Hunger's Brides

by W. Paul Anderson

  What I feel is His absence. It is why I once sought for him in the beauty of the world. This at least I can feel. My mind infers it, but so does my heart. This is an absence at least bearable to me—and in the hours when it is not, I look to the mountains in the east, I look to the stars, and feel my love returning, flooding me…. I know you will understand but I add this in the event this letter is intercepted: If I could be less than utterly convinced of His existence, how much more bearable would my Lover’s absence be.

  Núñez hates this. Every tone and syllable. Because he more than anyone understands this failing in me, comes closest to sharing it. Passionate yet disembodied love. Before Christ, it fails him—it lacks passion; before Her, this love shames him—it does not feel disembodied enough.

  Remembering that altar of his, I know that what he despises in my writing on sacred subjects is the well of sensual beauty I draw it from. Father Núñez has extinguished his gift. Only to find it reborn in me, rising to oppose him.

  I am the books, I am the beauty, I am the gift.

  And so my thoughts return often to that day with the Bishop when I went too far and yet, even sick with self-disgust, I continued to abuse the gift of speech from the heart in my lyrics for the humble Saint Bernard. I have heard Bishop Santa Cruz was in a rage when he learned they were cancelled, for it is precisely this heart speaking its secrets to God that for fifteen years Santa Cruz has pressed me to reveal to him. In banning them, Father Núñez has dashed any hopes of an alliance with the Bishop. So one less worry, a boon it is hard to feel I deserve.

  Santa Cruz calls this failure to feel the presence of Christ entirely normal. Spiritual aridity is the term, and it is a step on the via mística. What he mildly disapproves are the traces of worldliness still clinging to my sacred verses. Worldliness, the Bishop does not want either; what he wants is rapture.

  My, but how melancholy this letter has become. If this was to be my attempt to set your mind at rest, it is hard to pronounce it a success. I pause for now and will start tomorrow afresh. My thoughts are with you, the thoughts and prayers of the entire convent are with Tomás. Sweet Lysis, I pray that a note from you of happy news is but a league or two off from here, and that I shall be able to start again on a note of joy and thanksgiving. And if that note has not yet been written by the time you receive this one, give not another moment’s thought to writing until Tomás is well. Unless, dearest María Luisa, you should just need to talk….

  There. I hear Antonia on the stairs. She has news. And more energy at times than either of us knows what to do with. It is like trying to curb wild horses. More soon.

  Love,

  día 27 de noviembre del año 1690

  del convento de San Jerónimo,

  de la Ciudad Imperial de México,

  Nueva España

  EXTRACT FROM SISTER PHILOTHEA OF THE CROSS (I)

  My Lady,

  I have seen the letter in which you challenge the finezas of Christ predicated by the Reverend Father Antonio Vieyra in his Maundy Thursday sermon. So subtle is his reasoning that the most erudite have seen in it his singular talent outsoaring itself like a second Eagle of the Apocalypse, following the path laid out earlier by the Most Illustrious César Meneses…. In my view, though, whoever reads your treatment cannot deny that your quill was cut to a finer point than both men’s, so that they might rejoice to find themselves outdone by a woman who does her sex honour.

  I, at least, have admired the liveliness of concept, deftness of proof and energetic clarity that you have brought so convincingly to bear, this last being wisdom’s inseparable companion. For this reason the first utterance of the Divine Wisdom was light, since without illumination comes no word of wisdom. Even the words of Christ when he spoke of the highest mysteries, but under the veil of parable, did not evoke much wonder; and only when he chose to speak with clarity was his universal knowledge acclaimed. Such clarity is one of the many favours my lady owes to God; for clarity is to be had neither by effort nor persistence: it is a gift instilled in the soul.

  So that you might see yourself in letters more clearly traced, I have had your letter printed; and also that you might take better stock of the treasures God has invested in your soul, and be made thereafter more appreciative, more aware: for gratitude and understanding are twins born of the same childbed. And if as your letter claims, the more one receives from God the more one owes in return, few creatures find their accounts more in arrears than yours, for few have been bequeathed such talents, or have incurred thereby such a debt to Him. So if you have made good use of them thus far (which I must believe of anyone who professes religion), hereinafter may you use them better.

  My judgement is not so harsh a censor as to condemn verses—by virtue of which you have seen yourself so widely celebrated—a skill Saint Teresa, Saint Gregory of Nazianzus and other saints have sanctified with examples of sacred verse; but I would wish that you follow them not just in metre but also in the selection of your subjects.

  Nor do I subscribe to the vulgar prohibition of those who assail the practice of letters in women, since so many have devoted themselves to literary study, not a few even winning praise from Saint Jerome….

  Letters that engender arrogance, God does not want in a woman; but the Apostle does not condemn those that do not lead woman from a state of submission. It has been widely noted that study and knowledge have made of you a willing subject, and have served to hone your skills in the finer points of obedience; indeed, while other female religious sacrifice their free will to obedience, you make a captive of your intelligence, the most arduous and pleasing holocaust that may be offered up for slaughter on the altars of Religion….

  BISHOPS & QUEENS

  I see her pale face in the doorway. This news, I do not think I shall like.

  But her news is not of the Archbishop at all, and for just an instant I mistake the two booklets she holds for the most recent issue of our city’s Chronicle of Notable Events. She is trying to explain, so breathlessly as to have likely run the whole way….

  “I was at the Hindus, the one with the turban—”

  “Hindus—”

  “‘Two copies for you and your mistress,’ he says. ‘My compliments.’ They all have them—all the booksellers, dozens of copies—next to Inundación Castálida. People are already buying them as if they were yours—”

  “One is mine, I gather. Come, I’ll take the one you haven’t quite crushed yet….”

  “Juana, who is Philothea? E igua puta—how did she get your letter?”

  THE ATHENAGORIC LETTER

  by the Reverend Mother

  JUANA INÉS DE LA CRUZ

  a nun professed to the veil and choir

  of the very religious

  Convent of San Jerónimo of the City of Mexico, capital of New Spain.

  Printed and dedicated to her by

  SISTER PHILOTHEA DE LA CRUZ

  her most studious and devoted follower

  of the Convent of the Holy Trinity of Puebla de los Angeles.

  Licensed in the City of Angels, Diego Fernández de Leon, Printer. In the year 1690.

  Available in Puebla at the libreria Diego Fernández de Leon, under the Portal de las Flores

  This is not possible. Printed by Sor Philothea, costs assumed by Philothea. Using the Bishop’s regular printer. Licence signed by Santa Cruz, dedication by Philothea. The preface addressed to me:

  Sor Philothea is the Lord Bishop Manuel Fernández de Santa Cruz y Sahagún. If Antonia wants a harder question it’s this: What is the use of a disguise that lasts not five seconds? What is he doing—what has he done?

  I have seen the letter?—seen it, of course you have! I sent it, you asked. Why not ‘received’ it?

  But no, it was not Philothea who asked. Santa Cruz asked.

  “The Bishop did this? But Juana, it was private. He said—you said….” she adds helplessly.

  He said, I said. He said little, I on the other hand said rather a lot. No,
but this, this is beyond belief. Like a second Eagle of the Apocalypse … her quill cut finer … Deftness of proof, energetic clarity … Even Christ when he spoke of the highest mysteries, but under the veil of parable, did not provoke so much wonder…. He cannot think this is helping anyone—to be compared to Christ. Favourably? He cannot think this helps me.

  “Who is the Eagle of the Apocalypse, Juana?—¡caray!”

  “’Tonia, if you’re angry now, look at the third paragraph, where he complains about your handwriting.”

  So that you might see yourself in letters more clearly traced, I have had your letter printed …

  “What? Oh.” She almost manages a smile. “And now ese hijo de la mierda expects you to be grateful?—what he wants is everyone to see how clever he is!”

  Pacing in and out of the room reeling off questions and curses, reading out loud, whirling about at each turn, tresses swinging out like rope ends, Antonia is becoming quite magnificent in her fury. I would not like Santa Cruz’s chances if he were here. It is almost as if she truly hated him. But whatever her past grievances with Santa Cruz I have my own to nurse just now. And yes, talk of the Apocalypse I also could have done without.

  “Now if you’d like to try something truly difficult, Tonia, try reading, talking, cursing, asking and answering your own questions and the next hundred of mine.”

  No, furious was easier—her face looks awful. Seeing it, I have the sickening sense of one who has been dreading something so long she has forgotten what it was.

  “Toñita, would you give me some time to think this through? Then we’ll get to work, mi amor. ¿De acuerdo?”

  She goes into the study, greenish eyes glowing, rattles purposefully about at the workbench, getting ready to take dictation. I have no idea what ‘work’ means, but it felt good to say.

  This beggars belief. How can he be so stupid—can he not see what he’s done? We’ve done this together a dozen times. A private letter has every advantage, advantages a published one lacks. Power: in possession. Control: in choosing who gets access. Elusiveness: the letter is a ghost. The target hears snippets, conflicting versions, is never sure to have heard it all, to have seen the whole shape of the plot. Fighting it, Núñez feels himself flailing about, sees the hapless spectacle of ridicule he makes. But all the advantages are as dust: it’s the liabilities that count. The letter in private circulation is a rumour—published, it is evidence. And here the target is the Chief Censor of the Holy Inquisition! Publication plays right into his hands.

  We have made him a gift of his revenge, and made taking it his duty.

  But Santa Cruz has never been stupid. He knows the game better than anyone. He taught it to me. This is not a blunder. Is this to be some sort of lesson in the finer points of obedience? Then there has been some misunderstanding, I have given him no cause. He talks of gratitude—but how have I been ungrateful? And if as your letter claims, the more one receives from God the more one owes in return, few creatures find their accounts more in arrears than yours, for few have been bequeathed such talents … He paraphrases Saint Augustine. He mocks me with my own past … Indeed let the rich galleon of your genius sail freely, but on the high seas of the divine perfections … This is my examination by the scholars at the palace! But twenty years ago? I have never spoken to Santa Cruz about this. He was still in Spain—or is this about my Columbus and the Martyr of the Sacrament? He mocks me through my works. Mentions the mastery of Saint Joseph to tar another of my plays—or my carols, sung in Santa Cruz’s own cathedral this year—then deliberately confuses Joseph with Moses as a pretext for maligning the learning of Egypt. Calls it barbarous, and slyly denigrates my passion for Alexandria. … movements of the stars and heavens … disorder of the passions … Can this be about my carols on Saint Catherine? Yet if he was unhappy why give me the commission?

  No, this is not a lesson, this is a provocation. Catherine, Athena—he mocks me through my past, my work, my sex—our sex. Sor Philothea. Athenagoric, worthy of Athena, she titles it. Such wisdom, such energetic clarity. Such honours to our sex.

  But these are just provocations, dear Philothea, these are not so far from threats. Nor do I subscribe to the vulgar prohibition of those who assail the practice of letters in women … Letters that engender arrogance, God does not want in a woman…. lead a woman from a state of submission….

  A friend would not do this.

  It is night. Pleading illness I have asked to be excused from the prayers of Compline. Everyone knows why. I insist Antonia go.

  Publishing the letter, Santa Cruz deliberately exposes me. He publishes it in full. Even where I close stressing once again that this is for his eyes only. In a private letter, such a closing is what it seems to be. Published, it makes me look like an intriguer. The transparency of the pseudonym is now an asset—plainly Santa Cruz was making no effort at subterfuge. Philothea was merely to keep any worldly indignity from fastening upon the princes of the Church.

  And so the full weight of their opprobrium attaches … to me.

  By the time Antonia returns I am in a fury.

  Santa Cruz and I have been friends for seventeen years. I simply cannot believe he came that day intending to do this. Then what has happened since? Something in the letter itself. He is obviously angry about the negative finezas. He cannot think I meant him—that the greatest fineza is receiving no favour at all. Does he think I am asking to be free of his favour, my obligations to him? Free of him? Could he not see that for once I was speaking my heart? Is he so unaccustomed to my sincerity in questions of theology that he could mistake it, think I was playing him for a fool? When I write of those who are ‘blind and envious’ in my letter—does Santa Cruz not see in the humble Núñez, almost blind, a more likely target than himself? It is incredible. Can Santa Cruz be that dim, that proud, feel that unsure of my sentiments for him?

  But then maybe this can yet be undone! A misunderstanding after all?

  No. Yes. Quite incredible. No, not believable at all.

  Morning. Through the east and south windows a brilliant morning light streams past me and over the floor on either side of the writing desk here in the corner. It is as if I am hiding from it now, this energetic clarity. For almost a full day I have explained nothing, and for the past twelve hours have refused to see the obvious. The obvious is quite terrible.

  Our target was never Núñez. The target was Francisco Aguiar y Seijas. Archbishop of New Spain.

  I have been answering the wrong questions. Yes, yes, it’s clear why the pseudonym, even such a transparent one—but why a woman, why a nun? I had thought the irony directed at me. It is not. Archbishop Aguiar will see himself fairly surrounded now by nun theologians, Sor Juana and her followers. An attack of the Amazons, led by Athena herself. And everyone will see that he must see this. And he will know himself mocked for his hatred and his fear of us.

  Sor Philothea is a fiction, a figment, a demon. Sor Juana is real. Mine is the only name that is real.

  In my own letter so worthy of Athena I name neither Núñez nor Antonio Vieyra, nor even Santa Cruz. It is a letter, requested by a superior, on a certain sermon delivered by a certain predicator. I sign it only because anonymous documents send a dangerous signal to the Inquisition. But Sor Philothea in her preface—to me—names not just Vieyra but Vieyra’s own teacher, his mentor: Meneses. Just to say my quill is cut finer than even his. Why?

  Or might it just possibly be that Menenses is to Vieyra as Vieyra is to the Archbishop.

  Philothea, seeing no one named, sees her opportunity: she makes it seem as if my letter strikes at the Archbishop himself. The last vestige of an unstated connection to Father Núñez is quite forgotten. There is only the Archbishop now. How is the reader to think otherwise? I would believe it myself. Then, admonishing me, Philothea sidesteps his wrath.

  Sor Philothea is the matador, Sor Juana is the cape.

  Seventeen years. Santa Cruz has been a friend—to me, my nephew, my family. He gave my moth
er her last rites, took her confession, celebrated her funeral Mass. Have I been such a terrible friend?

  This makes no sense. He sounds more and more like Núñez. He writes of the haughty elations of our sex, exhorts me to obedience, to sacrifice my will, to hold my mind captive.

  I have done this thing out of obedience, put my mind at his service, done everything he asked. Then he turns on me that old shibboleth of Saint Paul, that a woman should not teach—yet even Saint Bernard admitted women might profit from study. I should really write more theology, Philothea says, even as she admonishes me in the preface to the theology I have just written. My lyrics to Saint Bernard were a sermon—and though such a thing is forbidden by the Council of Trent, Santa Cruz was furious when Núñez forbade the singing of them on those grounds.

  I have not answered it: what has happened since then?

  I should read occasionally in the book of the Lord Jesus Christ? How cruel, how cruel is my sister Philothea. I should write more on sacred subjects, she chides, when I have written how many religious plays and sacred loas—even as I was writing for Santa Cruz a suite on Saint Catherine.

  Now I am turning in circles. For even if Santa Cruz’s target was always the Archbishop—why publish? The question is the same. A private letter directed at the Archbishop has almost every advantage. Unless the Archbishop is so close to madness—does Santa Cruz imagine His Grace might collapse before he takes action against me? Does Santa Cruz even care?

  I see the face of my friend. Yet knowing what he has done I do not trust my memory of his face that day…. The eyes shine. A face like an adolescent’s but slightly bloated by the intervening years. The boyish smile that stretches the sparse moustache across a row of teeth perfectly formed yet overlarge for the narrow mouth. The thin lips, the impish chin, the muscular jaws, all this might have rendered the face squirrel-like, were it not for the incongruous languor of the Bishop’s voice and gestures. No. I would have it be incongruous but it is not. I have seen it many times before—his hand hovering over the confections of our convent, and it always seemed dear and comical, the way he attempts to resist his sweet tooth. Fairly torments himself before giving in. He thinks it is not noticeable. We think our notice is not noticeable….