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Gender and the Woman Artist in Early Modern Iberia 1st Edition Catherine Hall Van Den Elsen
Gender and the Woman Artist in Early Modern Iberia
This monograph explores the social constructs surrounding artistic production in early modern Iberia through the lenses of gender and class by examining the rarely considered contribution of creative women in Spain and Portugal between 1550 and 1700.
Using the life-stage framework popular in texts of the period and drawing on a broad spectrum of materials including conduct guidebooks, treatises, and conventual rules, this book examines the constraints imposed by gender-related social structures through microhistories of nuns, married, and unmarried women. The text spans class boundaries in its analysis of the work of painters, engravers, and sculptors, many of whom have until now eluded scholarly attention in English-language publications. An extensive bibliography promotes new avenues of inquiry into women’s contributions to the visual arts of the period.
This book will be of interest to scholars working in art history, gender studies, women’s history, early modern Iberian studies, and Renaissance studies.
Catherine Hall-van den Elsen, Ph.D., has a long-standing interest in the lives of the women of early modern Spain and Portugal. In 2018, she published a monograph in Spanish on the sculptor Luisa Roldán, in 2020, an annotated bibliography for the Oxford Bibliographies series, and in 2021, the monograph Luisa
Roldán for an English-speaking audience. Gender and the Woman Artist in Early Modern Iberia
Routledge Research in Gender and Art
Routledge Research in Gender and Art is a new series in art history and visual studies, focusing on gender, sexuality, and feminism. Proposals for monographs and edited collections on this topic are welcomed.
Transnational
Perspectives on Feminism and Art, 1960-1985
Edited by Jen Kennedy, Trista E. Mallory and Angelique Szymanek
French Women Orientalist Artists, 1861–1956
Cross-Cultural Contacts and Depictions of Difference
MaryKelly
Iconic Works of Art by Feminists and Gender Activists
Mistress-Pieces
EditedbyBrendaSchmahmann
On the Nude
Looking Anew at the Naked Body in Art
EditedbyNicholasChareandErsyContogouris
Nell Walden, Der Sturm, and the Collaborative Cultures of Modern Art
JessicaSjöholmSkrubbe
Sexually Explicit Art, Feminist Theory, and Gender in the 1970s
ChristianLiclair
Food, Feminism, and Women’s Art in 1970s Southern California
EmilyElizabethGoodman
Women, Collecting, and Cultures Beyond Europe
EditedbyArleneLeis
For a full list of titles in this series, please visit https://www.routledge.com/Routledge-Research-in-Gender-andArt/book-series/RRGA
Gender and the Woman Artist in Early Modern Iberia
Catherine Hall-van den Elsen
Designed cover image: Soror Joana Baptista, MaryMagdalene
RenouncingWorldlyVanities. Oil on copper 26 × 21 cm, Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, Lisbon.
First published 2024 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge
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ISBN: 9781032283487 (hbk)
ISBN: 9781032312866 (pbk)
ISBN: 9781003308997 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9781003308997
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Figures
1.1 El Greco and workshop (attrib.), TheFamilyofElGreco. c. 1600–1620, oil on canvas, 91 × 171 cm, Madrid, Museo de la Real Academia de San Fernando
2.1 Jean de Loisy, Castrorum acies ordinata. Emblem published in LesPortraictsdesSSVertusdelaViergeContempléespar feue S. A.S. M.IsabelleClereEugenieInfanted’Espagne. Engraving Pin, l’imprimerie de M. J. Vernier, 1635, p. 142. Bibliotheque Municipale de Besançon 65322
3.1 Sofonisba Anguissola, Selfportrait. 1558, oil on canvas, 25.6 × 19.3 cm, Fondazione Galeria Colonna, Rome. Photograph: Nuova Arte Fotografica, Roma
3.2 Sofonisba Anguissola, JuanaofAustriawithayounggirl.1561–1562, oil on canvas, 194 × 108.3 cm, Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston
3.3 Sofonisba Anguissola, Maria Lactans. 1588, oil on canvas, 77 × 63.5 cm, Szépművészeti Museum, Budapest
3.4 María Josefa Sánchez, CrucifiedChrist. 1652, oil on wood, 51 × 33.8 cm, Allen Memorial Art Museum, Ohio. Oberlin Friends of Art Fund 2016.31
3.5 María Josefa Sánchez, CrucifiedChrist. oil on wood, 54 × 34 cm, Gonzalo Eguiguren Gallery, Jaime Eguiguren Art and Antiques, Buenos Aires
3.6 Josefa de Ayala, St Catherine of Alexandria. 1646, engraving, 21.2 × 14.7 cm, Lisbon, Private Collection. Photograph: Wikimedia Commons
3.7 Josefa de Ayala, Reading the Fate of Christ Child. 1667, oil on copper, 23 × 29 cm, Detroit Institute of Art, Detroit. Robert H. Tannahill Foundation Fund, 2020.14
3.8 Josefa de Ayala, SacrificialLamb. oil on canvas, 55.5 × 78.7 cm, Walters Art Museum, Baltimore. Acquired by Henry Walters with the Masarenti Collection, 1902
3.9 Josefa de Ayala. StillLifewithsweetsandFlowers. oil on canvas, 85 × 160.5 cm, Casa-Museu Anselmo Braamcamp Freire collection, Santarem
4.1 Ana Heylan, St. Thomas Aquinas. Engraved frontispiece: Apologiasobre laautoridaddelosSantosPadresy Doctores dela Iglesia.Paris: Francisco Huby, 1627. Repositorio Institucional de la Universidad de Granada Ana Heylan (1615–1655)
4.2 Francisco Heylan, Engraved title page: Francisco Mosquera de Barnuevo LaNumantina. Sevilla: Luys Estupiñan, 1612. Biblioteca Digital de Castilla y León
4.3 Ana Heylan, Engraved title page: Francisco Bermúdez de Pedraza, Historiaeclesiástica,principios,yprogressosdelaciudad y religión católica de Granada. Granada: Andrés de Santiago, 1638. Repositorio Institucional de la Universidad de Granada
4.4 Ana Heylan, StBruno. Engraved frontispiece: Don Pedro de Solis y Valenzuela, La fenix cartuxana: vida delgloriosisimopatriarcha sanBruno, fundadordelaSagradaReligiondelaCartuxa. Madrid: Diego Díaz de la Carrera, 1647. Fondo Antiguo de la Universidad de Granada
4.5 Ana Heylan, Engraved title page: Fernando de Vergara Cabeças Defensa en Derecho por la Inmaculada concepcion de la Virgen Santísima María Madre de Dios y Señora Nuestra. Granada: Francisco Sánchez [en la Imprenta Real], 1654. Biblioteca de la Universidad de Sevilla
4.6 María Eugenia de Beer, Engraved frontispiece: CuadernodeAves paraelPríncipe. c. 1638–1640. Banco de España, Madrid
4.7 María Eugenia de Beer, Fusetello, engraving in CuadernodeAves paraelPríncipe.c. 1638–1640. Banco de España, Madrid
4.8 María Eugenia de Beer, Engraved portrait of Prince Balthasar Carlos. frontispiece in Gregorio de Tapia y Salcedo, Exercicios de
la Gineta, Madrid: Diego Díaz, 1643. Real Biblioteca, Madrid RV VII/2133
4.9 María Eugenia de Beer, Monteriadejabalíesconlanza, engraving in Gregorio de Tapia y Salcedo, Exercicios de la Gineta. Madrid: Diego Díaz, 1643, p. 100. Real Biblioteca, Madrid, RV VII/2133
4.10 Pedro Perete, Monteríadejabalíesconlanza, engraving in Juan Mateos Origenydignidaddelacaza. Madrid: Francisco Martínez, 1634, p. 47. Fundación Ignacio Larramendi, Madrid
4.11 María Eugenia de Beer, Alonso Rodríguez. 1652, engraved frontispiece in Francisco Colin, Vida hechos y doctrina del Venerable Hermano Alonso Rodríguez. Madrid: Domingo García, 1652. Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid
4.12 After Antonius III Wierix, Alphonse Rodríguez. c. 1617–1624, engraving. Philadelphia Museum of Art: The Muriel and Philip Berman Gift, acquired from the John S. Philips bequest of 1876 to the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, with funds contributed by Muriel and Philip Berman, gifts (by exchange) of Lisa Norris Elkins, Bryant W. Langston, Samuel S. White 3rd and Vera White, with additional funds contributed by John Howard McFadden, Jr., Thomas Skelton Harrison, and the Philip H. and A.S.W. Rosenbach Foundation, 1985, 1985-52-40639
4.13 Mariana de la Cueva, StFrancisdePaula. 1672, oil on canvas, 125 × 102 cm, Hermandad de la Caridad y Refugio, Granada. Photograph: Manuel García Luque
4.14 Jusepe de Ribera, St Francis de Paula. c. 1636, oil on canvas, 72.5 × 58.5 cm, the State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg. Photograph: Leonard Kheits, Svetlana Suetova
4.15 Mariana de la Cueva, SaintFrancisofAssisiinPrayer. 1672, oil on canvas, 125 × 102 cm, Hermandad de la Caridad y Refugio, Granada. Photograph: Manuel García Luque
4.16 Alonso Cano (attrib), SaintFrancisofAssisiinPrayer. c. 1644–1645, oil on canvas, 81 × 62.5 cm, Galería Caylus, Madrid. Photograph: Galería Caylus, Madrid
4.17 Mariana de la Cueva, Lamentationover theDeadChrist.1672, oil on Canvas, 150 × 320 cm, Hermandad de la Caridad y Refugio, Granada. Photograph: Manuel García Luque
4.18 María Josefa Roldán and Matías Brunenque, Virgen de las Nieves. 1697–1699, polychromed wood. c. 150 cm, Colegiata de Olivares (Seville). Photograph: Esteban Luis Torres Morales
4.19 María Josefa Roldán and Matías Brunenque, Santo Domingo. 1697–1699, polychromed wood, c. 150 cm, Colegiata de Olivares (Seville). Photograph: Esteban Luis Torres Morales
4.20 María Josefa Roldán and Matías Brunenque, San Nicolás de Bari. 1697–1699, polychromed wood, c. 150 cm, Colegiata de Olivares (Seville). Photograph: Esteban Luis Torres Morales
4.21 Luis Antonio de los Arcos and Luisa Roldán, TheThreeNeedsof Mary. 1677, polychromed wood figures, Hermandad de la Carretería, Seville. Photograph: 123RF Ciero Reina
4.22 José Duque Cornejo (sculptor) and Francisca Roldán (polychromer), Virgin of Sorrows. 1696, polychromed wood head and hands, c. 150 cm, Hermandad de Nuestro Padre Jesus Nazareno, Carmona. Photograph: Rafael Morales
4.23 Luisa Roldán, Virgin and Child. c. 1680–1688, polychromed wood, 56.5 × 24.4 cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C. Peita Milmore Memorial Fund, Patron’s Permanent Fund and Buffy Cafritz Family Sculpture Fund, 2022.391
4.24 Luisa Roldán, Virgen de la Soledad(Virgin of Solitude). 1688, polychromed wood head and hands, c. 150 cm, Brotherhood of la Virgen de Soledad, Puerto Real. Photograph: Rafael García Ramírez
4.25 Luisa Roldán (sculpture) and Tomás de los Arcos (polychromy), St Michael. 1692, polychromed wood, 230 cm, Galería de las Colecciones Reales, Madrid. Photograph: Patrimonio Nacional 10034690
4.26 Luisa Roldán, The Education of the Virgin. 1691–1706, polychromed terracotta, 43 × 45 × 36 cm, Blanton Museum of Art, the University of Texas at Austin, Suida-Manning Collection 2017.1346
4.27 Luisa Roldán, Virgin and Child. 1691–1706, polychromed terracotta, 38 × 23 × 20 cm, National Museum of Sculpture, Valladolid. Photograph: Javier Muñoz and Paz Pastor
4.28 Pedro Roldán (sculptor), Luisa Rafaela Valdés (polychromer), San Fernando. 1671, polychromed wood, 173 cm, Cathedral, Seville. Photograph: Pedro Feria
4.29 Luisa Valdés (Morales), FourEmblemsportrayingvirtuesofKing Ferdinand. 1671, etching. Allen Memorial Art Museum, Oberlin, Ohio. Gift of James A Bergquist, Boston, in memory of Wolfgang Stechow. 2015.34.1
4.30 Luisa Valdés (Morales), Six Hieroglyphics portraying personal attributesofKingFerdinand.1672, etching. Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid
4.31 Luisa Valdés, StJosephholdingtheChristChildandStFrancis of Assisi. 1676, pen, brush and ink on pergamine. Private Collection. Photograph. Ader Maison de Ventes, Paris
4.32 Lucas Valdés, Coat ofArms ofMarques dela Villade Paradas. 1676, pen, brush and ink on pergamine. Private Collection. Photograph. Ader Maison de Ventes, Paris
5.1 Sor Francisca de San José (Doña Francisca Ortiz de Sotomayor), Sor Mariana de San José. c. 1608, oil on canvas, 102.5 × 83cm, Real Monasterio de la Encarnación, Madrid. Photograph: David Blázquez. Patrimonio Nacional, 00622319
5.2 Sor Cecilia de Nacimiento (attributed), ChristasManofSorrows. after 1587, oil on canvas, 96 × 142 cm, Convento de la Concepción del Carmen, Valladolid. Photograph: Convent of La Concepción del Carmen, Valladolid
5.3 Estefanía de la Encarnación, WomanoftheApocalypse.c. 1615–1618, oil on canvas, Convento of Iesu Communio, Lerma. Photograph: Tanya Tiffany, courtesy Iesu Comunio convent, Lerma
5.4 Soror Joana Baptista, Mary Magdalene Renouncing Worldly Vanities. 26 × 21 cm, oil on copper, Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, Lisbon. Photograph: José Pessoa
5.5 Pieter de Jode I after Sebastian Vrancx, Mary Magdalene Renouncing Worldly Vanities. engraving, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
5.6 Soror Joana Baptista, Oratory: Holy Family with St John the Baptist and two attendantangels, oil on wood and copper, 65 ×
48 cm (extended), Frei Manuel do Cenáculo National Museum, Évora. Photograph: Luisa Oliveira and José Paulo Ruas
5.7 Soror Josefa María dos Anjos, PenitentMaryMagdalene. c. 1645, oil on wood panel, 43.5 × 34 cm, Museu Regional de Lamego
5.8 Soror Josefa María dos Anjos, Virgin and Child. c. 1645, oil on wood panel, 43.8 × 32.5 cm, Museu Regional de Lamego
5.9 Soror Andrea de la Encarnación, Virgen Dolorosa. 1675, polychromed wood, 17 cm, Hispanic Society of America, New York. Photograph: Patrick Lenaghan
5.10 Soror Andrea de la Encarnación, Ecce Homo. 1675, polychromed wood, 17 cm, Hispanic Society of America, New York. Photograph: Patrick Lenaghan
Foreword
Since 1903, when José Parada y Santín published his compendium Laspintoras españolas, studies have identified several Spanish and Portuguese women who were acknowledged as practicing artists during their lives. Over time we are discovering more about the contributions of other women of the period, including the “exceptional” Josefa de Ayala and Luisa Roldán, others, lesserknown, and those who have been virtually airbrushed from history books.
This volume was conceived to bring to light what we know about the lives of women artists who practiced in Spain and Portugal between the years 1550 and 1706, and to explore the extent to which gender and social status affected their practice. Finding different kinds and amounts of information about each woman led to the decision to use a micro-historical approach for each of the sixteen case studies, facilitating an individual focus. The distinct circumstances of each case, when reviewed with the others, paint a series of intriguing portraits of the lived experience of early modern women artists across the Iberian Peninsula. The partially told stories of the women herein will, I hope, prove to be a modest contribution upon which further research will build.
I extend heartfelt thanks to my family and friends for their unwavering support, and to fellow scholars for their encouragement. I dedicate this volume to Lucia and Isabel Valderrama.
1 Introduction Early Modern Iberia: Gender and the Woman Artist
DOI: 10.4324/9781003308997-1
The women seen gathered in the painting now known as TheFamilyofEl Greco (Figure 1.1) may not have been members of the artist’s family. Indeed, this seemingly candid glimpse of domestic life may not be by the famed El Greco, or even by his artist son.1 But they do represent a rare image of a small group of women from the early seventeenth century, seated in a gendered sitting room commonly found in Spanish houses of the comfortable classes. Overseen by the rather unsettling presence of a cat (which may signify that the painting was intended to be understood as an allegory of the three fates), the women are members of a domestic community who spin, embroider, and look after a child.2 These activities were, in the early modern period, considered to be appropriate for their sex. As we shall see in the following pages, the disparity between the endorsed activities portrayed in this painting and the lived experience of many women of the period was significant, although rarely acknowledged in the literature of the time. This volume examines the lives and artistic production of sixteen women in Spain and Portugal between 1550 and 1706, to study how they engaged in art practice and to explore the social constructs of cultural production in early modern Iberia through the lenses of gender and vocation.
Figure1.1El Greco and workshop (attrib.) TheFamilyofEl Greco. c. 1600–1620, oil on canvas, 91 × 171 cm, Museo de la Real Academia de San Fernando, Madrid.
When Sofonisba Anguissola (1535–1625) was discovered to have breached the physical barriers constructed to prevent contact between the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting and men, she was thirty-six years old, living in Spain’s Royal Palace as a lady-in-waiting of the deceased Queen Isabel de Valois. The palace’s response to Sofonisba’s defiance was to confine her to her room. As a capable woman in her fourth decade, she must have felt increasingly impatient about the restrictions placed upon her, and her inability to progress her career through her work as a portraitist at court. Her status as a member of Cremona’s minor nobility and her artistic ability provided her access to the Spanish court but that same status may have prevented her from obtaining a paid position as a court painter. Although her talent was widely acknowledged, the queen’s death changed Sofonisba’s circumstances, ultimately leading to her marriage and move to Sicily.3
In the early years of the seventeenth century, María de Córdoba y Fuentes (1610−1653) joined the Mercedarian convent in Seville as the servant of an older nun. Her artistic abilities were soon recognised but the actual or imagined jealousies of her companions prevented her from practising as a sculptor within her religious community. The autobiography
that she dictated to her confessor recounts physical assaults and the destruction of her work inside the convent.4
In 1637, the twenty-two-year-old engraver Ana Heylan (1615−1655) was in a difficult position. Her mother had died twelve years earlier, and her father in 1635. Ana had limited funds, four children of her own at home as well as the additional responsibility of the guardianship of her two sisters Elena and María, both of whom were minors. On hearing that her youngest sister had left the family home, Ana walked to the Augustinian beaterioin Granada’s suburb of Albaicín and pounded on the door. She issued threats and demanded the return of Elena’s clothes, but all to no avail, Elena wouldn’t budge. Ana’s other sister María had fled there previously without telling her family, and Ana had persuaded her to return home, but her pleas did not have the same result with Elena. Ana’s husband, Juan de Mayor, made vigorous but equally unsuccessful efforts to extricate Elena. Despite Ana’s ongoing efforts to dissuade her, María eventually returned to join Elena in the beaterio, and neither sister returned home, remaining in a convent for the rest of their lives.5
An astute businesswoman who accumulated considerable personal wealth, the life journey of the painter Josefa de Ayala (1630−1684) was by many measures a successful one. Identified as an “emancipated woman”, by herself and by her parents, and answerable to no one besides her noble and institutional clients, this unmarried woman appears to have encountered few obstacles as she developed her independent art practice in the small Portuguese town of Óbidos.6
The life experiences of these four women exemplify the disparate realities faced by women artists from across a range of locations, social strata, family relationships, and practices that have been identified throughout early modern Iberia. As members of artistic, religious, and social communities, they achieved recognition for their abilities as cultural producers. None were prohibited from working because they were female, although for most, their other roles precluded full-time art practice. They received and fulfilled commissions, and some produced exceptional work. Some achieved early success as artists, while others struggled to balance their art practice with the needs of their family and community.
Women men and gender
General histories of early modern Iberian life describe a universalised male experience: men conquered populations, established and governed nations, sailed ships across far-flung oceans, engaged in battles, produced food, and bought and sold merchandise.7 Apart from the occasional queen or vicereine who were singled out for their apparently masculine attributes, until the later years of the twentieth century, sparse attention was paid to how the other half of the population fitted into the early modern picture(s).8
Historians may once have found that the biological differentiation between women and men was, at first glance, a relatively uncomplicated frame of reference. The roles of both sexes were socially constructed to conform to established laws and customs, and it is easy (perhaps too easy!) to assume that the study of those laws and customs will reveal normative ideas and structures that defined their activities. During the early modern period, much printer’s ink was used in moralising tracts, essays, and plays that defined appropriate behaviour for women and men, usually praising acts of piety and modesty, and criticising vanity and worldly concerns. Although the recommendations contained in those treatises may not have been heeded by all their contemporary readers, they have been a convenient starting point for new scholars who are keen to understand the place of women in early modern society. But they are not enough. To rely on the assumption of a universalised female experience, mostly described in formulaic essays written by men, is to ignore a rich vein of history. As Marnie Hughes-Warrington observed, gender “provides us with a lens with which to identify and consider historical assumptions that marginalise, subordinate or render invisible the experiences of individuals or groups”.9 An investigation into the life of a single woman from the working classes needs to extend far beyond Juan Luis Vives’s much-scrutinised advice to a young princess about how she should live, or Luis de León’s opinions about whether the voice of a married woman should ever be heard in public, or Juan de la Cerda’s views on whether a nun should ever trespass beyond the walls of her convent home.10 In a useful contribution to the debate surrounding the concept of women’s agency, Howell cites Karl Marx: “all historical actors may make their own history, but they do not make it as they please, they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, they make it under circumstances that exist already, given and transmitted from the past”.11
Since the 1970s, feminist writers and art historians have reminded the western world about the existence of overlooked women artists, much of whose output slumbered in virtual oblivion among male-dominated narratives.12 Scholars have recovered the identities of some forgotten women who lived in the early modern period, and the resulting monographs and exhibition catalogues have led to the inclusion of a small but growing number of women artists into the art historical canon, notably in Italy and northern Europe.13 Names like “Artemisia” and “Sofonisba” are now recognised beyond the realms of the cognoscenti, and a broader knowledge of lesser-known women artists is growing. Gaps in our knowledge remain, which are gradually being addressed through archival research and in publications.
Contemporaneous accounts of early modern women are rarely found in compendia of “artists of renown” among the proliferation of men who achieved canonical status. Even when women were included, in keeping with historiographical tradition, they tended to first be defined by their family relationships and social attributes before a little attention was paid to their artistic production, which was frequently treated as either miraculous or a curiosity.14 Iberia boasts few historical texts with references to women artists, the most well-known being Antonio Vidas (1724) which primarily focusses on Spanish artists, and in Portugal (a century later) Volkmar Machado’s posthumous Collecção De Memorias Relativas As Vidas dos Pintores, e Escultores, Architetos, e Gravadores Portuguezes (1823). As the title explains, the Portuguese Froes Perym’s Theatro heroino: Abecedario historico, e catalogo das mulheres illustres em armas, letras, acçoens heroicas e artes liberaes (1736) is entirely dedicated to accomplished women, including brief mentions of a few artists.15
Historiography’s treatment of the personal traits of male artists emphasises their status as exemplary men. For example, Pedro de Mena’s intense displays of religious conviction provide evidence of how his faith informed his practice.16 Valdés Leal’s quick-tempered behaviour in the Sevillian Academy facilitates our appreciation of his approach to painting.17 In her discussion of women orientalist painters, Mary Kelly expressed the view that an artist’s gender does not decide the historical worth(my italics) of their art.18 While judgements relating to a painter’s work may surely be made without taking gender into account, the
discussion in this volume demonstrates the usefulness of gender as a lens through which to interpret art production. The development of an appreciation of how women artists lived their lives, producing art as well as ostensibly conforming to the expectations of their communities, provides the viewer with information that supports our understanding of their practice. In her essay on northern and Italian women painters, Hofrichter noted that the production of many children and the assumption of extraordinary responsibilities are life-changing events for many women. Understanding the significance of these circumstances allows us a deeper appreciation of a woman artist’s practice.19 These details may not alter a judgement about the “historical worth” of an art object, but they may help us to better decode an artist’s work.
The perspectives that the intersectionality debate of the 1990s brought to gender studies present reflection points relating to the subjects of this volume, women whose lives encompass a shared religion but different levels of social and economic status and identity. Each category of experience determined how lives were lived and free will was enacted in early modern Iberia.20 Valerie Traub noted the interconnectedness of these categories: “in ways that are sometimes congruent, sometimes contradictory, but always manifesting a more capacious and complex reality than ‘gender’ alone can encompass”.21 Indeed, while the selfeffacing texts of Sor María de la Santísima Trinidad reflect her acceptance of the misogyny often found in contemporary treatises, those of Sor Estefanía de la Encarnación betray an impatience with the demands of her patron the Duque de Lerma, while the letters of Sor Cecilia del Nacimiento reveal a graciousness reflective of her contentment with her privileged status.22
In his discussion of nineteenth-century Barcelona, Juanjo Romero Marín observed that fleeting references or documentary fragments provide a sense of how artisan women found their place within an established social structure, evocatively describing the “collage of diverse pieces of which only a few create the shape that defines it, the rest are nothing more than colors, textures, backgrounds and sometimes noise”.23 All the elements of that collage constitute useful resources for the historian, enhancing our appreciation of the circumstances that shaped, or at least profoundly affected our subjects. Granada’s focus on affirming catholic orthodoxy provides a likely rationale for the engraver Francisco
Heylan’s move to that city. His daughter Ana Heylan’s mistrust of unregulated religious institutions in the aftermath of the Council of Trent’s reforms would have informed her concern about the fate of her sisters in a beaterio that operated independently of male control.24 Madrid’s pressing need for an heir to the Spanish throne provides the context for María Eugenia’s book of birds, and the concern within the court with contemporary masculinity signals the rationale for her contributions to Tapia y Salcedo’s book on horsemanship. Seville’s orthodox religious environment provides an important context against which to interpret the impact of Sor María de la Santísima Trinidad’s diary, as well as the marriages of Luisa, Francisca, and María Roldán and the apparent rejection of Luisa Valdés’ petition for the annulment of her marriage. With only a name, a document, or a single signed work to hand, merging even fragmentary references with environmental contexts can provide keys that facilitate further biographical exploration. Amy Livingstone encouraged historians to adopt this approach: “by placing ourselves in the neighbourhoods, shrines, domestic spaces and even the larger environment, we can discover much and formulate questions that may take us in different, profitable directions”.
25
The politically imposed lines drawn on today’s map of the Iberian Peninsula mark out territories under the control of the Portuguese and Spanish political systems, with clearly defined autonomous regions. But for much of the early modern period, the Iberian world was a composite space of mutual influences and entangled relationships.26 The sixteen women whose micro-histories are told in this volume lived in one or more of eight cities or towns, each with its own historical and cultural framework: Estremoz, Évora, Granada, Madrid, Málaga, Óbidos, Seville, and Valladolid.
This volume is structured around three life-paths that, since early modern times, have been prescribed by state and church authorities, established in social and theological commentary, and used to categorise women’s roles.27 The frames of married woman, nun, and unmarried woman offer an opportunity to examine the patterns that can be discerned from known fragments of lives experienced within each frame.28 Two of the paths: marriage and religious life were effectively one-way streets, out of which there was little chance of reversing. Marriage saw the transfer of stewardship of a woman’s life from a father
to a husband. As “brides of Christ”, nuns were in effect contracting another form of marriage in which they agreed to submit to a religious order’s rules and behavioural expectations. The third path, the unmarried state of virgoviripotenswas generally viewed as a liminal phase between girlhood and one of the previously mentioned paths, although unmarried women of mature years who did not enter convent life constituted a small percentage of the population.29
The text spans class boundaries in its study of women painters, engravers, and sculptors whose work was recognised during their lifetimes. Although the concept of a professional career was an unfamiliar one for most of the women discussed, their inclusion was determined by their identity as an artist whose practice was more than that of the amateur artist or hobbyist. The financial arrangements for most remain to be established. Only a few undertook commissions in exchange for payment of some kind, which may have contributed to a family’s economic survival. The word “career” occasionally appears in the text, although the theoretical opportunities that our subjects’ artistic skill might have invited were shaped, and usually limited, by their status and roles.
The accumulation of evidence gleaned from the histories of nuns, married, and unmarried women over more than a century provides the basis for the examination of gender-related social structures of early modern Spain and Portugal. This approach examines social and cultural contexts, female agency, and the impact of a pre-determined life-path on women’s cultural production, offering a panoramic perspective on women’s creative output during the early modern period in Iberia.30
Chapter 2 examines the status, roles, and responsibilities of women and men as they were described in early modern Iberian laws, literature, popular theatre, and commentaries. This single chapter does not attempt to define the plethora of contemporaneous perspectives expressed about subjects as broad as these, and whose authors express such divergent opinions. Instead, selected quotations illustrate the diversity of views, and end notes direct the reader to further information. This chapter provides evidence that the prescriptions of appropriate behaviour commonly cited by male clergy, writers and philosophers, were not always followed in the lived experience of working women and men.
Chapter 3 is the first of three chapters concerned with the microhistories of women artists, tracing the social contexts and careers of three women who are known to have produced accomplished work while
unmarried. Sofonisba Anguissola (1530–1625) was a Cremonese-born member of minor nobility, a lady-in-waiting at the court of Isabel de Valois, who painted many unsigned portraits during the fourteen years that she lived in Spain and who continued to paint after she married in her fifth decade and left Spain. The lived reality of a talented, independent woman who built and maintained a productive working life outside society’s traditional structure, is exemplified in the story of the “emancipated” Josefa de Ayala (1630–1684), a woman painter who lived most of her adult life in the small town of Óbidos, Portugal. In the absence of confirmed biographical information, works by the undocumented, possibly unmarried, María Josefa Sánchez (active 1630s–1640s) are also included in this chapter.
Chapter 4 describes the lives of seven women artists who are known to have practiced before and after their marriages. The studies are based on the fragments of information that we have, including marriage contracts, references in wills, parish census documents, and contemporary accounts. Arranged chronologically, the chapter provides a glimpse into the creative lives of married women after leaving the state of virgo viripotens: Ana Heylan (Granada, 1615–1655), María Eugenia de Beer (Madrid, c. 1621–1652), Mariana de la Cueva (Guadix, 1623–1688), María Josefa Roldán (Seville, 1654–1716), Francisca Roldán (Seville, 1650–1712), Luisa Roldán (Seville, 1652–1706), and Luisa de Valdés, also known as Luisa de Morales (Seville (1654–after 1698). The scope is by no means exhaustive, as it excludes women whose names can be found in history books but about whose lives almost nothing is currently known.
Chapter 5 examines the available information relating to six women who lived in convents in early modern Spain and Portugal whose names are associated with artworks.31 To trace the path of a creative woman who has entered a convent requires locating and interpreting the oftensparse information about her life. This chapter describes the experiences of nuns who lived in different cities, whose families came from different social classes and who began their religious lives in different religious orders after the Council of Trent’s decree on religious life was published in 1563, when convent life was subject to new controls, enforced with varying degrees of rigour. By learning about the environments in which these women worked, we can begin to understand a little of their lives and the place that their work occupies in the history of the period: Josefa da Nunes Varela (active c. 1550), (Soror Josefa María dos Anjos,
Dominican Convento de Santa Catarina de Sena, Évora); María de Córdoba y Fuentes (15?–1631), (Sor María de la Santísima Trinidad, Mercedarian Casa Grande de Santa María de la Merced, Seville); Estefanía Gaurre de la Canal (c. 1597–1665) (Sor Estefanía de la Encarnación, Franciscan Poor Clare Convento de la Ascensión de Nuestro Señor Jesucristo, Lerma); Jerónima de Meneses (active first half of seventeenth century), (Soror Joana Baptista, Order of St John, Mosteiro de São João da Penitencia, Estremoz); and Andrea de Mena, (c. 1654–1734) (Soror Andrea María de la Encarnación, Cistercian Convento de Santa Ana, Málaga).
Elizabeth Honig observed that each individual woman artist, in any given time, negotiates her own place as a maker within the intricate system of possibilities and constraints that her environment offers.32 The primary goal of this text is to examine the life circumstances and the art practice of a selection of women artists who lived in Spain and Portugal in the early modern period, to develop an understanding of the negotiations, the intricacies, the possibilities, and the constraints they confronted (Table 1.1). Very few women artists are mentioned in foundational texts relating to art of the period, and their absence from broader discussion has, over time, resulted in their virtual elimination from historiographical consideration. To rectify this deficiency, this author hopes that the study of their diverse social contexts, the few contemporary accounts that remain, and examples of their work will contribute to their reinstatement into conversations about the art of the period. The limited primary material relating to many of the subjects recalls the observation made in 1590 by Francisco de Ribera about the nature of biography that “[this] writing is nothing more than a painting ... going from the truth to the told is like going from the living to the painted”.33
Jerónima Meneses (Soror Joana Baptista), Active first half of the seventeenth century; Estremoz
Protagonists
María de Córdoba y Fuentes (Sor María de la Santísima Trinidad), d.1631; Seville
Cecilia Sobrino de Morillas (Sor Cecilia del Nacimiento), 1570–1646; Valladolid
Estefanía Guarre de la Canal (Sor Estefanía de la Encarnación), c. 1597–1665, Madrid, Lerma
Ana Heylan, 1615–1655; Granada
María Josefa Sánchez, Active 1640–1650; Aranda del Duero?
María Eugenia de Beer, c. 1621–c.1652; Madrid
Mariana de la Cueva, 1623–1688; Granada
Josefa de Ayala (Josefa d’Óbidos), 1630–1684; Óbidos
Josefa Lourenço da Nunes Varela (Soror Josefa María dos Anjos), 1631–1677; Évora
Francisca Roldán, 1650–1712; Seville
Luisa Roldán, 1652–1706; Seville, Madrid
María Josefa Roldán, 1654–1716; Seville
Andrea de Mena (Soror Andrea María de la Encarnación), 1654–1734; Málaga, Granada
Luisa de Valdés (Luisa de Morales), 1654–after 1699; Seville
This volume offers no archetype, nor a formula that, when followed, ensured a woman artist’s career success and/or survival. While all the subjects share the experience of being a woman and an artist, each had a significantly different personal trajectory, assumed different roles and responsibilities, and participated in different social groups, with few factors in common besides their gender and their creative drive.
The recounting of their stories responds to the suggestions of Joan Wallach Scott and Merry Weisner-Hanks that we should do more than just
“stir women into history”, but to examine the circumstances surrounding their creative practice.34
Notes
1. The authorship of this painting and the subject matter (including the cat!) remains a matter of ongoing discussion. See Leticia Ruiz Gómez, ElGreco:ArteyOficio, pp. 87–88, catalogue 82.
2. See Fernando Marías, ElGreco:LifeandWork, pp. 240–241.
3. See Michael Cole, Sofonisba’s Lessonfor a comprehensive discussion of her life and work.
4. The sparse information available about María de Córdoba y Fuentes is included in Mindy Nancarrow Taggard, “Art and Alienation”.
5. See Ana María Pérez Galdeano, “Ana Heylan: la primera burilista”.
6. A monograph in English by Carmen Ripollés is forthcoming, Lund Humphries, 2024.
7. Fernando Bouza, Pedro Cardim, and Antonio Feros (eds), TheIberian World,1450–1820is a useful general history of the period.
8. Recent exceptions include Allyson Poska Women and Authority in EarlyModernSpainand Darlene Abreu-Ferreira, “From Mere Survival to Near Success”.
9. Marnie Hughes-Warrington, History’sOthers, p. 141.
10. On advice to a young princess: Juan Luis Vives, De Institutione FeminaeChristianae. On the benefits of married women’s silence Fray Luis de León, Laperfectacasada, and Juan de la Cerda Vidapolítica detodoslosestadosdemujeres, on nuns’ enclosure.
11. Martha Howell, “The Problem of Women’s Agency”, p. 22.
12. For an enlightening discussion of how historians have approached female historical figures, see Christine Adams, “Mistresses and Merveilleuses”. See also the introductory chapter to Julia K. Dabbs, LifeStories, pp. 1–19. In October 2022, several case studies of littleknown women involved in the creative arts were canvassed in a conference organised by Manuel Pérez Sánchez at the University of Murcia entitled “Nunca fuimos invisibles, solamente se olvidaron de nosotras” (“We were never invisible, you just forgot about us”).
13. For an introductory discussion of professional women artists in early modern Spain see Ana Aranda Bernal, “Ser mujer y artista”. Luis de Moura Soubral examined the life of an influential and much-praised
Portuguese-born noble woman painter in “María Guadalupe de Lencastre, (1630–1715)”. The activities of Netherlandish women artists are studied in E. Sutton (ed), Women Artists and Patrons. Elizabeth A. Honig compares attitudes to northern noble and professional women artists including María Sibylla Merian (1647–1717) Adriana Spilberg (1656–after 1703) and Judith Leyster (1610–1660) in TheArtofBeingArtistic, pp. 31–40. The renewed focus on women artists is evident in the increasing number of exhibitions of their work, like that organised by the Baltimore Museum of Art and the Art Gallery of Ontario 2023–2024: Making her mark: A History of Women Artists in Europe 1400–1800.
14. For a comprehensive discussion of women in compendia of artists see Salomon, ‘The Art Historical Canon’; Dabbs, Life Stories, pp. 11–14; Giorgio Vasari Vite; Acisclo Antonio Palomino de Castro y Velasco, El Museohistóricoy escalaópticavol III ElParnasoespañolpintoresco laureado, Con las Vidas de los Pintores y Estatuarios Eminentes Españoles; Damião de Froes Perym, Theatroheroino. For a discussion of the gendered language used by Italian biographers, see Fredrika Jacobs, 1997, pp. 55–60.
15. María Cruz de Carlos Varona, 2019 discusses the women referenced in Palomino’s text.
16. Palomino (Mallory translation), p. 316: “He never received a pupil into his house without first inquiring into his birth and pure Christian blood” See also Lázaro Gila Medina, PedrodeMena.
17. See Peter Cherry “A Note on the Singularity of Valdés Leal”.
18. Mary Kelly, FrenchWomenOrientalistArtists,1861–1956, p. 2.
19. Frima Fox Hofrichter, An Intimate Look at Baroque Women Artists, pp. 138–158.
20. This point effectively made by Kimberlé Crenshaw, “Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex”. Many essays have followed Crenshaw’s early work. Among the most important recent contributions relating to early modern Spain is Allyson M. Poska’s study of normative behaviours in relation to gender in “The Case for Agentic Gender Norms for Women in Early Modern Europe”.
21. See Valerie Traub’s essay “History in the Present Tense” in Merry E. Weisner Hanks (ed), MappingGenderedRoutesandSpaces, pp. 15–54. Also Joan Wallach Scott, GenderandthePoliticsofHistory.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 115, Vol. III, March 13, 1886
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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 115, Vol. III, March 13, 1886
Author: Various
Release date: May 14, 2022 [eBook #68073]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: William and Robert Chambers, 1853
Credits: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 115, VOL. III, MARCH 13, 1886 ***
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
CONTENTS
THE MONARCH OF AFRICAN MOUNTAINS. IN ALL SHADES. DUST AND HOUSE REFUSE: SHOWING WHAT BECOMES OF IT. THE HAUNTED JUNGLE. A NIGHT-RAID ON DONEGAL SMUGGLERS. SOME FAROE LEGENDS. THE OLD VIKING.
N . 115.—V . III. P 1½d. SATURDAY, MARCH 13, 1886.
THE MONARCH OF AFRICAN MOUNTAINS.
T those who associate the name of the great African continent only with visions of the steaming mangrove swamps of the west coast, the luxuriant flower-carpets and grasses of the south, the trackless sand-wastes of the north, and the undulating thirsty plains of ‘the Bush,’ whose idea of Africa, indeed, may be summed up in three words—sun, savages, and fever—to such, we say, it may be difficult to accept the knowledge that snow-capped mountains exist in the very heart of this dry and heat-engirdled land. But yet, there have been for ages, strange tales of a wonderful mountain-mass in the tropical centre, whose summit was perpetually covered with a mysterious substance which the natives called ‘white salt.’ Now, as perpetual snow under the equator was known only in Central America—nowhere else do mountains in the tropics reach the snowline—there did exist for ages incredulity as to the existence of this alleged African Mont Blanc or Chimborazo. The legend referring to it must have been known to the early Portuguese travellers at least three centuries ago, for the Portuguese were at Mombasa in the sixteenth century, and as Mombasa is within one hundred and eighty miles of the mountain, and is the coast-limit of the trade-route between it and the sea, they must have heard the stories of the native and Arab traders. Others believed this Kilima-Njaro[1] to be merely the legendary ‘Mountains of the Moon.’
The earliest authentic record of ‘discovery’ by a European is that of Rebmann, a German missionary, who, on the 11th of May 1848, first sighted the wonderful snowy dome. Baron Von der Decken, another German, actually reached Kilima-Njaro in 1861, and stayed on its slopes for some three months. On a second visit, Von der Decken ascended to a height of ten thousand five hundred feet, although he did not reach the snow. He was followed, in 1871, by an English
missionary, the Rev Charles New, who made two journeys to Chaga —the native name for the inhabited belt between three and seven thousand feet above the sea, stretching round the mountain—and on the second occasion was robbed and ill-used by Mandara, a native chief. Mr Joseph Thomson, after making the journey Through Masailand, of which he has published so interesting an account, arrived at Kilima-Njaro in 1883. He journeyed nearly all round the base of the mountain, but did not ascend more than nine thousand feet. He also was robbed by Mandara.
It was reserved for Mr H. H. Johnston, F.R.G.S., to penetrate the mysteries of the ‘Monarch of African Mountains,’ and to record his experiences in a most interesting book, The Kilima-Njaro Expedition (London: Kegan Paul). Mr Johnston’s experiences on the Congo qualified him for African exploration; while his services to science in other parts of the world, pointed him out as well equipped for the search into and observation of the natural history of the locality, selected for exploration by a joint-committee of the British Association and the Royal Society. To solve the many interesting problems surrounding the fauna and flora of this African alpine region, was the task delegated to Mr Johnston. He left London in March 1884, and in due course arrived at Zanzibar, where he was assisted by Sir John Kirk in getting together a band of porters, servants, and guides. After some delay at Mombasa, caused by a sharp attack of fever, Mr Johnston plunged into the wilderness at the head of his long band of porters, carrying loads of domestic necessaries, provisions, water, and ‘trade’ goods. The long tramp inland was a weary one, for it was through a hot and thirsty land, which sorely tried the endurance of the party.
The first glimpse of Kilima-Njaro was obtained long before the party reached its base. And here it may be proper to explain that this name is given to the whole mountain-mass, which consists of two huge peaks and a number of smaller ones, just below the third parallel south of the equator. The highest of the peaks is called Kibô, is eighteen thousand eight hundred and eighty feet above the level of the sea, and is always covered with snow on the top, and occasionally down to the altitude of fourteen thousand feet. This is,
so far as is at present known, the highest mountain in Africa. The twin-peak, Kimawenzi, is sixteen thousand two hundred and fifty feet high, and although above the snow-line, is not continuously snowclad. The whole mass is of volcanic origin, and the two peaks are the craters of extinct volcanoes.
Approached from the south-east, the mountain has the appearance of lonely isolation, and presents a truly remarkable spectacle, with its peaks towering to the clouds and its glittering snow-caps. It is worth while giving in Mr Johnston’s words his emotions on first gaining sight of the goal of his desires: ‘With the falling temperature of the small-hours, a brisk wind arose from the heated plain, and swept the clouds from off the sky, all except the mass which obstinately clung to Kilima-Njaro. Feverish and overtired, I could not sleep, and sat and watched the heavens, waiting for the dawn. A hundred men were snoring around me, and the night was anything but silent, for the hyenas were laughing hideously in the gloom outside our circle of expiring embers. At five o’clock I awoke my servant Virapan, and whilst he was making my morning coffee I dropped into a doze, from which at dawn he roused me and pointed to the horizon, where in the north-west a strange sight was to be seen. “Laputa,” I exclaimed; and as Virapan, though he had read Robinson Crusoe and the Arabian Nights in his native tongue, had never heard of Gulliver’s Travels, I proceeded to enlighten him as to the famous suspended island of Swift’s imagining, and explained my exclamation by pointing to the now visible Kilima-Njaro, which, with its two peaks of Kibô and Kimawenzi, and the parent mass of mountain, rose high above a level line of cloud, and thus completely severed in appearance from the earth beneath, resembled so strangely the magnetic island of Laputa.’
It was not until the thirteenth day after leaving Mombasa, that the party entered the state of Mosi, ruled over by the chief Mandara, already mentioned. This little kingdom is of about the same area as London, and is on the lower slope of the mountain, between three and four thousand feet above the sea. Splendid views are obtained from it over the plains below, and its condition is anything but one of savagery. The agriculture is of a high order, and the people, although
nearly naked, are both intelligent and industrious. The fields are well intersected by artificial water-courses, led from the mountainstreams higher up, and ‘the air is musical with the murmur of trickling rivulets and the tinkling bells of the flocks and herds.’ Wherever the ground is not in cultivation, it is covered with brilliantly coloured wild flowers of numberless known and unknown species; the hum of bees is suggestive of endless stores of honey; and the flow of milk is guaranteed by the innumerable herds of mild-eyed kine cropping the rich pasture.
Finding that the feuds between the Mosi people and the other mountain tribes were a bar to his progress through Mandara’s country, Mr Johnston withdrew, and negotiated treaties of peace and commerce with one of the rival potentates whose territory extended nearer the summit. Before doing this, however, he had to retire to a place called Taveita, through which he had passed on his way to Mandara’s. Of this place he says: ‘From the day of my first arrival up to the time of my final departure, it seemed to me one of the loveliest spots on the earth’s surface.’
Taveita is the sort of trade centre of the district, and is ruled over by a senate of notables, called the ‘Wazēē,’ or elders, who preserve law and order, and arbitrate in disputes between the resident natives and the nomadic traders. Its population is about six thousand.
From Taveita, Mr Johnston negotiated with the chief of Maranū state rather larger than Middlesex, on the south-eastern flank of the mountain. After many preliminaries and much exchanging of presents, he was at length admitted into this kingdom, and had positively to crawl into it through the defensive stockades, which it seems the custom in this country for the separate peoples to erect around their domains. Between the kingdom of Maranū and the summit of Kibô, there lay no opposing tribe, so that, having obtained guides, Mr Johnston was, after a little delay, enabled to continue his journey to the snow.
The route crossed a fine river, and lay at first through a smiling and fertile country, with signs of cultivation and flourishing banana-groves up to an altitude of five thousand five hundred feet. Shortly after that,
cultivation ceased, and a heathy district was reached, with grassy knolls and numerous small streams of running water. The ascent was very gradual, and the first night was spent in camp at six thousand five hundred feet. Leaving this, a dense forest was reached at seven thousand feet; then a district of uplands thickly covered with moss and ferns, studded with short gnarled trees, and teeming with begonias and sweet-scented flowering shrubs, but with few signs of animal life. At nine thousand feet, the region was clear of forests, and merely covered with grass; but higher up, the woodland began again, and water became very abundant. The third camp was formed at ten thousand feet, and here the party encountered a terrific thunderstorm and rainfall. It was succeeded by a fair and serene morning, leaving the two snow-peaks in full view against a cloudless blue sky. At this point Mr Johnston resided nearly a month, actively prosecuting his collecting and observing, and preparing for the final ascent. Then, one day, with three followers only, he started for great Kibô.
For some two thousand feet higher, vegetation is abundant; and even at twelve thousand six hundred feet the party struck a pretty little stream, on the banks of which were patches of level greensward and abundance of gay flowers, while the spoor of buffaloes was also observed. Strange sessile thistles, five feet in circumference, were noticed; and an extraordinary lobelia, between three and four feet in height, with bright-blue blossoms, as also other remarkable plants. Bees and wasps were still to be seen at this high altitude, and bright little sunbirds darting about. But beyond thirteen thousand feet, vegetation was seen only in dwarfed patches, and the ground became covered with boulders, lying in confused masses, with occasional huge slabs of rock, singularly marked like tortoise-shells. At thirteen thousand six hundred feet, the last resident bird was noticed—a species of stonechat—although high-soaring kites and great-billed ravens were seen even higher up. At fourteen thousand one hundred and seventeen feet, the Zanzibari followers were thoroughly done up, and began to show unmistakable signs of fear of the ‘bogey’ of the mountain, so they were left to prepare a sleeping-place for the night, while Mr Johnston continued the ascent alone.
At fifteen thousand one hundred and fifty feet he reached the central connecting ridge of Kilima-Njaro, and could see part of both sides. The ‘Monarch,’ however, was veiled in clouds. What followed cannot better be given than in the adventurer’s own words: ‘At length—and it was so sudden and so fleeting, that I had no time to fully take in the majesty of the snowy dome of Kibô—the clouds parted, and I looked on a blaze of snow so blinding white under the brief flicker of sunlight, that I could see little detail. Since sunrise that morning I had caught no glimpse of Kibô, and now it was suddenly presented to me with unusual and startling nearness.... Knowing now the direction of my goal, I rose from the clammy stones, and clutching my sketchbook with benumbed hands, began once more to ascend westwards. Seeing but a few yards in front of me, choked with mist, I made but slow progress; nevertheless, I continually mounted along a gently sloping, hummocky ridge, where the spaces in between the masses of rock were filled with fine yellowish sand. The slabs of rock were so slippery with the drizzling mist, that I very often nearly lost my footing, and I thought with a shudder what a sprained ankle would mean here.
‘At length, after a rather steeper ascent than usual up the now smoother and sharper ridge, I suddenly encountered snow lying at my very feet, and nearly plunged headlong into a great rift filled with snow, that here seemed to cut across the ridge and interrupt it. The dense mist cleared a little in a partial manner, and I then saw to my left the black rock sloping gently to an awful gulf of snow, so vast and deep that its limits were concealed by fog. Above me a line of snow was just discernible, and altogether the prospect was such a gloomy one, with its all-surrounding curtain of sombre cloud, and its uninhabited wastes of snow and rock, that my heart sank within me at my loneliness.... Turning momentarily northwards, I rounded the rift of snow, and once more dragged myself, now breathless and panting, and with aching limbs, along the slippery ridge of bare rock, which went ever mounting upwards.... The feeling that overcame me when I sat and gasped for breath on the wet and slippery rocks at this great height, was one of overwhelming isolation. I felt as if I should never more regain the force to move, and must remain and die amid this horrid solitude of stones and snow. Then I took some
brandy-and-water from my flask, and a little courage came back to me. I was miserably cold, the driving mist having wetted me to the skin. Yet the temperature recorded here was above the freezingpoint, being thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit.... The mercury rose to 183.8. This observation, when properly computed, and with the correction added for the temperature of the intermediate air, gives a height of sixteen thousand three hundred and fifteen feet as the highest point I attained on Kilima-Njaro.’
When he returned to the camping-place, Mr Johnston found that his three followers had deserted him, being thoroughly terrified, and certain that the white man had perished on the lonely heights. With much difficulty he made his way to the station on the lower ground, where the great body of his attendants had remained; and in due course the whole party arrived safely again at Taveita. From there a new route was taken, by way of Lake Jipé, to the coast at Pangani, where the followers were paid off. An English mission afforded Mr Johnston shelter until he could get a passage on an Arab dau to Zanzibar, where he caught the mail-steamer; and in little more than six weeks after getting his last glimpse of the snow-peaks of KilimaNjaro, from the shores of Lake Jipé, the gallant explorer was in London once more.
Although attaining the highest altitude yet reached by man in Africa, Mr Johnston did not complete the conquest of Kilima-Njaro. But he reached within two thousand feet of the summit; and having shown the way, it will be odd if some of the adventurous spirits among alpine climbers do not essay the task of peering into the hidden depths of the crater of Kibô. Be this as it may, the expedition has resulted in the acquisition of a vast amount of valuable information about the geography, the fauna, and flora of this strange district, where in two days you can ascend from equatorial heat to arctic cold. Even in the plains, the temperature is, for six months in the year, quite bearable, and in some parts delightful. The extreme fertility of the mountain slopes, the abundance of game, the stores of ivory to be obtained from the vast herds of elephants, the rare and beautiful skins—in short, all the known riches of animal and vegetable production, and the supposed existence of mineral
deposits, such as copper and nitrate of soda, point to this district as destined to play an important part in the future of Africa.
IN ALL SHADES.
CHAPTER
XIII.
‘F , father,’ Dr Whitaker whispered in a low voice, ‘let us go aside a little—down into my cabin or somewhere—away from this crowd here. I am so glad, so happy to be back with you again; so delighted to be home once more, dear, dear father. But don’t you see, everybody is looking at us and observing us!’
The old mulatto glanced around him with an oily glance of profound self-satisfaction. Yes, undoubtedly; he was the exact centre of an admiring audience. It was just such a house as he loved to play to. He turned once more to his trembling son, whose sturdy knees were almost giving way feebly beneath him, and redoubled the ardour of his paternal demonstrativeness. ‘My son, my son, my own dear boy!’ he said once more; and then, stepping back two paces and opening his arms effusively, he ran forward quickly with short mincing steps, and pressed the astonished doctor with profound warmth to his swelling bosom. There was an expansiveness and a gushing effusion about the action which made the spectators titter audibly; and the titter cut the poor young mulatto keenly to the heart with a sense of his utter helplessness and ridiculousness in this absurd situation. He wondered to himself when the humiliating scene would ever be finished. But the old man was not satisfied yet. Releasing his son once more from his fat grasp, he placed his two big hands akimbo on his hips, puckered up his eyebrows as if searching for some possible flaw in a horse or in a woman’s figure—he was a noted connoisseur in either—and held his head pushed jauntily forward, staring once more at his son with his small pig’s eyes from top to toe. At last, satisfied apparently with his close scrutiny, and prepared to acknowledge that it was all very good, he seized the young doctor quickly by the shoulders, and kissing him with a loud smack on either cheek, proceeded to slobber him piecemeal all over
the face, exactly like a nine-months’-old baby Dr Whitaker’s cheeks tingled and burned, so that even through that dusky skin, Edward, who stood a little distance off, commiserating him, could see the hot blood rushing to his face by the deepened and darkened colour in the very centre.
Presently, old Bobby seemed to be sufficiently sated with this particular form of theatrical entertainment, and turned round pleasantly to the remainder of the company. ‘My son,’ he said, not without a real touch of heart-felt, paternal pride, as he glanced towards the gentlemanly looking and well-dressed young doctor, ‘your fellow-passengers! Introduce me! Which is de son of my ole and valued friend, de Honourable James Hawtorn, of Wagwater?’
Dr Whitaker, glad to divert attention from himself on any excuse, waved his hand quietly towards Edward.
‘How do you do, Mr Whitaker?’ Edward said, in as low and quiet a tone as possible, anxious as he was to disappoint the little gaping crowd of amused spectators. ‘We have all derived a great deal of pleasure from your son’s society on our way across. His music has been the staple entertainment of the whole voyage. We have appreciated it immensely.’
But old Bobby was not to be put off with private conversation aside in a gentle undertone. He was accustomed to living his life in public, and he wasn’t going to be balked of his wonted entertainment. ‘Yes, Mr Hawtorn,’ he answered in a loud voice, ‘you are right, sah. De taste for music an’ de taste for beauty in de ladies are two tastes dat are seldom wantin’ to de sons or de grandsons of Africa, however far removed from de original negro.’ (As he spoke, he glanced back with a touch of contempt and an infinite superiority of manner at the pureblooded blacks, who were now busily engaged in picking up portmanteaus from the deck, and squabbling with one another as to which was to carry the buckras’ luggage. Your mulatto, however dark, always in a good-humoured, tolerant way, utterly despises his coal-black brethren.) ‘Bote dose tastes are highly developed in my own pusson. Bote no doubt my son, Wilberforce Clarkson Whitaker, is liable to inherit from his fader’s family. In de exercise of de second,
I cannot fail to perceive dat dis lady beside you must be Mrs Hawtorn. Sah’—with a sidelong leer of his fat eyes—‘I congratulate you mos’ sincerely on your own taste in female beauty. A very nice, fresh-lookin’ young lady, Mrs Hawtorn.’
Marian’s face grew fiery red; and Edward hardly knew whether to laugh off the awkward compliment, or to draw himself up and stroll away, as though the conversation had reached its natural ending.
‘And de odder young lady,’ Bobby went on, quite unconscious of the effect he had produced—‘de odder young lady? Your sister, now, or Mrs Hawtorn’s?’
‘This is Miss Dupuy of Orange Grove,’ Edward answered hesitatingly; for he hardly knew what remark old Bobby might next venture upon. And indeed, as a matter of fact, the old mulatto’s conversation, even in the presence of ladies, was not at all times restrained by all those artificial rules of decorum imposed on most of us by what appeared to him a ridiculously strait-laced and puritanical white conventionality.
But Edward’s answer seemed to have an extraordinary effect in sobering and toning down the old man’s exuberant volubility; he pulled off his hat with a respectful bow, and said in a lower and more polite voice: ‘I have de honour of knowing Miss Dupuy’s fader; I am proud to make Miss Dupuy’s acquaintance.’
‘Here, Bobby!’ the captain called out from a little forward—‘you come here, say. The first-officer wants to introduce you’—with a wink at Edward—‘to His Excellency the Peruvian ambassador.—Look here, Mr Hawthorn; don’t you let Bobby talk too long to your ladies, sir. He sometimes blurts out something, you know, that ladies ain’t exactly accustomed to. We seafaring men are a bit rough on occasion ourselves, certainly; but we know how to behave for all that before the women.—Bobby, don’t; you’d better be careful.’
‘Thank you,’ Edward said, and again felt his heart smitten with a sort of remorse for poor Dr Whitaker. That quick, sensitive, enthusiastic young man to be tied down for life to such a father! It was too terrible. In fact, it was a tragedy.
‘Splendid take-down for that stuck-up, young brown doctor,’ the English officer exclaimed aside in a whisper to Edward. ‘Shake a little of the confounded conceit out of him, I should say. He wanted taking down a peg.—Screaming farce, isn’t he, the old father?’
‘I never saw a more pitiable or pitiful scene in my whole life,’ Edward answered earnestly. ‘Poor fellow, I’m profoundly sorry for him; he looks absolutely broken-hearted.’
The young officer gazed at him in mute astonishment. ‘Can’t see a joke, that fellow Hawthorn,’ he thought to himself. ‘Had all the fun worked out of him, I suppose, over there at Cambridge. Awful prig! Quite devoid of the sense of humour. Sorry for his poor wife; she’ll have a dull life of it.—Never saw such an amusing old fool in all my days as that ridiculous, fat old nigger fellow!’
Meanwhile, James Hawthorn had been standing on the wharf, waiting for the first crush of negroes and hangers-on to work itself off, and looking for an easy opportunity to come aboard in order to meet his son and daughter. By-and-by the crush subsided, and the old man stepped on to the gangway and made his way down upon the deck.
In a moment, Edward was wringing his hand fervently, and father and son had exchanged one single kiss of recognition in that halfshamefaced, hasty fashion in which men of our race usually get through that very un-English ceremony of greeting.
‘Father, father,’ Edward said, ‘I am so thankful to see you once more; so anxious to see my dear mother.’
There were tears standing in both their eyes as his father answered: ‘My boy, my boy! I’ve denied myself this pleasure for years; and now —now it’s come, it’s almost too much for me.’
There was a moment’s pause, and then Mr Hawthorn turned to Marian. ‘My daughter,’ he said, kissing her with a fatherly kiss, ‘we know you, and love you already, from Edward’s letters; and we’ll do our best, as far as we can, to make you happy.’
There was another pause, and then the father said again: ‘You didn’t get my telegram, Edward?’
‘Yes, father, I got it; but not till we were on the very point of starting. The steamer was actually under weigh, and we couldn’t have stopped even if we had wished to. There was nothing for it but to come on as we were, in spite of it.’
‘Oh, Mr Hawthorn, there’s papa!’ Nora cried excitedly. ‘There he is, coming down the gangway.’ And as she spoke, Mr Dupuy’s portly form was seen advancing towards them with slow deliberateness.
For a second, he gazed about him curiously, looking for Nora; then, as he saw her, he walked over towards her in his leisurely, dawdling, West Indian fashion. Nora darted forward and flung her arms impulsively around him. ‘So you’ve come, Nora,’ the old gentleman said quietly, disembarrassing himself with elephantine gracefulness from her close embrace—‘so you’ve come, after all, in spite of my telegram!—How was this, my dear? How was this, tell me?’
‘Yes, papa,’ Nora answered, a little abashed at his serene manner. ‘The telegram was too late—it was thrown on board after we’d started. But we’ve got out all safe, you see.—And Marian—you know —Marian Ord—Mrs Hawthorn that is now—she’s taken great care of me; and, except for the hurricane, we’ve had such a delightful voyage!’
Mr Dupuy drew himself up to his stateliest eminence and looked straight across at Marian Hawthorn with stiff politeness. ‘I didn’t know it was to Mrs Hawthorn, I’m sure,’ he said, ‘that I was to be indebted for your safe arrival here in Trinidad. It was very good of Mrs Hawthorn, I don’t doubt, to bring you out to us and act as your chaperon. I am much obliged to Mrs Hawthorn for her kind attention and care of you on the voyage. I must thank Mrs Hawthorn very sincerely for the trouble she may have been put to on your account. —Good-morning, Mrs Hawthorn!—Good-morning, Mr Hawthorn! Your son, I suppose? Ah, so I imagined.—Good-morning, goodmorning.’ He raised his hat with formal courtesy to Marian, and bowed slightly to the son and father Then he drew Nora’s arm carefully in his, and was just about to walk her immediately off the steamer, when Nora burst from him in the utmost amazement and rushed up to kiss Marian. ‘Papa,’ she cried, ‘I don’t think you
