.” In Barcelona (188–1929): An Urban History of Science
and Modernity, eds. Oliver Hochadel and Agustí Nieto-Galan (London and New York:
Routledge, 2016), 92–112.
12 Victoria de Grazia. The Culture of Consent: Mass Organization of Leisure in Fascist Italy
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981); Simonetta Falasca-Zamponi. Fascist
Spectacle: The Aesthetics of Power in Mussolini’s Italy (Berkeley and Los Angeles: California
University Press, 1997). On the debate about the totalitarian and fascist nature of
Salazarism, see: Fernando Rosas. “O salazarismo e o homem novo: ensaio sobre o Estado
Novo e a questão do totalitarismo,” Análise Social xxxv, no. 157 (2001): 1031–1054; Irene
Flunser Pimentel. História das organizações femininas no Estado Novo (Lisboa: Círculo
de Leitores, 2000), 14–22; Tiago Saraiva. Fascist Pigs: Technoscientific Organisms and the
History of Fascism (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2016), 3–6.
13 Fernando Rosas. Lisboa revolucionária, 1908–1975 (Lisboa: Tinta da China, 2007), 18.
14 Daniel Melo. Salazarismo e cultura popular (1933–1958) (Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências
Sociais, 2001); Vera Marques Alves. Arte popular e nação no Estado Novo: A política fol-
clorista do Secretariado de Propaganda Nacional (Lisboa: Imprensa de Ciências Sociais,
2013). See also: Margarida Acciaiuoli. Exposições do Estado Novo, 1934–1940 (Lisboa: Livros
394 Valentines-Álvarez and Sastre-Juan
The first amusement park in Lisbon was located at Eduardo VII Park, at the
northern end of Lisbon’s main boulevard, Liberty Avenue. Built in the 1880s
as part of the symbolic and material construction of the capitalist city, this
Haussmannian boulevard quickly became a space of bourgeois leisure.21 In the
1930s, it was a central artery in the axis connecting the Terreiro do Paço (next
to the Tagus River) to the Avenidas Novas neighbourhood, which, at that time,
was still under construction. This axis hosted the dwellings of the middle and
upper classes and most of the political and economic institutions. The upper
segment of the axis, the Chiado-Restauradores-Liberty Avenue, was where
the elegant cinemas, theatres and opera halls were located, but it was also the
space of Bohemian night leisure (see chapter 12 in this volume).22 This urban
axis was surrounded by popular neighbourhoods, while the factories and the
industrial working-class neighbourhoods stretched along the riverside.23
During its first half century of existence, Eduardo VII Park was a wide non-
urbanized space near the dense city centre. It played, however, a key role not
only as a strategic place in the military uprisings of the period but also as a
space for temporary events such as official parades, fairs, and exhibitions.24
In 1898, the top of Liberty Avenue hosted a big fair commemorating the
“Portuguese discovery” of the sea route to India. The Feira Franca, as it was
called, featured colonial displays, regional music, light shows and freak per-
formances with trained fleas.25 Some years later, technological fun made its
presence felt in Eduardo VII Park. In the summers between 1908 and 1915, in
the August Fair, Lisboners could attend animatography sessions, eat typical
oily farturas (fried pastry), and experience the kinaesthetic joy of an electric
carousel, a big toboggan or a scenic railway.26 In 1926, Eduardo VII Park was
also the chosen location for the largest roller coaster that had been installed in
the city until then.27
In 1932 and 1933, Eduardo VII Park hosted the Portuguese Industrial
Exhibition. It was organized by the Portuguese Industrial Association (Asso
ciação Industrial Portuguesa), the main industrialists’ association of the coun-
try. Led by engineer José Maria Alvares, it represented an influential economic
sector that was waging a battle for political hegemony with the large agricul-
tural landowners.28 As many other industrial exhibitions, the goal was to pro-
mote national industry, colonial products, and a techno-nationalist identity.29
The Exhibition took place at the Palace of Exhibitions as well as at temporary
industrial and commercial stands. The visitors were to be reminded of the
“modernity” of the metropolis through the contrast between the machines on
display and the crafts of the inhabitants of a tribal village from Guinea, which
were exhibited as a human zoo.30
23 For a more nuanced account of this schematic tripartite socio-geography of the city, see:
Rosas, Lisboa revolucionária, 18–37.
24 Rosas, Lisboa revolucionária.
25 José Augusto França. Lisboa 1898. Estudo de factos socioculturais (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte,
1997), 43–99.
26 Mário Costa. Feiras e outros divertimentos populares de Lisboa: histórias, figuras, usos e
costumes. (Lisboa: Cámara Municipal de Lisboa, 1950), 191–200.
27 “Montanha Russa, Parque Eduardo VII, 1926”, PT/AMLSB/CB/14/02/534, Arquivo Muni
cipal de Lisboa.
28 Rosas, O Estado Novo.
29 “Uma grande parada…,” 1932; “A grande Exposição…,” 1932.
30 Luiz Castellão. Grande Exposição Industrial Portuguesa: Roteiro 1932–1933 (2º ciclo) (Lisboa:
Grande Exposição Industrial Portuguesa, 1933). On human zoos, see: Pascal Blanchard,
Nicolas Bancel, Eric Deroo, and Sandrine Lemaire, eds. Human Zoos: Science and Spectacle
in the Age of Colonial Empires (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2009).
A Fascist Coney Island? 397
This was the spatial and ideological context in which Luna Park opened
its doors as part of the second season of the Exhibition. The City Council
leased 15.000 square meters of Eduardo VII Park to the company Sociedade de
Diversões (Entertainments Society), which had been created for the purpose.
In turn, the company had to urbanize the area, pay a percentage of the reve-
nue, and install mechanical rides “of a modern and artistic aspect”.31 Two of the
three stockholders were engineers: António Branco Cabral, who held a high
position within the Portuguese Railway Company, and José Belard da Fonseca,
who specialized in construction with reinforced concrete. The third stock-
holder was the building contractor Amadeu Gaudêncio.32 The economic suc-
cess of the 1933 season made the Entertainments Society to ask for a renewal
of the concession.33 And in 1934, the company partnered with show business
entrepreneur Ricardo Covões, owner of the famous and eclectic Coliseu dos
Recreios, which programmed cinema, opera, boxing, mesmerizing spectacles,
and even automobile shows.34
The promoters held influential economic and civic positions. Politically,
they ranged from the more conservative liberal sector of the regime to demo-
cratic republican positions. Branco Cabral, for example, did not hide his pro-
Allied leanings during an investigation by the political police in 1940 under
the accusation of defaming the Army. But at the same time, he invoked in his
defence his commitment to the Estado Novo and his familiar connections with
key figures of the government.35 Ricardo Covões was a prominent republican
who had been private secretary to former president of the Republic Bernardino
Machado, who went into exile after having been overthrown by the military
coup of 1926. The ongoing political relationship with Machado and his little
sympathy for the Portuguese dictatorship (and for Italian fascism) also caused
him troubles with the police in the 1930s.36
When Luna Park was inaugurated in July 1933, it featured many imported
rides installed by local workers under the direction of German and Portuguese
engineers.37 In an atmosphere marked by the light of 20.000 electric bulbs,
37 “É preciso ministrar…,” Indústria Portuguesa 65 (1933): 26. The German connection went
perhaps through architect Moritz Ernst Lesser, who had a share of the company’s ini-
tial capital by delegation of Branco Cabral (“Sociedade de Diversões, Limitada,” Diário do
Governo, III Série, 132, June 9, 1933, 1082). Lesser, who was a Jew, was forced to exile and
moved to Lisbon in 1934.
A Fascist Coney Island? 399
the smell of a 15-meter-high perfumed light fountain, and the “noise of the
powerful machinery of the rides and the constant twittering of the crowd”, the
thousands of visitors at Luna Park immersed themselves in a multi-sensory
experience: they could loudly scream in a bumper car, nervously laugh in a
water-chute, experience the thrilling emotion of turning around in a carousel,
or feel the suspense of seeing an acrobatic motorbike in the Wall of Death.38 In
the 1934 season, the most remarkable novelty was the 650-meter roller coaster
Zig-Zag Vertigo. That year, the public could also enjoy the Whip, a famous thrill
ride consisting in a string of wagons following a track, patented by the “amuse-
ment inventor” William F. Mangels and first installed in Coney Island. One
could also get dizzy at the flying stairs, travel in the haunted train, or slide in
the toboggan.39
In 1935 new rides such as gasoline-powered boats and a carousel with sim-
ulated planes, which was pompously described as a “colossal work of engi-
neering”, joined old favourites as the bumper cars or the Wall of Death.40 Still
another novelty was the Automobile Tour of Portugal, a 200-meter racetrack
for gasoline-powered miniature cars. According to the Daily News “Everyone
can be a ‘chauffeur’, with no need of special licenses […] and without worrying
about danger”.41 These simulation rides not only offered the thrill of speed but
represented a ludic way of negotiating risk and familiarizing the population
with large socio-technical systems that were in expansion at that time.42
All these attractions co-existed with a varied offer of non-mechanical fun:
fortune-tellers, illusionists, music orchestras, shooting galleries, live animals
carousels or natural “monsters” such as a 700-kilogram turtle captured at
Costa de Caparica, near Lisbon.43 Actually, the main attraction of the sum-
mer nights at Luna Park were perhaps its many open-air restaurants, cafés, and
bars. People could eat an ice cream at the Inuit Stall, have dinner at the House
of Seafood or hear fado stars at the fancy Retiro da Severa, which recreated a
picturesque nineteenth-century tavern.44
38 “O Luna Parque será…,” Diário de Lisboa, July 3, 1933, 5; “Inaugurou-se…,” Notícias Ilustrado,
July 9, 1933, 12–13.
39 “Luna-Parque…,” Diário de Lisboa, June 20, 1934, 2; “O Luna Parque foi…,” Diário de
Notícias, June 8, 1934, 2.
40 Diário de Notícias, June 5, 1935, 5.
41 “O automobilismo ao alcance de todos…,” Diário de Notícias, June 19, 1935, 5.
42 Mohun, 2013a; Luísa Sousa. A mobilidade automóvel em Portugal, 1920–1950 (Lisboa:
Chiado Editora, 2016).
43 Diário de Lisboa, September 7, 1934, 2 [advertisement].
44 “Os recantos do Luna Park,” Notícias Ilustrado, August 12, 1934.
400 Valentines-Álvarez and Sastre-Juan
Luna Park presented itself and was portrayed in the press under a “modern-
izing” rhetoric.45 The name itself, after the original in Coney Island, emphasized
the foreign origin of the attractions and was described as “a magic evocation”
reminiscent of “movement, modern vibration, true cosmopolitanism”.46 A
chronicle in the Daily News praised the opportunity that Lisboners now could
have fun “in contact with civilization and modern progress” as it should be
the case for “a European city like ours”.47 Along the same lines, an advertise-
ment in the Lisbon Daily claimed that it was “a duty of civilized people to go to
Luna Park”.48
But who went to Luna Park? What was its place in the urban geography of
leisure? When Luna Park was already closed after its first season, an article in
the Lisbon Daily made an informal survey of the leisure on a Sunday in the city.
On 5 November, more than 80,000 Lisboners had paid for entertainment: basi-
cally football (35,000), cinema (22,000), theatre (15,000), bullfighting (7,500)
and circus (3,000). Many others enjoyed free entertainments or meals in sport
and neighbourhood associations. The article also mentioned the amusement
park as part of the commodified leisure in Lisbon: “[people strolling in the ave-
nues] contented themselves to look at the others, the passing cars, Eduardo VII
Park, (…) the palisade of Luna Park, that fantastic and fairy world of illusion,
where there is always an implacable door or an implacable doorman that inter-
dicts the entrance to those who do not present the magic ticket”.49
While the “magic ticket” excluded the poorest and the lower working
classes, we should assume a certain degree of social heterogeneity. The stan-
dard entrance fee was 2,5 escudos, and when the season was already advanced
there were “Popular Nights” in which the public could get in for just 1,5 escudos.
It was not extremely expensive: during the 1930s, a litre of wine and the cheap-
est tramway ticket costed about 0,5 escudos, a coffee was 0,80 escudos and a
film at a chic cinema 3,5 escudos.50 Moreover, the Entertainments Society had
to give 1.000 tickets to the City Council each week to be distributed among
45 See, among many other examples, the advertisements published in: Diário de Notícias,
June 15, 1933, 3; June 30, 1933, 3; June 9, 1934, 11.
46 “Lisboa vai ter…,” Diário de Lisboa, June 13, 1933, 5; “Lisboa cosmopolita…,” Diário de
Notícias, June 5, 1935, 5.
47 “Abriu hoje o Luna…,” Diário de Notícias, June 1, 1935, 5.
48 “Ir ao Luna Parque,” Diário de Lisboa, August 26, 1935, 2.
49 “Domingo de sol!” Diário de Lisboa, November 6, 1933, 4.
50 José Augusto França. O Ano X, Lisboa 1936. Estudo de factos socioculturais (Lisboa:
Presença, 2010), 282 and 291; João Néu. Em volta da Torre de Belém. Vol III (Lisboa: Livros
Horizonte, 2006), 302.
A Fascist Coney Island? 401
schools, charity institutions, and district councils.51 However, the prices of the
attractions (the water-chute, for example, costed 2 escudos),52 and the fact that
Luna Park was advertised as being free of “that danger of mixtures from which
our best public instinctively runs away”, shows that it was mainly addressed
to the middle and upper classes.53 The High-Life section of the Lisbon Daily
listed the names of the distinguished ladies and gentlemen of the urban elite
that attended “the most chic and civilized entertainment venue of the capital”
during the “Fashion Nights”.54
This can be illustrated with an article published by the Lisbon Daily on
9 July 1933, which reproduced the reactions of playwright João Bastos to a visit
to the newly inaugurated Luna Park. Bastos was expecting a “Lona Park”, that
is “just another of those bric-a-brac fairs to which we are used” (“lona” means a
cheap and perhaps shabby canvas in Portuguese). But he was surprised to find
an atmosphere that led him to believe that Lisbon would soon have “the aspect
of the great European capitals”. The article described an enthusiastic public
made, among others, of young kids from sports clubs and high schools, well-
to-do foreign citizens living in the coastal town of Cascais, and “the names of
our best aristocracy, high finance, politics, industry and arts”. What is more, the
article gave special emphasis to the fact that Luna Park was “a place where half
of Lisbon was introduced to the other half”, highlighting the massive atten-
dance of women.55
Luna Park’s promotional rhetoric and iconography, as well as its coverage by
major news outlets, reflect ongoing redefinitions of urban middle-and upper-
class femininity. In line with Bastos’ opinion, another (male) journalist argued
that Luna Park showed how “our women, so defamed by foreigners and nation-
als, do not acquiesce to remain perpetually doing tricot at home and demand
their share of air, light and movement”.56 A 1933 promotional film for the
Portuguese Industrial Exhibition ended with a close-up of six young actresses
with stylish haircuts shouting and laughing while they descended the water-
chute.57 The big promotional poster depicted in Figure 2 went even further in
Figure 14.2A–B Different advertisements of Luna Park: Thrill and gendered emotions (left)
along with order and mass entertainment (right)
drawing by Emmerico Nunes, illustrator and later team
member of the National Propaganda Board
58 These ideals crystallized in the creation of the Feminine Portuguese Youth in 1937:
Pimentel, História das organizações; Irene Flunser Pimentel. Mocidade Portuguesa
Feminina (Lisboa: A Esfera dos Livros, 2007).
59 Diário de Notícias, June 11, 1935, 2.
A Fascist Coney Island? 403
ularly organized for children and families. The Lisbon Daily highlighted the
importance of bringing young people to the “open air” to enjoy the “naïve fun”
of Luna Park.60 Actually, the open spaces, the familiar public and the relatively
expensive mechanical rides served to demarcate Luna Park from other geo-
graphically close but more morally suspect nocturnal spaces of leisure, such as
the Parque Mayer (Mayer Park).
Located close to Liberty Avenue, the Mayer Park was a space of mass
entertainment that brought together bohemians, intellectuals, journalists,
the underworld, and the middle class. It was mainly known as the mecca of
vaudeville shows (revista), but it also featured carousels, skating rinks, illegal
gambling, boxing, and jazz music.61 The thigh of a girl riding the water-chute
of Luna Park seemed to be more respectable than the thigh of the vedettes of
the Mayer Park, who were sometimes the target of Catholic fundamentalists.
The author of a 1937 pamphlet condemned it as a space of depravation and
concealed prostitution and argued that it should be “set on fire for human-
ity’s sake”.62 The fire would have also burned some mechanical rides, as they
were common in the Mayer Park. In November 1934, for example, some of the
attractions of the amusement park at the Porto Colonial Exhibition were trans-
ferred to Mayer Park.63 They stayed there, at much lower prices, until they were
transferred to Luna Park in April 1935.64 The very same bumper cars, gasoline-
powered boats, and motorbike round racetracks were enjoyed in all three
spaces, with their different regimes of pleasure, institutional settings, urban
inscription, aesthetic features, prices, and publics.
The mechanized amusement of Luna Park also coexisted spatially with
state-regulated fun linked to the process of (re)invention of a folkloric tradi-
tion for Lisbon. In June 1934 and 1935, the City Council organized a cultural
program for the Festivities of the City which included historicist and nation-
alist parades, as well as the Marchas Populares (Popular Marches), a danc-
ing contest among different neighbourhoods of the city. The first edition of
the Popular Marches was organized in 1932 at the Mayer Park by journalist,
playwright, and filmmaker José Leitão de Barros. He was the director of the
Illustrated News, and as we show in the next section, eventually became a key
actor in the creation of the Popular Fair. In 1934 the Popular Marches were
appropriated by the City Council, which codified and supervised in the strict-
est of manners every detail of the contest down to the dresses and the lyrics.65
In the sentimental landscapes of many Lisboners, the memories of Luna Park
must have been seamlessly tied to the Popular Marches. On 9 June 1935, for
example, the parade started in the Terreiro do Paço near the river, went up
Liberty Avenue and arrived at the lower part of Eduardo VII Park around mid-
night. The crowd spent the night around (and inside) Luna Park.66 Only three
days later a crowd gathered at Luna Park to watch the fireworks over the Tagus
River to celebrate the feast day of Saint Anthony, the patron saint of Lisbon.67
According to the press, Luna Park was one of the most frequented spots during
these celebrations.68
After three summers of being part of the trendiest Lisbon nights, how-
ever, Luna Park did not open its doors the following year. In March 1936, the
Entertainments Society asked for a renewal of the contract that expired in
September 1935, but it was never granted by the City Council.69 There is an elo-
quent silence in the press, whose only mention of Luna Park seems to be depre-
ciative. By contrast, the Lisbon Daily praised the Algés Fair, which was located
that year in the western outskirts of the city and was described as a revival
of the old August Fair, even though its featured racetrack was likely to be the
one that had been at Luna Park one year prior. According to the Lisbon Daily,
the Algés Fair would become “the shelter of all the population of Lisbon dur-
ing the coming midsummer heat, since nothing entertaining exists in the city
after the fatiguing and useless attempt of Luna Park”.70
The silence of the sources forbids a detailed reconstruction of the reasons
behind the end of Luna Park, but several relevant factors can be identified.
The drums of war in Europe, as well as the victory in February of the Popular
Front in Spain, led to the ideological and repressive hardening of the regime.
In April 1936, the Fascist youth organization Mocidade Portuguesa (Portuguese
Youth) and the Tarrafal concentration camp in islands of Cabo Verde were
created.71 In this context, the new plans for Eduardo VII Park did not include
technological fun. On 28 May a commemorative official exhibition was inaugu-
rated there on the ten years of the establishment of the dictatorship. The con-
tiguity of the exhibition with Luna Park was most likely seen as not adequate,
in a context in which even the Festivities of the City had been cancelled to
avoid large concentrations of people and to focus on the cultural and political
program around the anniversary.72
Also, in June 1936, the press announced the imminent expansion of Liberty
Avenue and plans to monumentalize Eduardo VII Park. The debate on whether
Eduardo VII Park should be the green closing of Liberty Avenue, or the begin-
ning of its future expansion had been going on for decades. Architect Luís
Cristino da Silva, who had advocated for the second option since the early
1930s, advanced with a project to turn Eduardo VII Park into a monument
glorifying the regime, including a huge Triumphal Arch, gardens, canals, and
buildings that were to host several museums.73 This grand project never took
place, and it took several years until the final project, by architect Francisco
Keil do Amaral, was approved and implemented. Meanwhile, Luna Park had
disappeared.
It is difficult to settle to what extent the end of Luna Park was fundamen-
tally related to financial, political, or urban planning reasons. While Luna Park
had not been promoted by the state, nor was it aligned with the officialist dis-
courses, nothing indicates that the regime explicitly wanted to wipe it off from
the face of Lisbon. It is worth mentioning, for example, that the inauguration
of the 1934 season was attended by the Minister of the Navy, the Navy General
Commander, the Civil Governor, the Police Commander, the Censorship
Inspector, and representatives of the City Council.74 Yet, the transformation of
Eduardo VII Park into a solemn space of exaltation of the fascist “national rev-
olution” did not seem to match with the “international attractions” promoted
71 The fascination with the summer of 1936 as a crucial moment in Portuguese history can
be seen in three well-known novels in which the city of Lisbon is one of the main charac-
ters: Jorge de Sena. Sinais de fogo (Lisboa: Edições 70, 1979); José Saramago. O ano da morte
de Ricardo Reis (Lisboa: Caminho, 1984); Antonio Tabucchi. Sostiene Pereira (Milano:
Feltrinelli, 1994).
72 On Lisbon in 1936 and the exhibition, see: França, O Ano X, (esp. pp. 479–488).
73 “O prolongamento da Avenida,” Diário de Notícias, June 3, 1936, 1; “Lisboa, Capital do
Imperio,” Diário de Notícias, June 4, 1936, 1. Curiously enough, Cristino da Silva had
designed an impressive art deco entrance and a path-breaking modernist Capitólio
Theatre for the Parque Mayer in 1931.
74 “O Luna Parque foi ontem visitado…,” Diário de Notícias, June 7, 1934, 1.
406 Valentines-Álvarez and Sastre-Juan
78 “A Exposição do Mundo Português será uma afirmação de técnica nacional,” Revista dos
Centenários 6 (1939): 11–17; Manel Melo. “A Exposição do Mundo Português,” Boletim da
Ordem dos Engenheiros 48 (1940): 441–473. See: Nuno Madureira. A economia dos inter-
esses. Portugal entre guerras (Lisboa: Livros Horizonte, 2002), 99–116 (esp. 112–113).
79 António Manuel de Bivar. “A instalação de som da Exposição do Mundo Português,”
Boletim da Ordem dos Engenheiros 48 (1940): 473–485; Barroso Ramos. “O som na
Exposição Histórica do Mundo Português,” A Arquitectura Portuguesa 73 (1941): 1–20
(offprint).
80 “O Pavilhão das Telecomunicações…,” Diário de Notícias, July 20, 1940, 4; Participação
das principais emprêsas produtoras e distribuidoras de energia eléctrica (Lisboa: Editorial
Império, 1940), 6; “Exposição do Mundo…,” Boletim Oficial das Juntas de Freguesia de
Lisboa 11–16 (1940): 22.
81 Guia oficial. Exposição do Mundo Português ([s.l., s.n.], 1940).
A Fascist Coney Island? 409
Minister of Public Works, and was involved in the design of the some of the
largest green spaces in the city: Monsanto Hill (for which forced labour of pris-
oners was used), Campo Grande Park, and Eduardo VII Park, whose centre was
defined by classical geometric lines and whose upper portions were marked by
two tall obelisks of fascist and imperial overtones.
In his project for the Exhibition’s amusement park, Keil do Amaral com-
bined modernist forms with circus aesthetics. He conceived a high rectan-
gular entrance giving access to a round square with eight monoliths and a
410 Valentines-Álvarez and Sastre-Juan
82 “[Parque de atrações da Exposição do Mundo Português, Lisboa],” 1940, Collection “F. Keil
do Amaral”, Arquivo Municipal de Lisboa.
A Fascist Coney Island? 411
seen from the Empire Square, the majestic view of the Jerónimos Monastery.83
Finally, a less spectacular proposal for the amusement park was put forward
in collaboration with architect António Lino, who was already planning other
leisure spaces in the Exhibition, such as the colourful Children’s Playground
and the neoclassical Garden of the Poets.84
The expert in charge of the technical systems of the amusement park was
engineer José Mendes Leal. Mendes Leal was a well-known professor at the
Instituto Superior Técnico (Superior Technical Institute), who had campaigned
for a higher political role for engineers and for practical education in engi-
neering through well-equipped specialized workshops and the collaboration
with the private sector, taking inspiration from the United States.85 The orga-
nizing commission opened a tender for the concession of the services at the
amusement park, and the mechanical rides were finally rented in Milan.86 Yet
just before the ship that transported the gears, rails and engines could weigh
anchor in Genoa and head to Lisbon, Mussolini’s government forbade Italian
boats to sail in international waters: Italy had entered the war on 10 June 1940.87
As a result, on 23 June the Exhibition of the Portuguese World was inaugurated
without its amusement park.
Despite this initial failure, the organizers rushed to build a made-in-
Portugal amusement park, and ordered against the clock new rides to
Portuguese workshops.88 When the amusement park was finally inaugurated
on 7 August 1940, the press coverage was limited to a few lines in the advertise-
ment section: “At 9 pm – Amusement Park of the Exhibition of the Portuguese
World – the best rides and amusements from foreign Luna-Parks – the Rivière
Mysterieuse stands out among them – absolutely unknown in Portugal”.89 In
the following months, among pages with horrific war news and pictures of
Hitler and Franco, advertisements of the “sensational novelties” and “world-
class rides” of the “Grand Luna-Park” were regularly published. These adver-
tisements were one of the few mentions to the amusement park that we
have found in the press. Unlike the case of Luna Park, at Eduardo VII Park,
the amusement park at the Exhibition of the Portuguese World seems to have
been rhetorically hidden.
The silence of the press, however, did not prevent many of the three mil-
lion visitors of the Exhibition from enjoying the amusement park. The visitors
could access the “modern rides” that were inaugurated week after week.90 At
the end of August, the amusement park possessed some of the well-known
standardized rides found in Luna Parks around the world, such as the above-
mentioned Whip, the Haunted Train, a Scenic Railway, the Devil’s Wheel, elec-
tric cars, and carousels. Additionally, there were several stalls featuring lethal
tropical snakes or the medium Ferdoli, not to mention fireworks, car rallies,
and the open-air terrace of the Casanova Dancing Bar.91
The amusement park closed with the Exhibition on 2 December 1940, at a
time of the year in which open-air leisure was not very popular because of the
weather. While the plan was to re-open the amusement park in the following
summer season, on 15 February 1941 a cyclone destroyed many of the rides and
facilities.92 The presence of technological fun in Belém was thus quite ephem-
eral, disappearing from a space that continued to represent one of the main
symbolic urban inscriptions of Salazarism. But it would not take long until the
mechanical rides went back to the city.
…
On 10 June 1943 the Popular Fair was inaugurated in a private park in Palhavã,
between Eduardo VII Park and the bullring in Campo Pequeno. This Park had
hosted the Zoo between 1894 and 1905, and had, afterwards, been closed to the
the Exhibition of the Portuguese World and the ones at the Feira Popular through the
company Sociedade Lusitana de Atracções (Fontes, Feira Popular, 115).
89 Diário de Lisboa, August 7, 1940, 2 [advertisement].
90 Guia da Exposição do Mundo Português ([s.l.: s.n.], 1940).
91 See the advertisements published in Diário de Notícias (p. 3), Diário de Lisboa (p. 2) and
O Século (p. 3), in August, September, and October.
92 Costa, Feiras, 420.
A Fascist Coney Island? 413
93 Michael Colvin. “Images of Defeat: Early Fado Films and the Estado Novo’s Notion of
Progress,” Portuguese Studies 26, no. 2 (2010): 149–167.
94 Another member of the Executive Board of the Feira Popular, Gustavo de Matos Sequeira,
had been organizer of the Lisboa Antiga historicist theme park in São Bento area and part
of the general commissariat of the 1940 Exhibition.
95 “A Feira é reconstituição exacta das de há 50 anos e afirmação da arte moderna,” O Século,
June 11, 1943, 1.
96 Fontes, Feira Popular, 38.
97 “Os Senhores Ministros…,” O Século, June 11, 1943, 1; “A Feira Popular de Lisboa…,” O Século,
May 25, 1944, 1.
98 “Os Senhores Ministro de Economia e…,” O Século, June 8, 1944, 1.
414 Valentines-Álvarez and Sastre-Juan
99 “Hoje, véspera de…,” O Século, June 18, 1945, 2; “Os bravos soldados brasileiros…,” O Século,
September 1, 1945, 1; “Foi uma loucura…,” O Século, September 4, 1945, 1.
100 “A Feira Popular de Lisboa foi um éxito…,” O Século, June 11, 1943, 1–2, 5; “Os campinos das
lezírias…,” O Século, September 12, 1943, 1.
101 “A grande expectativa que apaixona Lisboa…,” O Século, June 9, 1943, 2; “A Feira popu-
lar…,” O Século, June 11, 1943, 5; “O primero domingo…,” O Século, June 14, 1943, 2; “A Feira
Popular,” O Século, July 4, 1943, 2.
102 Fontes, Feira Popular, 126, 131 and 224.
A Fascist Coney Island? 415
and children, mostly well dressed, enjoying the kinaesthetic thrills of several
mechanical rides. One of the most popular was a locally built Ferris Wheel,
which was bombastically compared to the famous one in Vienna (despite
being much lower). The Century also highlighted that it provided “a baptism of
air, but without danger”.104 Visitors could also have fun by descending a water-
chute, riding several swing rides and merry-go-rounds, or driving gasoline
boats. Women appeared driving bumper cars, having a drink in taverns, and
smoking in high class gala dinners. In fact, “nights devoted to madams” were
regularly organized in Pavalhã and the wives of the president of the Republic
and other prominent dignitaries showed up.105 The short film also shows how
the public visited commercial stands, official stands, or a colonialist display
of dioramas of tropical landscapes, and how they enjoyed bullfighting, circus
performances, dancing and fado restaurants. The co-habitation of all these
elements in the same space is what characterized the regime of pleasure of
the Popular Fair, in which the technological fun of mechanical rides was inte-
grated into the production of popular culture by the Estado Novo.
The connection with the regime would become clearer in 1949, when the
state took charge of the organization of the Popular Fair through the Governo
Civil (Lisbon Civil Government); that is, until 1951 when the newspaper The
Century would resume oversight of the Popular Fair’s organization. In a similar
way to what happened to the Popular Marches’ folklore parade, which were
born at the initiative of a newspaper and were later organized by the City
Council, the Popular Fair was nationalized and replicated. At a time of internal
political tensions, the regime promoted at a national level the regime of plea-
sure that had been stabilized in Lisbon, and new “Popular Fairs” were inaugu-
rated in Porto and Coimbra in 1950. The story of the Popular Fair in Lisbon in
the second half of the twentieth century is still to be written. But its first years
of existence already show that it played a key political role during Salazarism.
4 Conclusions
Acknowledgements
We would like to thank Cláudia Castelo, Carlos Godinho, Inês Gomes, Marta
Macedo, Celia Miralles and Luísa Sousa, as well as the editors of the book and
the participants at the session “Estado Novo, Cidade Nova? Ciência, cidade e
fascismo em Lisboa, 1933–1945” of the 6th Encontro Nacional de História das
Ciências e Tecnologia (Monte da Caparica, 9–11 July 2018), for their careful
comments and insightful suggestions. We are also grateful to João Machado
and Sofia Viegas for their help with newspaper sources. We thank the following
institutions for their financial support: Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia,
Portugal (through PTDC/IVC-HFC/3122/2014, UID/HIS/00286/2019 and UIDB/
00286/2020) and AGAUR, Generalitat de Catalunya (2017 SGR 1138 & Serra
Húnter Program).
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Index
Estrela Garden 21, 88, 291, 294, 295, 296, Geraldes, Carlos Eugénio de Mello 241, 244,
297, 298, 299, 300, 301, 302, 303, 304, 248, 249
305, 307, 308, 310, 311, 312, 314, 317, 318, Gossweiller, John 247
319, 321 Green infrastructures 12, 26, 33, 37, 67, 84,
Evolutionism 363, 365 85, 93, 295
Experts 4, 9, 10, 17, 19, 19, 21, 22, 24, 27, 29, Greenhouses 239, 240, 248, 260, 303, 305,
34, 38, 40, 52, 57, 61, 62, 63, 65, 68, 70, 307, 321
71, 73, 74, 79, 80, 81, 82, 84, 85, 87, 94,
99, 100, 101, 109, 114, 117, 118, 137, 142, Hands-on 34, 40, 50
143, 147, 148, 152, 161, 165, 179, 181, 182, Haussmann/Haussmannian/Hausmanized
183, 184, 185, 187, 188, 189, 191, 196, 199, 10, 12, 23, 25, 27, 33, 38, 39, 55, 65, 71,
202, 219, 233, 244, 247, 261, 298, 308, 72, 80, 82, 85, 96, 101, 291, 301, 303, 304,
319, 320, 321, 345, 358, 365, 368, 388 367, 395
Exposição do Mundo Português/ Portuguese Health Bill 207, 223, 224, 225, 226
World Exhibition/Exhibition of the Health Station 21, 166, 172, 175, 207, 208,
Portuguese World 16, 21, 57, 130, 139, 148, 209, 210
149, 232, 261, 279, 280, 292, 395, 407, Homem de Vasconcellos, António 161, 165,
408, 411, 412, 413, 417 172, 215, 216
Hospital 74, 75, 77, 89, 158, 160, 162, 174, 176,
Faculty of Medicine 163, 192, 366, 369, 374, 192, 193, 219, 220, 221, 222, 228, 237, 319,
385, 387, 388, 389 338
Faculty of Sciences 192, 239, 255, 366, 368, “Human zoo” 260, 396
369, 371, 372, 374, 380, 384, 385, 387, Hygienic model 108
388, 389
Feira de Algés/Algés Fair 404 Iberian union/unification 353
Feira de Agosto/August Fair 396, 404, 413 Imperial Lisbon 7, 8, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27,
Feira Popular/Popular Fair 292, 395, 404, 407, 28, 121, 130, 132, 147, 148, 149, 202, 205,
412, 413, 414, 415, 416, 417, 418 213, 230, 232, 241, 258, 260, 261, 267,
Ferro, António 125, 262, 263, 407 268, 282, 286
Fialho de Almeida 22, 23, 100, 106, 109, 367, Industrial city (Lisbon) 24, 33, 96, 100, 103,
389 104, 108, 391, 407
Fonseca, José Belard da 397 Infrastructure/s 910, 11, 12, 16, 17, 19, 21, 26,
Fontana, Giuseppe 356, 357, 359, 363 33, 34, 37, 38, 39, 65, 67, 68, 73, 80, 84,
Fragateiro, Bernardo de Oliveira 243, 245, 85, 87, 93, 94, 97, 101, 104, 108, 118, 120,
247, 256, 258 124, 134, 143, 144, 149, 155, 160, 201, 207,
Freemasonry 13, 378 233, 295, 296, 297, 304, 305, 307, 311,
French literature 82, 298, 303 321, 391
French picturesque 304 Instituto Industrial de Lisboa/Industrial
Froebel (Froebel Institute/school) 312, 313, Institute of Lisbon 13, 14, 181, 185, 193, 198
314, 315, 316, 317, 321 Instituto Superior Técnico/Technical
Furtado, Euzébio 41, 43, 45, 46, 48 Institute 56, 125, 198, 411, 292, 366, 367,
369, 374, 384, 388, 389, 411
Gaudêncio, Amadeu 397 International Exhibitions 110, 160, 246, 251
Garden city 132, 133, 134, 144 Itinerant 21, 292, 366, 368, 369, 382
Gardeners 34, 68, 70, 80, 81, 82, 84, 85, 86,
239, 243, 244, 260, 298, 302, 303, 305, Jorge, Ricardo 174, 175, 204, 211, 224, 225,
310, 316, 319, 321 255, 382, 384
466 Index
Macadam 27, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65 National Congress of Mutuality 111, 117
Marchas Populares/Popular Marches 403, National Identity 17, 262, 263, 273, 275, 396
404, 413, 416, 418 National League of Education 376
Margiochi, Francisco Simões 80, 82, 86, 303 National Symbol 56, 57, 262, 275, 286, 345
Maritime Expansion 237, 262, 266, 271, 273, Nautical Science 275, 276
274, 278, 286 Navel, Henri 239, 240, 243
Maritime Health/Maritime Health Service Neto, António Lino 198
175, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, Network 4, 10, 14, 21, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29, 35,
211, 213, 214, 215, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 87, 92, 93, 96, 108, 127, 129, 132, 135,
222, 223, 224, 226, 227, 228 141, 147, 149, 156, 177, 178, 187, 192, 193,
Marques, Paulo 124, 125 196, 197, 200, 201, 205, 206, 207, 219,
Medical 21, 23, 33, 99, 101, 102, 106, 112, 118, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 227, 228, 233,
152, 153, 154, 155, 163, 165, 172, 173, 175, 259, 292, 294, 357, 369, 373, 388, 389,
177, 178, 193, 203, 204, 205, 207, 212, 408
218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 224, 226, 227, Newspaper/journal 18, 48, 86, 89,110, 112,
335, 336, 337, 338, 341, 343, 387, 388, 122, 170, 174, 176, 188, 189, 201, 248, 264,
419 270, 278, 280, 300, 311, 314, 316, 326, 333,
Medical follow-up 207, 212, 222 335, 338, 341, 342, 349, 350, 351, 362,
Melo de Matos 22, 100, 103, 104, 109, 110, 111, 370, 379, 392, 413, 416, 418
116, 117, 118 Nurseries 34, 67, 71, 84, 88, 89, 298, 302, 303,
Miasma and Germ theories 152 308, 310, 321
Ministério dos Negócios da Fazenda/Ministry
of Finances 77, 181, 184, 187, 193, 195, 196 O Século (The Century) 413
Mobility 35, 37, 81, 102, 118, 122, 129, 134, 138, Organismos de Coordenação Económica/
139, 140, 142, 143, 144, 385 Organisms of Economic Coordination
Mobility (in)justice 122, 144 413
Index 467
Pacheco, Duarte 16, 56, 121, 128, 130, 131, 143, Public Promenade 11, 73, 79, 80, 82, 84, 296,
267, 269, 408 300, 301, 302, 303, 321, 346, 347, 350,
Panopticon 156, 162, 163, 165, 177 356
Paris Commune 359, 363, 364 Public spaces 11, 14, 37, 54, 55, 56, 58, 68, 87,
Parque Mayer/Mayer Park 403, 404, 417 93, 292, 307, 359, 363
Park of Liberty 85 Public sphere 190, 192, 296, 297, 298, 312,
Pasteur 335, 336, 337, 338 316, 321, 359
Pebble pavements 41, 43, 51
Pezerat, Pierre-Joseph 23, 24, 37, 38, 78, 84 Quarantine(s) 12, 148, 151, 152, 153, 154, 156,
Physical anthropology 255 157, 158, 161, 162, 163, 165, 166, 167, 170,
Physicians 10, 17, 22, 99, 102, 117, 148, 155, 172, 173, 175, 178, 203, 204, 207, 208, 212,
175, 203, 204, 205, 212, 218, 219, 220, 221, 219, 220, 221, 224, 225, 226
222, 223, 224, 225, 226, 388 Queirós, Eça de 11, 90, 344, 346, 347, 349,
Pinheiro, Rafael Bordalo 45, 169, 170, 172 350, 351, 352, 355, 357, 358, 359, 363, 364
Plague 174, 176, 204, 220, 222, 223, 224 Quental, Antero de 351, 352, 353, 355, 356,
Política do Espírito/Politics of Spirit 263, 357, 359, 361, 362, 363, 364, 385
394
Port city 7, 8, 27, 28, 149, 150, 151, 154, 172, Rabies 292, 323, 332, 335, 336, 337, 338, 340,
193, 222, 293 341, 342, 343
Port of Lisbon 24, 104, 148, 151, 154, 172, 176, Realism 357, 358
181, 201, 210, 213, 214 Rectors 366, 369, 372, 373, 384, 389
Porto (city) 13, 14, 63, 121, 174, 181, 193, 194, Regeneration (historical period) 10, 11, 13,
204, 207, 216, 244, 246, 252, 253, 255, 33, 68, 69, 96, 294, 296, 297, 311
354, 363, 366, 370, 403, 416 Regulations / instructions / ordinances 9,
Portuguese pavement /Calçada Portuguesa 12, 41, 70, 90, 172, 174, 181, 187, 188, 204,
27, 36, 39, 40, 41, 45, 46, 48, 50, 51, 52, 217, 220, 226, 248, 316, 318, 327, 328, 329,
54, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 65, 75, 93, 282, 331, 332, 335, 337, 338, 341, 342, 343
345 Reis, Jaime Batalha 347, 349, 350, 351, 352,
Portuguese World Exhibition/Colonial 355, 356, 357, 358, 359, 362, 363, 364,
Section 365
Prison 43, 50, 156, 162, 163, 170 Republican/Republicanism 12, 13, 14, 34, 95,
Private concession 157, 165, 167 97, 101, 106, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 114, 115,
Progress 10, 12, 13, 25, 35, 36, 111, 114, 116, 125, 117, 118, 169, 189, 235, 240, 266, 273, 275,
149, 188, 203, 216, 234, 251, 287, 292, 294, 276, 286, 292, 315, 353, 361, 366, 370,
295, 318, 322, 345, 359, 371, 378, 380, 371, 373, 375, 376, 378, 379, 381, 382, 384,
382, 400, 408 385, 388, 389, 397, 406
Proletariat 99, 108, 354, 359 Ressano Garcia, Frederico 38, 79, 80, 82, 84,
Propaganda 35, 122, 125, 148, 232, 235, 246, 85, 173
255, 258, 259, 262, 264, 273, 413, 418 River/Tagus river 11, 16, 24, 26, 33, 40, 46,
Prophylaxis 155, 337, 338, 341 61, 73, 78, 96, 100, 102, 103, 104, 106, 127,
Proudhon, Pierre-Joseph 352, 353, 361 129, 131, 147, 150, 153, 154, 161, 178, 193,
Public gardens 74, 85, 86, 88, 140, 291, 294, 203, 209, 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 227, 228,
296, 297, 299, 300, 307, 308, 310, 321 237, 265, 268, 270, 300, 304, 310, 339,
Public health 9, 14, 21, 37, 63, 70, 74, 97, 127, 350, 356, 395, 404
148, 154, 155, 162, 163, 170, 176, 180, 182, Roads/ Parkways/ Motorways 10, 15, 25, 34,
196, 203, 204, 207, 215, 220, 222, 225, 35, 36, 37, 40, 54, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65,
226, 227, 229, 304, 308, 317, 325, 338, 67, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 126, 127, 128,
341, 385, 388, 389 134, 135, 139, 140, 141, 142
468 Index
Working-class neighbourhoods 21, 24, 34, 354, 363, 366, 356, 375, 376, 379, 380,
35, 95, 96, 97, 99, 100, 108, 109, 114, 115, 381, 382, 384, 386, 388, 389, 396, 400,
118, 134, 152, 349, 354, 379, 382, 384, 388, 407, 419
396, 419 World War I and II/War 13, 15, 16, 143, 213,
Working class(es) 13, 14, 21, 24, 34, 43, 95, 214, 221, 235, 251, 266
97, 98, 99, 100, 106, 108, 109, 111, 114, 115,
118, 132, 134, 138, 152, 241, 291, 292, 317, Yellow fever 10, 151, 152, 163, 167, 170, 172, 174,
176, 216, 220, 223, 226