With a solid career as a historian and novelist, María José Rubio returns with The Marquise and Bonaparte, a novel that illuminates one of the most fascinating and lesser-known episodes of Madrid in the 1800s.
In this conversation with GoAragón, Rubio reflects on the challenges of writing historical novels, the blurry lines between rigorous research and fiction, and the importance of deeply understanding characters before passing judgment on them.
Was there any finding during your research that made you question the boundaries between history and fiction?
Yes, many findings; this is quite common when you embark on a deep and intense research project as a historian in archives and ancient sources.
What did you find in Mariana de Waldstein that made her an irresistible protagonist?
I found an extraordinarily modern woman for her time, the late 18th century, and even for ours. She was an aristocrat, a painter, an academic of Fine Arts, cosmopolitan, and deeply enlightened. But most importantly, I found a personality that made her own decisions and assumed the cost of that freedom. I was not interested in turning her into a symbol but in restoring her human complexity. Behind the legend was an intelligent, contradictory woman, very aware of the world she lived in.
To what extent do you think her story engages with contemporary debates about freedom, identity, and personal autonomy?
I believe it engages naturally because the big human questions hardly change. Mariana compels us to ask how much we are willing to sacrifice to live according to our convictions and how much the opinions of others still weigh on us. She is not a contemporary heroine transported to the 18th century; she is a woman of her time who faced dilemmas that are still deeply relevant today.
«Fiction must be plausible; history, on the other hand, just needs to have occurred.»
What were you interested in exploring at the intersection of the intimate sphere and the movements transforming Europe?
I was interested in showing that history does not only change on the battlefields or in international treaties. It also changes in personal relationships, in salons, in private conversations, and in intimate decisions.
What did you discover about Luciano Bonaparte that doesn’t usually appear in traditional accounts?
I discovered a character much more complex than the simple «brother of Napoleon.» He was a cultured man, passionate about art, a writer, a collector, and had his own political views.
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.
«Art is a form of power. It serves to build prestige, influence, and legitimacy. […] In the novel, art is never mere decoration: it is part of the political and personal strategies of the characters.»
Madrid almost becomes another character. How was this reconstruction achieved?
It was one of the most exciting tasks. I consulted maps, memoirs, correspondence, press articles, archives, and accounts from travelers to reconstruct not only what Madrid was like but how life was lived there. I wanted the reader to be able to walk its streets, enter its palaces, and hear the political murmurings of the salons. I was not looking for a historical backdrop but a living city.
How do you decide where the documented fact ends and where the imagination begins?
I have a very simple rule: I never invent against history. Documented facts, dates, and context remain intact. Imagination starts where the archives fall silent.
Has your understanding of the past changed as you’ve written novels?
Greatly. Research taught me the facts; the novel has taught me to understand people.
«A novel is not about demonstrating how much one knows, but about making the reader forget all the historiographical work and documentation behind it. Only when the documentation becomes imperceptible and living characters emerge does literature truly begin.»
What is your creative process like?
It always starts with an intuition. I discover a character or a situation that raises questions for me, and then a very long research process begins in archives, libraries, and contemporary sources.
What have you learned as a narrator and what are you still trying to improve?
I have learned that historical rigor alone is not enough to sustain a novel. What remains in the reader’s memory are the characters and human conflicts. In each book, I try to write with greater simplicity, eliminating all that is excessive or overwhelming in terms of historical data.
What advice would you give to someone wanting to write historical fiction?
I can only give advice from my professional perspective as a historian: first be a historian and then a novelist.
