The Cypresses Believe In God.

 

I am tempted to call Jose Maria Gironella's classic the Spanish version of War and Peace, only reversed to Peace and War. There are similarities, as the books share the reactions of a large cast of characters to historical events, heavily-salted with conversations about political, religious and social matters. However, unlike the Russian work, the stage is smaller, and the notable figures of the era not only do not appear on it, they are rarely mentioned.

Gironella meditates on the Second Spanish Republic and its slide into the partially-failed military coup which resulted in civil war, covering the years 1931-1936. The characters are almost countless, but the main players are the Alvear family: father Matias, mother Carmen, sons Ignacio and Cesar and daughter Pilar. They live in the mid-sized city of Girona (spelled Gerona in the translation), part of the region-which-wants-to-be-a-nation, Catalonia. Matias is a telegraph operator and Carmen tends the home. Ignacio is briefly a seminarian, but does not have a vocation. He works at a bank and, sadly he turns to the dark side and studies law. The more frail Cesar has a genuine vocation, and Pilar works as a dressmaker.

Initially, all is fairly well. The Alvears are not wealthy, but they make ends meet. Matias studies Catalan as best he can, as the nationalism of the region demands it. Carmen manages the home with the steely determination of a loving and devout Basque mother. The pious (but not cloyingly-so) Cesar gradually comes to be regarded as a saint, though he explodes with rage at the anti-Catholic rampage which breaks out across the Republic near the end. Pilar blossoms into a vivacious young lady and falls for a charismatic member of the Falange. And Ignacio?

Ignacio is the central character of the narrative. He rebels against his Catholic upbringing, gets tangled up with a married woman and then a streetwalker before finally straightening out after a frightening brush with illness. He is a classic angry young man outraged by the injustices and backwardness of Spanish society, the failures of the Church, and finds himself swept up in the demands for political and social reform. He is also the main character through whom Gironella explores Spain's descent first into chaos and then into fratricidal slaughter.

Ignacio's illness changes his approach, if not his perspective. He still sees the injustices. But he doubts the proposed cures, which range from the communism of a former bank co-worker, the Falangism of a fellow law student, the socialist materialism of two beloved married teachers, the hardline (though later softened) Catholicism of the local monsignor, and the charitable endeavors of middle class Catholics. Ignacio comes to the realization that while each has insights into the Spanish predicament, each is insufficient on its own--including his own moderate socialist preferences. 

The problem resides instead in the soul of Spain: the fall from greatness, wounded pride, envy of the more modern and/or prosperous (both Spaniards and other nations), grievances (justified or not), stubbornness that would give a mule pause and, worst of all, fraternal hatred. 

This last is what I think is the central theme of Cypresses: the instinctive recourse to hatred. And Gironella was not the only one who noticed this Spanish phenomenon. 

The story is told of one of Alfonso XII's strongman ministers, a Duke, who was on his deathbed in the 1880s. A priest-confessor, meeting the Duke in his last hours, urged him to forgive his enemies.

The Duke reared back and shouted: "'Forgive my enemies'? I don't need to forgive them--I had them all shot!"

And the one-of-a-kind philosopher/novelist Miguel de Unamuno wrote a novella about it in the 1920s with the telegraphing title Abel Sanchez. In it, the jealous antagonist ponders his behavior and concludes that he is far from the only Spaniard with this destructive impulse.

How the characters wrestle with the horrible flaw of ready hatred is the climax of the book. And here is where Gironella's book earns the highest marks: the Nationalist soldier-turned-writer portrays the characters as people, virtues and flaws. There are no blanket condemnations for Republicans nor unstinting praise for Nationalists. When the military uprising in Gerona fails and the bloody reprisals begin, Gironella looks at whether individuals "gave the best of themselves" or not. Thus, Dimas, an anarchist leader who goes to try to rescue one of the Alvears to honor a  good deed done for him long before, is giving his best. A Carlist publisher who forgets his humanitarian sensibilities as he goes into hiding is not. And Gironella does this repeatedly. 

This even-handedness was surprisingly ok with Franco's censors in the 1950s, who let the book be published. It was not fine with some of his fellow Nationalists, who snarled at him as a "sh--ty Red." Of course, Gironella was then--and now--snarled at as a "fascist" by the Left. That can be summarily-dismissed as the usual reflexive f-wording by that side of the aisle. The obvious, if sly, jibes at the Falange show that the author was not a fan. 

I can recommend the book with two pieces of advice.

First, some basic familiarity with the Second Spanish Republic and the Civil War would be very helpful. The old Knopf hardcover I have comes with a glossary of historic persons and organizations referred to in the novel, but someone coming to the era cold faces a learning curve that good writing can only partially overcome. 

Secondly, it is very much a conversational/meditative novel. The characters argue with each other at length and spend a lot of time thinking over their various predicaments. It works better than you might think: they sound like conversations people would have over the issues of the day. More to the point--no one's arguments are unassailable.  

So tolle, lege. And take your time--it's worth the effort to mull it over in smaller pieces.