Then the father general of your order, Juan Bautista Rubeo (Giambattista Rossi) arrived from Rome on his first visit to Spain. You were in dread of his opinion—but he only encouraged you to undertake further foundations, further afield. You acted surprised, but you were as ready as can be. It’s all you were waiting for. You got a little band of three of four nuns together and hopped into a wagon, under canvases stretched over a frame of rushes so nobody would see you, enclosure oblige—and off you went!
Did someone say “enclosure”?
And they’re off! At a trot, at a gallop, never at a walk, with detours, ruses, and ambushes galore, you’re a racehorse, Teresa, valiant and highly strung. A nun, with such a passion for the road? For the next fifteen years you will crisscross Spain, trudging on foot, mounted on a mule, rattled boneless in a coach. Escorted by a few devoted sisters and obliging men—secular priests who double as technical advisers, the occasional infatuated confessor—all undaunted by the hardships of nature and the iniquity of humans. Your energy as an epileptic prone to migraines astonishes your contemporaries, as well as posterity; from here, four centuries further on, it’s your tempo that fascinates me: you are a true composer of time.
Your impetus in this dash is loving and warlike. “Grant me trials, Lord, give me persecution!” Let’s go! Trotting, cantering, on horseback, on mule-back, in a coach, on foot! Bring your quills, your contacts, your wallets, your kind hearts! You, devout noblewomen, and you, knights and merchants, bishops and courtiers, kings and queens, let us mount and sally forth together in a glittering cavalcade, for the insidious enemy is on the prowl. But how to tell friend from foe? It’s war, the war of love.
If your blows fall short of the frail rampart, let’s sally forth again, to arms! I watch, I think, I burn, I complain, O love that fortifies my heart. Quick, each man to his post! The journey is in me, the battle too, brutal and furious: they alone can bring me peace. Peace, what peace? There is no peace. One hand alone cures and wounds me. And because my suffering never reaches its limits, a thousand times daily I die, and a thousand times am born, so far am I from my salvation. Here we go again, to horse, to horse, to horse, every soul a horse, there is no soul if not loving and warlike, warlike and in love.
All of a sudden the Babel of times and languages carries me away, too, me, Sylvia Leclercq, a therapist in my spare time, and suddenly Teresa’s tempo comes back to me in Italian: it’s the loving warlike gallop of Monteverdi,46 born fifty years after you, Teresa, my love; it’s his beat I hear drumming through your writings, rising, resonating, and harmonizing with you. Suddenly he supplies the sound I felt was missing as I read your texts. To lend meaning to his runaway music, the conductor at Saint Mark’s Basilica in Venice borrowed lyrics from Petrarch47 and from Giulio Strozzi,48 the first translator into Italian of Lazarillo de Tormes.
I hear you clearly now, Teresa, speaking to me in the voices of Petrarch, Strozzi, Monteverdi, all three Catholic Latins, and you excel in the race of love unto death:
E E E E G E C
Tut-ti tutti a ca-val-lo…
E E E E G E C
Tut-ti tutti a ca-val-lo…
C G G G G G C G G G G G
Tut-ti a ca-val-lo a ca-val-lo a ca-val-lo a ca-val
Quick, love is near, as near as the enemy, every man to his post, not a moment to lose, to your souls, to your souls, to your souls, there is no soul but one that’s warlike and in love:
E E E E G E C
Tut-ti tutti a ca-val-lo…
When I was young I dreamed of writing like that, galloping off on a text by Strozzi or Petrarch to the rhythms of Monteverdi. Quite recently—had he sensed this hidden attraction?—a president (but which?) blurted out to me: “Sylvia Leclercq is a racehorse!” This strange compliment, which I received with a proud gratification that baffled the friends who were present, brought me back to you, Teresa, via my Italians:
E E E E G E C
Tut-ti tutti a ca-val-lo…
But it’s no good, I will never, ever, neither in body nor on paper, possess anything like your fever; your velocity, suppleness, abrasiveness, and cunning; your jubilation, humility, and perfidy; your sharp claws and soft lethargy; your dexterity with a deathblow; your violent triumphs and grievous defeats, simplicity and glory, suffering and sadism, annihilation and perseverance, carelessness and obstinacy, serenity and anguish, toughness and tenderness; your spiteful kindness, amorous indifference, and desperate tenacity. Nor will I ever have that furious, caressing lucidity and unflagging watchfulness, always on behalf of that infinite Love of the Other, infinitely unfindable, infinitely imbued in you. Never, Teresa, my love! You were, they said, a true “spiritual conquistador.”
It’s raining, snowing, blowing up a storm. You’re feverish, you throw up, you scourge yourself, you mount a bad-tempered mule that bucks you off, the axle of your coach snaps on a rutted road, you fall over, you hurt yourself, you break a leg, you feel cold, you feel too hot, there’s nothing left to drink, you haven’t had a scrap to eat since goodness knows when, you were promised great things but it’s all fallen through, never mind! You’ll find another way in, a different path; you’ll prevail on one of your accomplices, quick, no time to lose; your purse is empty but you always find money somewhere; it matters and it doesn’t, the re-foundation has no need of a steady income, as you explain to all and sundry, and also they—sisters, brothers, creditors, friends, or foes—don’t matter either. What matters are deeds, what’s needed are works and more works.
Your love leads the dance, that sole, single, inexhaustible love, on the trot, at a gallop, no love but in the loving warlike soul, and for that soul, your soul, galloping along the highways and byways of Spain, of the world, of perfection, of the interior castle, of everything, of nothing:
E E E E G E C, E E E E G E C.
Tu-tti, tutti a ca-val-lo, tut-ti, tutti a ca-val-lo
Religious houses founded by Teresa of Jesus.
1562 Saint Joseph’s in Avila
1567 Medina del Campo
1568 Malagón
1568 Valladolid
1569 Toledo
1569 Pastrana
1570 Salamanca
1571 Alba de Tormes
1574 Segovia
1575 Beas de Segura
1575 Seville
1576 Caravaca
1580 Villanueva de la Jara
1580 Palencia
1581 Soria
1582 Burgos
1582 Granada
Chapter 24
TUTTI A CAVALLO
“That is too high-minded,” I replied, “and consequently cruel.”
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Humiliated and Insulted
I’m daydreaming, eyes wide open beneath their lids: I can see and hear her now, Teresa’s on her way, twenty years stretch ahead, counting from the first lines of the Life, and the only thing that will stop her is death. She’s got clean away from the family, from yesterday’s sisters, from the fathers of here or there, in order to be exiled in the Other and to carve Him a new place—invisible, impregnable, segregated from the world—in the world. She writes of transforming herself into God, uniting with God. At any rate, His Majesty cannot be winkled out of her. Neither “I” nor “we,” this dual entity sets off, arrives, struggles, founds, sets off again, battles with itself, starts over. Nothing but new beginnings. Let’s try to follow.
1567. Medina del Campo: a large market town with an international fair. Unexpectedly, wealthy converso merchants such as Simón Ruiz are prepared to back these nuns determined to live on nothing but alms and their humble crafts of embroidery and needlepoint…Did such fledgling entrepreneurs seek a place in the sun of the Church? Was it easier, more exciting, more promising to obtain this via innovators like Teresa, instead of hoary notables “who have the fat of an old Christian four fingers deep on their souls,” as Sancho puts it in Don Quixote?1 La Madre could not fail to interest them, for she did not comply with the estatutos de limpieza de sangre that excluded converted Jews
from the more prestigious convents, as well as from university colleges and town councils.
Since she began making foundations, La Madre has been blessed with more than visions: voices, too, are heard, whose messages she eagerly transcribes. The difference is that visions induce states of rapture, whereas voices spur to action. The voices—obviously the Lord’s—speak disparagingly of human prescriptions and laws: they convey the Word of the Beloved differently from how the world’s kingpins understand it. To speed things up—and Teresa is moving faster every day—it seems that thanks to these voices she, too, stands against the law, against the world, against the grain. “You will grow very foolish, daughter, if you look at the world’s laws. Fix your eyes on me, poor and despised by the world. Will the great ones of the world, perhaps, be great before me? Or, are you to be esteemed for lineage or for virtue?”2
At Medina, then, a new house opens on August 15, 1567: cousin Inés Tapia, now Inés de Jesús, will be the prioress. There are malcontents in town who grumble that this foundation is a fraud. Let them say what they like, God has given Teresa some true friends here: Pedro Fernández, the Dominican principal; the Jesuit Baltasar Álvarez, who accompanies La Madre in her spiritual life; and the Dominican García de Toledo, of course, dependably busy and protective, almost affectionate. No sooner has this inauguration been celebrated, than permission arrives to found two male monasteries under the Primitive Rule! Where should they be located?
Antonio de Heredia (Antonio de Jesús), a Carmelite of the Observation from Medina, takes an interest. But he’s too old, too difficult, Teresa balks, no. Let’s speed up:
tutti, tutti a cavallo
tutti, tutti a cavallo
tutti a cavallo a cavallo a cavallo a cavallo a cavallo a caval
tutti, tutti a cavallo
tutti a cavallo
Father Antonio introduces to the discalced nuns a bright young man fresh out of theology school at Salamanca, twenty-five-year-old Juan de Yepes, ordained as Juan de San Matías. Short and skinny, round-skulled and sharp-faced, he is the son of a rich weaver from Toledo (Toledan forebears and of Jewish stock, it seems—just like Teresa!), the hidalgo Gonzalo de Yepes, who was reputedly ruined by marrying Juan’s mother, a woman of Moorish and hence Muslim blood. This Juan de San Matías is an ascetic, disillusioned by the calced life; he yearns to withdraw from the world in the mountains of Segovia. He has shining eyes, an elliptical wit, and the fieriness of the Carthusians he wanted to join. He’s the one! Onward!
No, hold your horses, wait!
Luisa de la Cerda, Teresa’s generous patron and friend, slows things down again. This noble lady, who aspires to Heaven above all else, insists, absolutely insists that Teresa found a branch at Malagón, a little hamlet in the sticks. Teresa can’t see the point of dispatching her nuns to the middle of a field, when all they know is weaving and sewing. But Báñez is keen as well, and it’s hard to say no to him. Aha! Malagón, as she recalls, is not a million miles from Montilla, the home of Juan de Ávila. Doña Luisa, who often visits Andalusia, could deliver to him the manuscript of the Life, which Báñez has just returned to the author. Shush, not a word to Báñez, who doesn’t want the text to circulate and might feel sore if the other priest were roped in; best to take responsibility oneself and entrust the precious pages to Luisa. The foundress has embarked on a new chase. How to make sure her manuscript will reach its destination? It would seem writing a book is no less complicated than founding a new religious order!
To begin with—she’s always beginning—she must get in touch right away with Juan de Ávila, tell him of her forthcoming visit to the area, and send him the book in advance through Luisa. Although she dared to hope as much, Teresa is thrilled when the learned sage replies without delay and even looks kindly upon her journey: “You can better serve the Lord with this pilgrimage than by staying in your cell.”3 No hesitation, she’ll go to Malagón.
Meanwhile there’s no end of checking, finding out, keeping up to date: they stop in Alcalá de Henares on the way, at the discalced convent founded by María de Jesús. Poor woman, she hasn’t got a clue: too tough, too many penances. María is an innovator whose notions came in useful for the Constitutions, to be sure, but only on condition of being revised through and through, adapted to inner virtue, stripped of external rigors. That’s also what it means to be a foundress: the readiness to start over, over and over again, relying on one’s powers alone—besides the Voice of His Majesty, of course!
The problems pile up at Malagón. Where to find a spiritual director for a new monastery in this godforsaken spot? How about getting Tomás de Carleval from Baeza, Bernardino’s brother, a disciple of Juan de Ávila…But Bernardino was arrested by the Inquisition back in 1551. It might be reckless, a way of courting trouble.
On the other hand, attentive to the guidance of the master of Avila, Teresa doesn’t think twice before accepting converts at Malagón, that is, sisters in white veils, and starting a school for local girls. The young recruits have got to learn to read, otherwise they haven’t a hope of donning the black veil one day and reading the holy office!
And then, since troubles never come singly, how on earth is one to eat fish, as stipulated by the Constitutions, when there’s no fish to be had in Malagón? Never mind, let them eat meat, we’re in Spain after all, a carnivorous country if ever there was one, and too bad for the Constitution, decrees Teresa. Off they go again.
E E E E G E C
Tut-ti tutti a ca-val-lo…
E E E E G E C
Tut-ti tutti a ca-val-lo…
C G G G G G G C G G G G G
Tut-ti a ca-val-lo a ca-val-lo a ca-val-lo a ca-val-
C G G G G G
lo a ca-val-lo a ca-val
But it’s not that simple. La Madre does not for a moment forget about her manuscript: the Business she must attend to amongst her business.
May 18, 1568. Letter to Luisa de la Cerda: Why has she not yet sent the book of Teresa’s Life to maestro Ávila?
May 27. Another letter to Luisa. “Since you are so near him, I beg you…” Not to mention that Fray Báñez is also waiting on it, and since there is no way to photocopy the original, and Báñez must not find out about the author’s contacts with Juan de Ávila, “I’m distressed—I don’t know what to do.”4
June 9. Fresh bid to jog her ladyship’s memory. “In regard to what I entrusted to you, I beg you once more…”5
June 23. “Remember, since I entrusted my soul to you…”6
November 2. At last! “You have worked everything out so well…So I’m forgetting all the anger this caused me.” Juan de Ávila has emitted a positive verdict, the future saint “is satisfied with everything. He says only that some things should be explained further and that some terms should be changed.”7
Good grief! It took all of five letters to Luisa de la Cerda during that summer of 1568 to set the ball of the Life’s acceptance rolling: not that Teresa was really “attached” to the text, at least she claimed not to be; but it’s not that simple. Was it not essential for her to write down (or to “communicate,” as we say today) the “treasure” she concealed in her “center,” so as to found an interior Time within time as it flies by?
Summer 1568. To Valladolid. A great Mendoza, Bernardino of that name, wishes to settle the Discalced Carmelites into a house there, with a garden and vineyards. She cannot refuse, when the gallant gentleman is brother to the bishop of Avila, Álvaro de Mendoza, who blessed the foundation of the Convent of Saint Joseph’s in Avila!
Teresa stops off at Duruelo to visit the little house additionally offered by Bernardino, with a view to setting up the first convent for discalced monks. She makes a detour to Medina to bring back Juan de San Matías, promoting him to the rank of associate founder in the Valladolid venture.
Let’s see, how are we getting along in these noble lands so handsomely lavished upon us? There are so many mosquitoes in this lovely countryside that the sisters get malaria and die like flies. Ter
esa won’t be bullied, enough is enough, we’ll move into town. Álvaro’s sister María de Mendoza donates another house, it’s just what we need, we’ll put up all the fittings ourselves: cells, chapels, grilles, Teresa won’t settle for less than perfection; María Bautista will be the prioress. La Madre wants everyone to know that a convent must be to La Madre’s taste, she won’t bow to pressure from any quarter, whether the Mendozas or some estimable Jesuit such as Fr. Ripalda.
Four years later, on March 7, 1572, Teresa writes to inform María de Mendoza that she will not accept two postulants recommended by that lady. Is it because by her high standards, the young ladies showed an insufficient vocation? She’s a perfectionist, as we’ve seen: she doesn’t want one-eyed or sickly girls in her convent.
You’re hard-hearted, Teresa, and you know it, you’re proud of it, you’re not as Christlike as your voices make you out to be. A masochist overall, you are not above being a sadist at times, I will remind you of that. It helps, certainly: the times are as tough as you are, the Carmels hard to control, one has to fight, to keep tense as a bow in order to keep making foundations. But still!
The previous year, an auto-da-fe was held in Valladolid. Men and women accused of Lutheranism were burned at the stake. Most were conversos with connections to the Cazalla family; Agustín Cazalla, preacher to the king and his mother, was among them. There had been some contact between these circles and doña Guiomar, involving Teresa herself: although they were no longer in touch, prayer continued to link them. The world was coming down hard on the new paths she was trying to clear, it was out to silence His Voices, that much was clear. Oh well. Just distrust everyone and everything, follow your way of perfection more and more perfectly, and we’ll be off again,
Teresa, My Love Page 40