His Only Son proves to be a difficult novel to describe but one that should be every bit as notable as La Regenta. Or rather, every bit as notable as La Regenta **should** be. Once again I’d like to thank Dr. Julie Jones for her patience in answering my questions on the novel.
Previous posts on the novel that cover the plot and several of the characters:
Story, part 1
Story, part 2; Bonifacio Reyes
Two women: Emma and Serafina
While His Only Son shares many similarities with La Regenta, there are some changes in emphasis and approach that make it more disturbing. Set in a "third-rate capital" city in Spain, His Only Son looks at the past in two seemingly contradictory ways—romanticizing the past while at the same time satirizing that romanticism. We also get to see many (but not all) the inner thoughts of the characters. This combination of an ironic, naturalist novel with a psychological approach causes some of the difficulty in the novel. From The Decadent Vision in Leopoldo Alas by Noël Maureen Valis (also LSU Press, 1981):
How did one reconcile the idealism of the hero Bonifacio Reyes’ paternal quest with the pitiless realistic satire and irony which succeeds in leaving one with a bitter aftertaste?
The two strains of the satirical/ironical and the psychological, in my view, do not blend very well in Su único hijo; indeed, they set up a jarring effect on the reader because each tendency is heading in a different direction. The humorous vein debouches into the traditional current of Spanish realism which, since Cervantes, has characteristically been leavened with the agent of satire and/or irony. But the pshychological treatment in Su único hijo points to a different form of novel writing, a form which has more in common with the contemporary decadents, symbolists, and psychological idealists than with traditional realism or naturalism.
Clarín’s [Alas’ pen name] inner unrest was finely attuned to the same uneasiness which had spread through Europe. He too sought more profound realities through the exploration of the psyche and the dream and the intriguing relationship between the arts—in particular music—and life. These preoccupation which are manifest in Su único hijo lead Clarín to neglect to a certain extent the external in order to concentrate on and enhance the internal.
(page 109)
The ending, which I haven’t gone into because of the plot twists involved, highlights the difficulty in resolving these two approaches. Bonifacio (Bonis) has the son he has always dreamed of. Sort of. He dreams of what he will provide for the boy, yet at the same time the reader is painfully aware of what Bonis’ daydreaming has gotten him so far. Not to mention the complete rejection of motherhood by his wife, Emma. Even with the caveats the novel provides while leading to the ending, a guarded feeling of hope and regeneration resides in the novel. I sometimes talk about unasked questions at the end of a novel, and the obvious one at the end of His Only Son is what’s in store for Antonio Reyes, the son?
It turns out that Alas left a fragment titled “Una medanía” (I’ll assume that would be A Mediocrity…please correct or let me know of other connotations) that helps define where he was going with His Only Son. I’ll be quoting liberally from Valis’ book (noted above) since this compiles a lot of what is available on the intended sequel (or at least what was available 30 years ago). The context and content of the sequel helps clarify how Alas wanted His Only Son to be viewed. Valis discusses one observation
from Carolyn Richmond, who views Su único hijo as an introduction to the projected but unfortunately never completed triptych of “Una medanía,” “Esperaindeo,” and “Juanito Reseco,” and who offers a solid explanation of why these novels were never finished. In her view,Su único hijo represents the search and hope for faith, [while] “Una medanía” is the complete disillusionment. Perhaps the necessity Alas felt to write Su único hijo before “Una medanía” reflects a need on his part to understand, and even justify, the negative and rebellious Antonio Reyes. His suicide, however, would symbolize the destruction of Bonifacio’s only hope, and we would indeed be left with “el vacío total.” Quite possibly this prospect so appalled Leopoldo Alas (who, himself, was going through a period of tremendous pessimism and doubt) that he could not bring himself to describe it. And without the “center panel” of his “triptych,” he may have eventually lost interest in, and a reason to finish, the “panels on either side.
(pages 183-4)
Here are a couple of quotes that help provide some overview and context for the sequel:
Most of the fragment centers upon the problem of Spain’s intellectual life with the focal point on one individual, Antonio Reyes. Unlike the Ateneo members, Antonio is no intellectual fraud, but in a larger sense he typifies the fin de siècle crisis in Hispanic thought and life because he is a paralyzed intellectual. Because he is unable to exercise his will, to put into practice the desires and illusions he nourishes within himself, he is as anemic as any of his peers, but he is cursed with an awareness of his abulia. Like his father Bonifacio, he prefers daydreaming to activity, but unlike the older Reyes, who is a highly emotional and intellectually untutored fellow, Antonio Reyes is, above all, an intellectual. Antonio’s abulia stems not from a lack of ideas to stimulate him but from the crushing influence of thought itself.
(page 185)
This refusal to participate [in public life] extends to nearly all forms of activity and, in sum, signifies Antonio’s removal from life itself. Like many of Alas’ characters, he behaves negatively, taking “evasive action,” hence, not coming to grips with life and, indeed, defeated by life, he withdraws more and more from it and encloses himself in a world of daydreams.
(page 187)
In an ideal world of translated books, His Only Son would be available with the fragment “Una medanía” as an appendix. Although I realize I’m daydreaming just like Bonis…I should settle for an in-print version of His Only Son so people can easily enjoy this remarkable novel.
Her plan was to make fun of her uncle and her husband, to toy with them, to try to discover even newer ways to deceive and ruin them, ways that might offer her great entertainment. For some time she had known what methods to use against the uncle. She planned to throw, as it were, the whole house out the window by spending money wildly on herself. Bonifacio was another matter. Strictly speaking, she did not dislike him nearly so much as she disliked the uncle, nor until this moment had she decided on any specific form of punishment for him. She had only thought of keeping him on the rack for the rest of his days, of treating him like a slave subject to unknown torments; but when Minghetti’s smile [the opera troupe’s baritone], his look, smote her with a lightning flash, then she suddenly saw how she might punish her unfaithful spouse. Yes, she had guessed that he was unfaithful long before; yet when she would meditate in her bedroom alone (with hysteria for a Sybil), Emma had reached the same conclusions about all men: in her eyes, they were animals with only gross and cruel instincts. She could not conceive of a husband who was totally faithful to his wife. Further, the very existence of such a creature seemed ridiculous, and she freely admitted to herself that if she were a married man, she would not be satisfied with just a wife. She would not admit that women had the same right, except in extraordinary cases, because “it would appear ugly,” because “a woman is different.” However, once a husband’s infidelity was discovered, the case changed. Then there was a right to reprisal. This was true, too, if the husband were brutal. If Bonis hit me as I hit him, he would pay for it, Emma thought. This much was evident. And if he deceives me… Here Emma hesitated and returned to her considerations for excusable feminine infidelity. If he deceives me, I would deceive him as well, she mused…if anyone inspired great passion in me. Emma’s moral excesses had little to do with the decadent literary romanticism of her town and her time; she was original in her temperament.
And so everyone continues using or screwing each other, whether through infidelity, misappropriating funds, or some other deception. The uncle invests the family’s funds in a scheme destined to fail. The investment, though, does help his amorous cause with the schemer’s daughter. The family’s financial ruin is all but guaranteed when, out of the blue, Emma becomes pregnant. Everyone thought her earlier miscarriage made pregnancy impossible. The news electrifies Bonis, filling him with joy and resolve. He will have the son he has always wanted, someone to fulfill “all the clichés of fatherhood” for him. Like most other emotions Bonis feels, it is the ideal or concept of fatherhood that entices him. There are several more twists and turns before the end that make this the remarkable novel it is.
I read back through the overview and nothing about it sounds notable, and yet I think it is almost every bit as good as La Regenta. Almost. There are a lot of “little” things that make the novel difficult to describe or classify, as I mentioned in the first post. Let’s start with the central character, Bonifacio Reyes (Bonis) since his nature defines much of the ambiguity of the novel. Bonis was an “antihero,” or rather unheroic, before being an antihero was cool. Bonis, though, sees himself as a potential hero.
Alas uses names in His Only Son to add to the story's irony. Bonis wife may be named Emma, causing the reader to think of Emma Bovary, but that role is reserved for Reyes. His adultery is the obvious similarity but the more meaningful parallel comes from dashed expectations which were fed by literature. Bonis is a dreamer, a Walter Mitty-like character that cherishes ideals even though he eventually finds everything tainted. He believes in the ideals provided by literature and music even though fate cruelly dashes all his hopes for his happiness. He adheres to the role of husband (despite the adultery) long after his shrewish wife destroys the idylls he expected.
Usually called “Bonis” (can be loosely translated as'good'), he does little that could be termed good. In fact, Bonis does little at all. Most of his action is passive, allowing things to happen around or to him. His goodness, such that it is in the novel, comes from limited action—if he does little, he limits the amount of bad things he can do (especially in comparison to the other characters). Nobility lay somewhere in his lineage but he is a long way from that now. This deterioration over the generations is a common theme in the novel.
The narrator compares Bonis to Ulysses at one point, a man who has lost his home and wife. That may be the only apparent similarity since Bonis is far from kingly but he does make an inward journey, exploring his father’s and his own nature. That journey, though, comes after many flights of daydreaming, which he does frequently (especially when listening to music...the role of music in the novel deserves its own post). The daydreams aren’t just a coping mechanism for Bonis, it’s what he is—aloof and mediocre. Even the narrator heaps irony on the character by often referring to him as “poor Bonis” or “poor Reyes.” There is no sympathy in the epithet, though. Like Don Quixote, he pictures himself as a hero out of a novel. Unlike the older gent, though, Bonis is not mad, just self-deluded. He also abandons his delusions of heroism as he makes his inward journey, although he does replace them with daydreams of other heroic activity (writing, music, art). His dreams of heroism culminate in his raptures about fatherhood, one of the rare dream-come-true events for Bonis. Because of the importance of the fatherhood dream, though, Bonis will not allow any other reality to intrude on it after he realizes it. All of which makes the reader mutter “Poor Bonis” upon the closing of the book.
There is much more that can be said on Bonis, especially the father/son theme Alas explores in the final chapters, but I want to end with an excerpt that is more typical of the character during the novel. In the following passage the opera troupe is throwing a feast and Bonis is the only non-member invited. Of course the only reason they put up with him is so he will pick up the tab. Having had a little too much to drink, Bonis stands up to propose a toast but ends up showing he understands how he is viewed in the city while still idealizing the artist’s soul, at least as he sees it (ellipsis in quotes are in the original):
”I read novels. I am aware of the dog’s life I lead in this godforsaken town. I abhor it! Here everyone despises me! They look upon me as they would a useless mongrel, old and toothless. Why? Only because I am gentle-natured and detest worldly things: vile gold and, above all, industry and commerce. I know nothing of trading, scheming or exhibiting myself in society. Therefore, I am called a louse. Absurd! I understand, I feel, I know that there is something inside me, something… You artists, whom these sedentary shopkeepers, these barnacles, these provincial oysters ridicule, you understand me, tolerate me, accept my company, take me in, even applaud me, you…”
…
“Ah, my comrades! My dear friend Mochi, dear Gaetano (this to the baritone), you have no idea how deeply it affects me to know that artists such as you sympathize with and even love this poor Reyes, otherwise abandoned, despised, humiliated. If I had the courage, I would actually join you. I would, of course, bet the least of you, but an artist nonetheless: independent, free, indifferent to my income, dedicated to music alone. Do you think I don’t understand you? How often have I read in your faces the nagging preoccupations which afflict you, the worries about an uncertain future! But little by little, art draws you back to your peace of mind, to your carefree existence.”
The courtiers [family members] of that violent and temperamental princess made up for the inevitable humiliation [of their obsequiousness] by openly mocking Reyes. Emma came to experience a fondness for her husband analogous in certain respects to the affection felt by the Roman emperor for the horse he made a senator. Another family dogma, a tacit one, was this: the dear child had wrought her own unhappiness by attaching herself to that man. Cousin Sebastian confessed between sighs that the only act in his life of which he repented (and, after all, he was a man who had lost his mother’s entire estate on the turn of a single card) sprang from the time when his mad passion for Emma had driven him to agree to undertake all the necessary steps for hunting, finding, employing and marrying off Don Diego’s stupid clerk [Bonis]. He could never forgive his weakness, his passionate blindness. And Sebastian would sigh, and the other relatives would sigh, and Emma, too, would sigh occasionally, taking a melancholy pleasure in playing the role of a resigned victim who must suffer the disastrous consequences of a childhood folly for the rest of her life.
Bonis bears all of this stoically but suffers from his own sorrows, especially knowing he would not have a son after Emma’s miscarriage. Valuing peace above everything else, Bonifacio feels more alive when outside of the house away from his wife’s harangues. His favorite stop is a tertulia that wistfully reminisces about times gone by in the third-rate capital. The “moribund romanticism” proves silly, although it does promote a love for the sincere lyricism of times long gone (highlighting some of the ambivalence on such romanticism).
Things change in the little town after an opera company appears. Bonis finds himself dreaming of the soprano Serafina. Most of all, though, he becomes enamored with the ideal of the company, focusing on the romantic idea he has associated with their life and elevated in his mind. Mochi, the leader of the troupe, recognizes an easy mark and encourages Bonis to “lend” the opera company money. Reyes, who has never spent more than his allotted allowance, begins to borrow money in order to finance the troupe. Mochi treats him as the opera company’s savior while Serafina eventually becomes his lover despite his clumsy and reticent behavior (he swoons after their first kiss). Bonis "ideal" of her provides him with superhuman strength and patience in dealing with his wife, something that irritates Emma even more:
Her growing exactions served to multiply Reyes’ duties, responsibilities and patience. The husband’s air of resignation became so extreme that it finally struck Emma as being almost supernatural, and it annoyed her immensely. She could not say why absolute submission created suspicions. A short time ago, when subjected to any dreadful humiliations, he had protested timidly, but now—now even that! He only held his tongue and rubbed. He responded to insult, to all provocation, with the kind of charity that immortalizes saints. In certain cases not only was sacrifice of the heart necessary, but also sacrifice of the stomach; well, now he sacrificed everything. With his new attitude, Bonis was neither proud nor easily nauseated; his sense of smell seemed to have disappeared with this self-esteem. What was this? What before had been for the autocratic wife her husband’s only virtue suddenly became a source of suspicions and nagging doubts. Why is he so quiet? Why does he obey so blindly? Does he despise me? Is he finding compensation elsewhere for these miseries?
And then things get weird. I’ll finish up the story in the next post.
