With a solid career as a historian and novelist, María José Rubio returns with LThe Marquise and Bonaparte, a novel that sheds light on one of the most fascinating and little-known episodes in 1800s Madrid. Through the character of Mariana de Waldstein, Marquise of Santa Cruz, and the delicate diplomatic mission of Luciano Bonaparte, the author skillfully reconstructs a pivotal moment in which art, politics, and personal passions intersect in a decisive way.
In this conversation with GoAragón, Rubio reflects on the challenges of writing historical fiction, the blurred lines between rigorous research and fiction, and the importance of deeply understanding characters before judging them.
At the beginning of the novel, you write that “what seems most unrealistic may be what actually happened.” Were there any discoveries during your research that made you question the boundaries between history and fiction?
Yes, many discoveries; something that, incidentally, is very common when, as a historian, you undertake in-depth and intensive research in archives and ancient sources. History is full of episodes that a novelist would hardly dare to invent because they would seem implausible—and yet a historian uncovers them, because they actually happened. This happened to me with biographical details about all the characters in the novel and with Luciano Bonaparte’s diplomatic mission in Madrid as a whole. The same goes for the peace treaty that he and Godoy went so far as to backdate to circumvent Napoleon’s orders, or the extraordinary role that art played in those political negotiations—something largely unknown to many. The research reminded me once again that fiction must be plausible; history, on the other hand, only needs to have actually happened.
What did you find in Mariana de Waldstein that made her such an irresistible protagonist?
I found a woman who was extraordinarily modern for her time—the late 18th century—and even for our own. She was an aristocrat, a painter, a member of the Academy of Fine Arts, a cosmopolitan, and deeply enlightened. But above all, I found a person who made her own decisions and accepted the price of that freedom. I wasn’t interested in turning her into a symbol, but rather in restoring her human complexity. Behind the legend was an intelligent, contradictory woman who was very aware of the world in which she lived.
Book cover
To what extent do you think her story resonates with contemporary debates about freedom, identity, and personal autonomy?
I think it engages naturally because the great human questions hardly ever change. Mariana forces us to ask ourselves how much we’re willing to sacrifice to live in accordance with our convictions and how much weight the gaze of others still carries. She isn’t a contemporary heroine transported to the 18th century; she’s a woman of her time who faced dilemmas that remain deeply relevant today.
“Fiction must be plausible; history, on the other hand, only needs to have happened.”
What were you interested in exploring at that intersection between the private sphere and the movements that were transforming Europe?
I was interested in showing that history doesn’t just change on battlefields or through international treaties. It also changes in personal relationships, in salons, in private conversations, and in intimate decisions. In this novel, love, art, and diplomacy are all part of the same political chessboard. Everything is political strategy. Emotions, too, have historical consequences.
What did you discover about Luciano Bonaparte that doesn’t usually appear in traditional accounts?
I discovered a character far more complex than simply “Napoleon’s brother.” He was a cultured man, passionate about art, a writer, a collector, and a man with his own political views. It was precisely that independence that ultimately distanced him from Napoleon and ruined his political career. He was the first Bonaparte to set foot in Spain, and he would naturally have been the most suitable candidate to be king of Spain—rather than his older brother, Joseph Bonaparte—but the outcome of his diplomatic mission in 1800 earned him Napoleon’s wrath and led to his withdrawal from politics. I was interested in bringing to light the intellectual who coexisted with the diplomat and the revolutionary.
What role does art play in this story beyond its aesthetic value?
Art is a form of power. It serves to build prestige, influence, and legitimacy. Diplomats, collectors, artists, and rulers all revolve around art. Paintings, portraits, and collections speak as much about politics as treaties do. In the novel, art is never mere decoration: it forms part of the characters’ political and personal strategies. In fact, Luciano Bonaparte learns this aspect of art’s value in Spain, upon discovering the royal collections and the private collections of figures such as Manuel Godoy. Luciano became a great collector in Madrid, from where he took nearly 300 paintings by leading masters.
“Art is a form of power. It serves to build prestige, influence, and legitimacy. […] In the novel, art is never mere decoration: it forms part of the characters’ political and personal strategies.”
Madrid almost becomes another character in its own right. How did you go about reconstructing it?
It was one of the most exciting projects I’ve undertaken. I consulted maps, memoirs, correspondence, newspaper articles, archives, and travelers’ accounts to reconstruct not only what Madrid was like, but also what life was like there. I wanted readers to be able to walk its streets, enter its palaces, and hear the political murmur in the salons. I wasn’t looking for a historical backdrop, but rather a living city. All my books are set primarily in Madrid, because it was the epicenter of politics and the court—which, after all, is my specialty as a historian and writer.
How do you decide where documented facts end and imagination begins?
Mª José Rubio. PHOTOS BY THE AUTHOR. Photo by Javier Ocaña
I have a very simple rule: I never invent anything that contradicts history. The documented facts, dates, and context remain intact. Imagination begins where the archives are silent: in the private conversations, thoughts, or emotions that may have accompanied those events. The novel fills in the gaps in the historical record; it does not contradict it.
Has your understanding of the past changed as you’ve written novels?
Very much so. Research taught me the facts; the novel has taught me to understand people. Today I’m less interested in judging historical figures and much more in understanding why they made certain decisions. History, rather than a catalog of events, is a vast school for understanding the human condition.
“A novel isn’t about demonstrating how much one knows, but about making the reader forget all the historiographical and documentary work that lies behind it. Only when the documentation ceases to be noticeable and living characters emerge does literature truly begin.”
What is your creative process like?
It always begins with an intuition. I discover a character or a situation that raises questions for me, and then a very long period of research begins in archives, libraries, and contemporary sources. I only start writing when I feel I know that world so well that I can move within it naturally. The research sets the stage; the novel comes to life when the characters appear.
What have you learned as a storyteller, and what are you still trying to improve?
I’ve learned that historical accuracy alone isn’t enough to sustain a novel. What stays with the reader are the characters and the human conflicts. In every book, I try to write with greater simplicity, eliminate anything superfluous or overwhelming in terms of historical facts, and ensure that every scene moves the story forward. I strive to ensure that the research never outweighs the emotion. And to craft a compelling epic that always leaves the reader with personal inspiration and a strong desire to learn more.
What advice would you give to someone who wants to write a historical novel?
I can only offer advice from my professional perspective as a historian: first be a historian, then a novelist. Rigorous research is essential; it’s what underpins the coherence of a good historical novel and turns it into a “literary legacy,” but it’s not enough. A novel isn’t about demonstrating how much you know, but about making the reader forget all the historiographical and research work that went into it. Only when the research becomes invisible and vivid characters emerge does literature truly begin.
