E E E E G E C
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Blessed be His Majesty, this hostile world is not only composed of enemies: some pure souls do exist, like that young Juan de San Matías. Might His Majesty have created him expressly for Teresa’s project? His is a life devoted to intelligent thought and great penance; “I believe our Lord has called him for this task.”8 In November 1568, Juan and Teresa, now a close-knit team, founded the masculine Convent of Duruelo. A shabbier, more frugal holy house can scarcely be imagined. Teresa stitched with her own hand the habit of the young monk who now took the name of Juan de la Cruz, John of the Cross.
And yet you are going to abandon him in the dark night of this utterly impoverished place, Teresa, my love, a pang of sorrow and pride in your heart, admiring him, but already a little distant. For he is passionately in thrall to the realm of the invisible, whereas you are committed to scattering the glints of the diamond of your soul, which encases the Third Person. John of the Cross will lose himself ever more in the purity of agonized contemplation, whereas you pursue your furious cavalcade for God.
F F F F A♭ F D♭
F F F F A♭ F D♭
D♭ A♭ A♭ A♭ A♭ A♭ A♭ D♭ A♭ A♭ A♭
A♭ A♭ D♭ A♭ A♭ A♭ A♭ A♭
F F F F A♭ F D♭
F F F F A♭ F D♭
Yes, I hear you clearly: after every conversation with John of the Cross, your gallop is slightly faster and yet slacker, dampened by melancholy. No, John’s nothingness will never crush the jewel of your inner dwelling places, it can only unleash a shiver in that heart of yours, which wants to be hard, which has to stay that way.
Now then, time to pull yourself together, to check your first foundation and tighten the bonds with the sisters at Saint Joseph’s in Avila. Indeed, but it’s impossible! A fresh proposal has arrived, supported by your new Jesuit friend, Pablo Hernández: to found a house in Toledo.
Toledo, is it? The city where grandfather Juan was traduced, where the sambenito embroidered with the Sánchez family name was hung up in the church of Santa Leocadia. A metropolis that presently numbers no fewer than twenty-four monasteries! A foundation in such a place is a crazy gamble! Maybe so, but that’s what La Madre likes about it.
A rich trader named Martín Ramírez has engaged to bequeath his worldly goods to the discalced institution at Toledo; in exchange, he wants to be buried in the chapel. Is this acceptable? A commoner giving himself the right to be buried in a convent, as though he were a nobleman? It goes without saying, however, that they will welcome the daughters of converso Jews. But Toledans are sharply divided over the fate of Archbishop Bartolomé de Carranza, arrested in 1559 and slammed into a Roman jail due to his friendship with Luis de Granada and other “spiritual” adepts of mental prayer; he has numerous enemies here. Some pious women nevertheless club together to have him freed, defying the Inquisitor General Fernando de Valdés. As though this were not enough to torpedo the Toledo venture, it soon transpires that the Ramírez bequest is no longer available; the permission to found keeps being delayed, and conservatives rail against the cheek of this little woman who proposes to found a religious house by cutting deals with tradespeople! Can anything else go wrong?
No need to panic. Teresa, who can be sweet and gracious when she chooses, pushes on with the works. Finally the ecclesiastical governor of the diocese, don Gómez Tello Girón, agrees to guarantee the project, on one condition: in order to avoid infection by the taint of trade, the convent must have no revenues and refuse any donation or patronage (thus shutting the vulgar Ramírez out of the picture; was he the problem all along?) The foundress feigns surprise. But Father, who suggested anything else? Our Constitutions impose a strict rule of poverty, I thought you knew.
Mother Teresa has three or four ducats to her name, enough to buy two straw pallets and a blanket. A mischievous pícaro who goes by the name of Alonso de Andrada offers help, in the form of the keys to a building he’s wangled who knows how. Teresa prefers not to inquire about such details, especially when they give off a whiff of irregularity. She is physically attacked by a neighbor, who hates the discalced movement. None of this prevents her from persevering with the work in hand—sweeping, repairing, and decorating the premises. At this point the owner of the place changes her mind, decides she doesn’t want the newfangled style of convent either. But at last Tello Girón returns from a trip, and the council grants permission. The happy ending is courtesy of the Voice of the Lord, who has demanded superhuman obstinacy from Teresa, mixed in with a degree of machination and shady dealings, it must be said.
On May 14, 1569, the first Mass is said in the new foundation at Toledo. More than a foundation, it has been a brilliantly forced passage, a seduction strategy, a feat of errancy and endurance. Nothing can resist you, Teresa. Perhaps your poverty is a form of high ambition? Your humility, a piece of brazen chutzpah?
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This gallop might have been smoother had it not clashed with other equally bold and no less brash schemes, usually from women. At this precise juncture, your soaring energy came up against that most formidable of Spanish grandees: Ana de Mendoza de la Cerda, princess of Eboli, wife of Prince Ruy Gómez—the most powerful personality after King Philip II—and great-granddaughter of don Pedro González de Mendoza, cardinal and archbishop of Toledo, dubbed “the third king of Spain.” Quite a package! She was a haughty, peremptory woman, minus an eye (could that be another reason why you didn’t want that sort of defect in your convent, Teresa?), capable of setting fire to everything around with “just one sun,” as the saying went, a spoiled and spendthrift princess. You were about to find this out, unfortunately, for here she was, nagging you to drop everything and go to Pastrana to found another convent, there’s no end to it. Off you went, willingly enough, since in the intoxication of your status as the go-to foundress, giddied by your ascent, you were still blind to the traps the Eboli woman would set for you, my naive Teresa.
No question of a wagon this time, it’s an unworthy vehicle for a Madre like yourself. The princess sends a stately coach, a fairy carriage! Along the way, your gallop—a golden gallop now—draws breath at Court, in Madrid! We know that His Majesty’s Voice is essential to your foundations, but that of King Philip II is not to be sneezed at either, is it?
The great ones of this world are solicitous, they promise to help. The great ladies are not to be outdone: Leonor de Mascarenhas, for instance, introduces you to a pair of hermits who will become your disciples, or almost. One can never be sure of seeing eye to eye with such original characters, but you’re an original yourself, aren’t you? The characters in question are Mariano de Azzaro and his friend the painter Giovanni Narducci, of whom more later.
At Pastrana you are given a suite in the Eboli palace and showered with treats, fueling the gossip of evil tongues: what behavior from a woman who always purports to be holier than thou! And yet sparks have flown between you and your hostess Ana de Mendoza from the beginning of your stay. You of course have no time for the courtiers and their “artificial displays” of lordship (autoridades postizas),9 and you say so bluntly. For her part the princess insists on an Augustinian sister to keep you company, although it is common knowledge that you only care to frequent nuns affiliated to your own discalced Rule. And so on. Eventually you settle on a prioress: Isabel de Santo Domingo, the spiritual daughter of the great reformed Franciscan Pedro de Alcántara who was such an inspiration to you, as we’ve seen. And a second monastery for men takes shape not far away, this time under the auspices of the prince of Eboli.
A change of decor is noticeable here: luxury congeals into morbidity and the atmosphere is sepulchral. As at Duruelo, the monks’ cells are adorned by crosses and death’s-heads. The hermits you recently met, Azzaro and Narducci, have renamed themselves fray Ambrosio Mariano de San Benito and fray Juan de la Miseria—that’s right, the painter whose portrait of you you weren’t too pleased with. These tw
o introduce the practice of perpetual worship to Pastrana: night and day, the Holy Sacrament must be attended by two praying brothers! This overwrought asceticism is as distasteful to you as that of young John of the Cross. The mournful rituals at Pastrana and Duruelo are beyond you; impressed but already somewhat detached, you think only of continuing the journey.
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Tut - ti tutti a ca - val - lo
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Tut - ti tutti a ca - va - lo
Her Highness of Eboli can stay put, she’s got what she wanted, her very own Carmel, like her relatives María de Mendoza and Luisa de la Cerda; in fact she’s got two of them. Let her stay in Pastrana, you won’t be climbing into her golden coach again, that’s a solemn vow; there have been too many compromises already.
The galloping is far from over, and you are more and more attentive to His Majesty’s Voices so that they might speak through your lips. Voices that dictate the proper balance between the gruesome penances favored by the recently discalced, and the worldly temptations entailed by princely palaces, but also by convents with questionable standards: between macabre skulls and the licentiousness of paradisiac illusions. The followers of Juan de Ávila and the Jesuits are alone in hearkening to those voices in your mouth; they alone hear you at this time, one of the most testing of your whole itinerary. Isn’t that enough encouragement to press on?
Meanwhile, family ties must be reorganized. You relegate the family of your sister Juana de Ovalle to its rightful place: too much familiarity is damaging. On the other hand you empower the role of your brother Lorenzo, who has returned from the “Indies” with a splendid fortune and a burning faith. It’s a good time to regulate your relationship with money: not too much but more than none, just enough for peace of mind and galloping on, but even so…Whatever the precautions, money comes at a price, and one that’s always too expensive. “Miserable is the rest achieved that costs so dearly. Frequently one obtains hell with money and buys everlasting fire and pain without end.” (“Negro descanso se procura, que tan caro cuesta. Muchas veces se procura con ellos el infierno y se compra fuego perdurable y pena sin fin.”)10
Fall 1570. Departure for Salamanca, this time. Another Jesuit, Martín Gutiérrez, has asked Teresa to start a house in this city of students and high-flown culture. Where can premises be found to rent in such a densely populated place? The Dominican Bartolomé de Medina is displeased: from the heights of his university chair, he advises the “little woman” to “stay at home.” Teresa trusts in her powers of persuasion. All she needs to do is pay a call to this snooty academic, and he’ll drop into the bag of her rhetoric like so many others.
Done: the inauguration is scheduled for November 1. The locale has not yet been decided, everything is provisional, but the main thing, the foundational gesture, has been achieved. The rest will follow. Ana de Tapia, now Ana de la Encarnación, has been chosen as the prioress.
Tut-ti tuttia ca-val-lo tut-ti tuttia ca-val-lo
tuttia caval-loa caval-loa caval-loa caval-loa caval
E E E E G E C, E E E E G E C
No chance of going to sleep on one’s laurels. At Medina, a new prioress must be appointed. The Carmelite provincial, Ángel de Salazar, uneasy about the reforms from the start, is opposed to the re-election of Inés de Jesús. He would prefer to have an unreformed nun from the Convent of the Incarnation; he is, moreover, backing the claims of the family of Isabel de los Ángeles, Simón Ruiz’s niece, fearful lest her fortune—money misery again!—be handed to the convent at their expense. Salazar angrily orders Teresa off the premises: what an excruciating humiliation! There will be no more galloping for a while, as she slinks crestfallen out of Medina on the bony back of a water-carrier’s donkey. She goes for succor to John of the Cross, and together they set off to make a foundation at Alba de Tormes.
January 1571. An accountant at the court of the dukes of Alba, prompted by his wife Teresa de Layz, had already called on Teresa to establish a convent in the rural surrounds of Alba de Tormes. By now, the foundress has learned the hard way that some minimum income is necessary, simply for the convent to exist and the sisters to live: in those days, many succumbed from their penances but also from starvation. She strikes a bargain: you will provide for food, clothing, and the needs of the sick, and accept all vocations without inquiring into “purity of blood.”
As always, La Madre travels to the sound of His Voice. Tested to the limit, but more than ever sure of the Other, Teresa is definitively a Third Person, you can’t miss it. A writer who outlines her own character, combined with a pragmatic woman—that’s what you call a foundress. Martin Gutiérrez, a few years younger, the rector of the Society of Jesus college in Salamanca,11 understands and supports her; but doesn’t their intimacy jeopardize her liberty? Since, she tells his Reverence, “I don’t think I’m attached to any person on earth, I felt some scruple and feared lest I begin to lose this freedom.” The Lord’s Voice responds promptly to this attachment anxiety, and reassures the troubled woman beneath the Carmelite habit: “Just as human beings desire companionship in order to communicate about the joys of their sensual nature, so the soul desires when there is someone who understands it to communicate about its joys and pains; and it becomes sad when there is no one.”12 Communication between souls, on a par with the sensual joys, is therefore not altogether banned between the Jesuit and the nun. That is certainly good news. Otherwise, how could she possibly proceed with making her foundations?
The Dominicans prove more resistant, this time, to Teresa’s charms. Pedro Fernández, the illustrious theologian who defended Teresa in the early days of her project, has gone over to the side of the provincial, Ángel de Salazar, who remains suspicious of it, as we’ve seen, and has begun to express his own reservations. Fortunately the Voice of His Majesty is once more on hand to confront the Dominican father who has become such a père-sévère: every time Fr. Fernández reproaches her for some failing, the Voice brings Teresa back to life. It’s perfectly true that I am incompetent and a sinner, Father, is the gist of her retort; but your objections help me to improve. I am profoundly grateful to you, for if I surpass myself it’s thanks to you, please don’t stop, it’s going rather well, don’t you agree? It’s going well, and better, and faster. Dash on!
tut-ti tut-ti a cavallo
tut-ti tut-ti a cavallo
tut-ti a cavallo a cavallo a cavallo a cavallo a cavallo a caval
tut-ti tut-ti a cavallo
tut-ti tut-ti a cavallo
October 1571. As the apostolic visitator to the Carmelites, the same Dominican father, Pedro Fernández, appoints Teresa as prioress to the Incarnation in July 1571. Such a strange idea must be the brainchild of Provincial Salazar—that would make sense. Being so deeply opposed to her foundations, it would suit him to nail her down inside a convent of 150 nuns, while appearing to honor her with a promotion! It’s nothing but a punishment, and Teresa sees right through it, as she writes to Luisa de la Cerda: “Oh, my lady, as one who has known the calm of our houses and now finds herself in the midst of this pandemonium, I don’t know how one can go on living.”13
The investiture ceremony goes horribly wrong. Afraid to lose their freedoms as calced nuns, the conservative Carmelites won’t let Teresa in. Protests, booing, and jeering greet the provincial when he utters the name of the Incarnation’s new prioress. “No!” shriek the incensed sisters. The only contrary opinion comes from Catalina de Castro, who pipes, almost inaudibly: “We want her, we love her!”
This staunchness is all it takes to rally a small, timid group of supporters. The antis grow heated; the timid camp grows larger. Scuffles break out. The constables are called in. At last the controversial prioress manages to slip inside the choir by the side door. Clutching an image of her father, Saint Joseph, Teresa sits down in the same stall she had occupied for twenty-seven years, when she was just a little nun. A blunder, in the daze of emotion? Or, on the contrary, a clever diplomatic ruse, a conscious diffidence that is
sure to pay off? No, rather a divine inspiration. And that’s just the beginning.
You are a mistress in the art of mise-en-scène, Teresa, my love. Oh yes, don’t misunderstand me, the right judgment of mise-en-scène is an art, like music, a kind of sanctity. Then you disappear for a moment, and return with a statue of our Lady, dressed in embroidered silk. Slowly and solemnly you place her in the prioress’s stall. You give her your official keys, you kneel at her feet and say in a soft voice (yours or His Majesty’s?):
“Behold our Lady of Mercy, dear daughters. She will be your prioress.”
Your words fell the rebels like a bolt of grace—a coup de foudre, indeed. From that moment on, the Incarnation was yours. No more insistent visitors, sensual dissipations, flirting in the parlor. During Lent, even fathers and mothers are excluded.
All the same, this new and unaccustomed rigor is not accepted by your subordinates without a struggle. It’s only human. A party of enterprising young blades decides to have it out with you: Does this prioress think she’s God? You receive their spokesman and continue spinning, without looking at him, through a torrent of cavalier eloquence. Finally you cut in:
“Henceforth Your Grace will kindly leave this monastery in peace. If Your Grace persists, I shall appeal to the king.”
Notwithstanding such smart raps on the knuckles, you are still a good mother who knows how to feed her daughters, I grant you that, my fixer Teresa. Francisco de Salcedo is in charge of provisions: sixty head of poultry, plenty of pulses, lettuces, and quinces. Your sister Juana is going to send some turkeys. All of the ingredients for some ollas podridas, as well as salpicón, perhaps, and endless supplies of yemas, my chum Juan would be delighted! The fine ladies of your acquaintance—the duchess of Alba, doña María de Mendoza, doña Magdalena de Ulloa—will contribute as much and more.…You are not anorexic, Teresa, or not any more, it’s a false rumor extrapolated from your early days. But you forbid jewelry and profane dances, it’s the least you can do. His Majesty knows only the music of angels and the spirit, and you do likewise.
Teresa, My Love Page 41