Day 1 Morning. Wooden beaks, spider webs – Pamplona Cathedral’s library
A summery September sun illuminates Plaza Castillo. It is nine o’clock in the morning, and the long fingers of the bookseller in the Antigua rua de los peregrinos, tanned by the summer months, nimbly lift the shutter of the book fair stand.
Pamplona welcomes me back. The hunt for Azpilcuetas’ men begins again, and I resume reconstructing the mapping of the network of agents he employed to control the production and sale of his books, picking up from where I had last left off. I walk across the square with the confident stride of someone rediscovering familiar places, go down Rua de Mercaderes and climb the slight slope that leads to the Cathedral along Calle de la Curia. The facades of the buildings are full of doors and balconies: the historic centre of Pamplona looks like a series of loggias, like those found at a theatre open to passing pilgrims, to the crowds that pour into the streets on feast days, and today, perhaps, a little to me too.
David, the archivist, is waiting for me in front of a side entrance to the architectural complex of the Cathedral, that leads to the inner garden. We cross the cloister and the first rooms of the museum until we reach a small dark door: the “no entry” sign is clearly not for us. As we climb the small, stone spiral staircase, David has to bend down at every turn to avoid hitting his head (though thankfully, I do not). Once at the top, I am dazzled by the light on the terrace overlooking the green hills of Pamplona. Three turns of the key and another large dark wooden door opens: it is the door to the Pamplona Cathedral Library. The light-coloured 18th-century shelving with a slight golden gilding is still intact, covering one long side of the room, as well as the corners. It stands out on two levels, the second of which is accessed via wooden staircases, and crossed by a gallery. Thousands of ancient volumes reach the high ceilings of the room. The research resumes again, beginning with the copies of the Manual de Confesores. There are about ten of them preserved there. I help David retrieve them from various shelves. Touching the materiality of the objects, the printed pages, all read, annotated, and signed at different times, and by different hands, across different lives. It is like reconnecting the threads of history. For me, one of the sparks of the historian’s work lies precisely in these moments: the emotion one feels in reconnecting those threads in a unique, subjective, and personal way.
The wooden eagles, placed on the second level of the bookcases and on which the clerics of the Cathedral had to place their books for generations, watch me closely as I handle the volumes. I am sitting at a table that belonged to José Goñi Gaztambide, who was one of the most renowned scholars of Spanish religious history – and as he was also a former archivist, knew the Library and the Archive of the Cathedral by heart. Along with the signature of one of Azpilcuta’s agents, “Miguel de Asco”, who clearly signs here “Por el señor Doctor Navarro”, the copy (in the 1556 Salamanca edition) shows traces of careful reading, revealed to us by the meticulous marginal notes in 16th-century handwriting. The envelope of a letter addressed to a certain Miguel Daoiz, used as a bookmark here, perhaps reveals, as David suggests after an expert glance at the handwriting, traces of an eighteenth-century reader. There was indeed a Miguel Daoiz among the canons of the Cathedral in the eighteenth century.
In addition to the many “signed” copies of the Manual, there is also Azpilcueta’s personal library on the “research list” of the day. Azpilcueta wanted his personal books, upon his death, to leave Rome and be added to the library of the collegiate church of Roncesvalles. But did they actually arrive? And if they did, were they then dispersed elsewhere in the following centuries?
After my first (failed) attempt to find Azpilcueta’s own books in Roncesvalles in June, the hope was now to find some traces of the collection in the library of Pamplona Cathedral, given that a small part of the Roncesvalles library collection remained in Pamplona (we know that those books are now located in the General Library of Navarre… but you never know…). The collection had been confiscated by the government authorities during the 19th-century desamortización (confiscation of church property), brought to Pamplona, and then returned to the Collegiate Church. But even here, there seems to be no trace of the books that once belonged to Martín. Talking to David, I discover that the search could be even more difficult due to a devastating fire that struck the Roncesvalles library in 1724. I feel that the chances of even finding out information about the books that Dr. Navarro left to the collegiate church in his will are dwindling. Perhaps it is better to leave the search for his library aside and focus once more on the agents as I might just happen to be in the right place to find material on Martín Zuría, Dr. Navarro’s nephew and canon of Pamplona. He inherited the printing privileges for Azpilcueta’s works, and his signature can be found on some copies of the Roman edition of the Enchiridion. He was an enigmatic figure in the Azpilcueta family. His tragic end – he was executed just two years after his uncle’s death for causing harm to a pilgrim in such a sacred place as St. Peter’s cathedral in Rome – had an impact on the history of the posthumous editions of Azpilcueta’s works.
On my desk arrive the bound volumes of Gaztambide’s Historia de los Obispo de Pamplona, a well of information drawn from the cathedral archives. Magically, the information about his nephew is intertwined with a clear reference to Azpilcueta’s books. Are they the ones belonging to his collection? Or rather the books written by him? But it is already 2 p.m. and the cathedral library is about to close. I hug David and thank him for his help so far. I have three hours left for my research. My next meeting is with Miriam at the Archivo General de Navarra.
On the way to the archive, I make a quick stop first at the Maison de la Tortilla, a modest café/bar, and its name which lives up to its promise. A marvel of potatoes and spinach, almost as tall as a cake fresh out of a Berlin bakery arrives to my table. I also observe the perfectly geometric spider’s web tattooed on the barman’s elbow as I sip on the cold beer that I paired my food with. A web with a strong centre, from which thin threads branch out in different and distant directions.
Azpilcueta, like the spider, was firmly at the centre of his web, which had become increasingly dense over the years. And while he travelled between Spain and Rome, his agents followed his instructions, fulfilled his requests, covering ever larger territories, creating more links in the expanding web.
Day 1 Afternoon. The dead do not speak. But sometimes we hear their echoes – Archivo General de Navarra
The grey and ochre stones on the main façade of the archive form what appears to be a shiny chessboard. I quickly pass through the large entrance door and walk down the stone corridor leading to the reading room. Due to a recent exhibition dedicated to a former King of Navarre, Charles III, on the 400th anniversary of his death, parts of his tomb have been reproduced and placed along the corridor. These include human-sized replicas of “the Plorantes”, i.e. those in the funeral procession mourning the passing of the King. As I pass they seem to follow me with their gaze. Especially that of a bearded monk, who tries to find some consolation in the small book he holds in his hand, yet as I pass, he seems to take his attention away from the page for a moment, just to check out where I am heading. The antechamber of the reading room, with its small arched windows, stone walls and imposing ceiling, reminds me once again, of the previous life of these spaces, which once housed the sovereigns of Navarre.
I request the folder containing the papers of the notary Miguel de Azpilcueta, who worked in the town of Barásoain, Martin’s birthplace and the seat of the family palace. I continue my examination where I left off before the summer, and new documents attest to the work of Azpilcueta’s agents, in particular Miguel de Asco, whose signature we have seen on the prologue page of the 1556 Salamanca edition in the Cathedral library. However, the documents also show the link between Azpilcueta and Adrian de Amberes, the printer from the nearby town of Estella, who printed the 1565 edition of Azpilcueta’s Manual. I must admit that until now I had somewhat snubbed Amberes’ edition. The first document I try to read is a contract in which Amberes has agreed to publish the laws of Navarre in 1556 (like all the other printers chosen by Azpilcueta, he also prints law books on behalf of government bodies). The scribe’s irregular, looped handwriting takes me a long time to decipher, but it holds no secrets for Miriam, the archivist head of the reading room, and so Miriam’s help here is as essential as air. In her eyes, moments of concentration shine through, followed by immediate satisfaction as she deciphers abbreviations that seem impossible for me to understand, all while responding simultaneously to the other scholars in the room, the staff, the reproduction service, the telephone, emails, the postman… She is truly an extraordinary woman. We begin to read, and line after line, the details of a meticulous regulation of the printing of the laws of Navarre appear, governing everything from the size of the font to the number of lines per page. Amberes accepted the conditions, committing himself to be the only printer involved in the task and not to take his hands off the job until it had been completed, within the agreed time frame. The contract with Azpilcueta, dated 1567, is the second document we read together. It does not go into the same level of detail as early versions, and, in fact, refers to previous agreements related to the 1565 edition. Reading it, it is clear that Amberes was committed to completing what had been agreed with Azpilcueta in the previous agreement of 1564, which had evidently not been fully carried out. I begin transcribing the last document when the archive official approaches me and points out that the archive is closing. I realised in that moment that I am alone in the room, and the shutters have already been closed. After a quick chat with Miriam, I ask if the documents I found today could be digitised, and she recommends that I speak to Roberto at the Biblioteca General de Navarra. I take some notes and bid farewell. New threads of complicity and enthusiasm appear in my mind. New networks, perhaps not too different from those between Azpilcueta and his people. But unfortunately, it is now time to go.
At the exit of the archive, a group of students sitting on the steps leading to the side garden with a breathtaking view of the green mountains surrounding Pamplona are engaged in lively discussion. ‘Los muertos no hablan’: I doubt they are referring to Jaime Salvador’s 1958 Mexican western film. I think back to everything that the papers of the notary Miguel de Azpilcueta have told me. Sometimes the dead speak. Certain places, just like the one where the students and I are now, are made for the dead to still be able to speak.
Day 2 Morning. From Rome to Pamplona, via Livorno – Pamplona Cathedral Archives
At 9 o’clock, I am in front of the Cathedral. I go inside, and near the central nave I am greeted by the original (but much smaller) bearded friar of the tomb of Charles III, whose replica I encountered yesterday I proceed to cross the first room of the museum, and quickly climb the spiral staircase. David is waiting for me in the library for the new day’s hunt. What interests us today are the documents in the Cathedral Archives. There I expect to find something more about Martín Zuría and Azpilcueta’s books.
Dr. Navarro’s books are in fact at the centre of an exchange of letters between Pamplona and Roncesvalles, where in 1592 (six years after Azpilcueta’s death) news arrived that the chapter of Pamplona had ordered the sale of Azpilcueta’s books: these (like Dr Navarro’s other movable property) were to be added to the assets of the Collegiate Church. I immediately understand that these are not his personal library, but rather books written by him. Here, the story of Martín Zuría intertwines with that of another canon of Pamplona, Martín Arraya, who was sent to Rome to resolve the issue of the interdict imposed by Rome on the cathedral.
In fact, the draft response to the collegiate body states that the books, ordered to be sold by the Pamplona Cathedral, were not part of Azpilcueta’s goods but belonged to Arraya (and therefore, post mortem, to Pamplona Cathedral). These were volumes that he had bought in Rome from Martín Zuría and Miguel de Azpilcueta. We are talking about more than a hundred books, already packed into boxes, which were to reach Pamplona, at the behest of the cathedral chapter, via Livorno and Barcelona (or Alicante). I thus discover that Arraya took over from Zuría, after the latter’s sudden death, in the curatorship of the edition of Azpilcueta’s Consilia (published in 1590). Zuría’s premature death also had consequences for the attribution of the printing privileges for the Consilia, which were granted by the pontiff to Azpilcueta’s nephew, Miguel. Another lead to follow.
But it’s time to go again. I say goodbye to David, hug him and thank him sincerely for his invaluable support. He also leaves me with a warm recommendation: it seems that I cannot leave Pamplona without talking to Roberto at the Biblioteca General de Navarra.
Day 2 Afternoon. Old Networks – New Networks of Knowledge Production –Biblioteca General de Navarra
I arrive at the library in the early afternoon. Before going up to the second floor, to the “reservados” room for consulting ancient books, I need to eat something: the snack machine comes to my rescue. I insert my coin, select a packet of savoury biscuits and wait. And then something happens that never happens: as I hold my breath and fear that the vending machine will keep my biscuits, two packets come out! It’s the library’s welcome gift.
On the second floor, I find Roberto, the curator of the collection of ancient books. The meeting is a revelation: enthusiasm, empathy, and an inexhaustible source of knowledge. He knows the ancient books in the collection by heart, and as I tell him about my project, my research, and my small discoveries of the last few days, he listens to me with great attention, interest, and enthusiasm. However, he is not surprised. He asks me if Miguel de Azpilcueta is among the agents who sign the copies of the books: I tell him what I know about Miguel (here we are talking about the nephew, not the notary…). Although he was involved in the editing of his uncle’s books (as we have seen, especially post mortem) and was a close collaborator of his, I am not aware that he was one of the agents involved in the sales. I begin to analyse the copies preserved in the library, thirteen in total. To my surprise (but not Roberto’s), two of the copies (one from the 1565 Estella edition and the other from the 1556 Salamanca edition) bear the signature of Miguel de Azpilcueta on the title page. There are many Miguels in the Azpilcueta family. Further research is therefore needed to ascertain the identity of the Miguel who signed the copies. However, this is yet another new lead to follow. A new thread in the web.
Between picking up books (I can only consult three volumes at a time), Roberto bombards me with questions, followed by an avalanche of bibliographic information. Among other things, he shows me the rich online resources of the Biblioteca General de Navarra (in particular the Biblioteca de Navarra Digital: BiNaDi). I leave the library with the desire to stay. Certainly, to return as soon as possible.
At the end of the day, I treat myself to an ice-cold vermouth at Café Iruña, in Plaza Castillo. It is still very hot outside. The air conditioning is particularly pleasant when I enter. Crossing the threshold of the café is like taking a trip back to the late 19th century: on the left-hand side, the long wooden bar counter frames the large room. The few tourists in attendance sit at the white marble tables; the large mirrors at the back reflect the square, the windows and the iron chandeliers: these look like clusters of luminescent flowers hanging from the ceiling, carved like that of a cathedral.
I say goodbye to Plaza Castillo, collect my suitcase from the hotel and head downhill towards Iruña station, where the 7.30 p.m. train to Madrid, which leaves in just over half an hour, will not wait. Once again, I am grateful to this city, its archives, its libraries and the extraordinary professionals who work there, who have become wonderful teammates in my research.
The train travels south through the hills of Navarre, the first stop being Tafalla. When we arrive, I see the village of Barasoain (Martín’s birthplace) in the distance. This time I can only imagine its silhouette as we speed past on the train. But next time, I promise, dear doctor, I will finally visit your palace, even though I know you didn’t like it.
