Teresa, My Love

by Julia Kristeva

  TERESA, reading, in an angry voice. “I don’t know how from such a spirit you draw out so much vanity.”37 No, I won’t let her brag of having seen me on my deathbed. Let her reread my letters. I told her and wrote her a thousand times: it is selfish of you to care only about your own house! I dislike the way you think there’s no one capable of seeing things as you do. You think you know everything, yet you say you are humble. How dare you presume to reprimand Fr. Gratian! (Wrinkled nose, nausea.)

  (The defendant remains silent.)

  TERESA, staring intently at María de Ocampo. Yes indeed, this woman, my own relative, who I myself propelled into the coveted post of prioress, had the impertinence to meddle in what was none of her business! How could she have the slightest idea of what it means to talk to Gratian? Speaking with him is like speaking with…an angel, which he is and always has been. My friendship with this father troubled her soul, did it? Well, I did what I could, and I’m not sorry. (Straightens up in bed, lodges a pillow at her back, harangues the insolent phantom with closed eyes and disdainfully moving lips.) I call it a friendship, if you want to know. Friendship sets one free. It’s completely different from submission, and that’s what you never understood, my poor child. To think you wanted to “save” me from Gratian! (Forcefully.) Save me and send me back to Fr. Bánez, whom I was neglecting, in your opinion! So off you went almost every day with your nasty gossip to the illustrious Dominican, trying to turn him against me and Gratian! You proved inflexible, a stance no one has ever taken with me. Yes, inflexible, to put it mildly.38 (Pause.) No, I won’t open my eyes, you will have to leave unseen. You will be pardoned without the light of a look, without brightness. That’s all. It’s too much already. But forgiveness is my religion, as it is yours, in principle. “A wise man does not bar the room of pardon, for pardon is fair victory in war.”39 Who wrote that? (Teasing smile.) A “wise man,” perhaps, does not. Much harder for a woman. So what am I? Nothing. Go away now, you have my forgiveness, of course. But for pity’s sake spare me your presence.…Farewell, daughter!

  Teresa represses a desire to vomit. She mustn’t, it only suits young bodies, young women; the dying must make do with the rising gorge of revulsion. She clings to her friendship with Gratian, just to show María Bautista what it is to be a woman: a woman of God, obviously, both here and in the afterlife. But a woman nevertheless, always in want of something or other—in want of love, what else.

  TERESA. That prioress of Valladolid was smarter than me, perhaps. For one, she never wrote Gratian until he’d replied to her previous…at least, that’s what she said.40 It’s different with me, I’ve always been the servant of our padre, his true daughter, and it’s no concern of María Bautista’s what went on between him and me, Him and me.…Who is He? May our Lord be with us.…My head is so tired.…(Voice cracks.)

  Muffled footsteps, rustling habits, wet towels, cold water. Catalina de la Concepción and Catarina Bautista have come to take over from Ana and Teresita. La Madre meets their tender, vacuous gazes, her eyes try to smile, her lips quiver almost imperceptibly.

  TERESA. We are not lovely to look at when we die, but some of us are luminous. I don’t mean that a confession trickles at last from our naughty-baby mouths—for babies is what we become at the end—but…(pause). What comes out are ranting commonplaces, ready to be staged years hence by a certain Beckett. Rarely something original or striking. But one doesn’t fear Nothingness, and when not cursing this vile world while waiting for Godot, one may find one’s tortured, waxen countenance becoming lit by a futile glow.41 (Fast.) All things are nothing, and that’s fine. (To the two carers.) Don’t you worry, my dears. There is a great difference in the ways one may be.…

  Having tasted of spiritual wedding in life, Teresa now expects nothing from her Spouse but total dispossession. She will be emptied of Gratian, also. The ultimate mystery: Could Nothingness actually be Being? “Mas habéis de entender que va mucho de estar a estar.”42 The two nurses are bewildered: Is La Madre delirious, or is she seeing the Spouse? Already? Probably the latter, since she’s smiling.…A hideous smile all the same, stretching the lips that babble sounds in which the carers can only make out two, wearisome, obsessive words: all and nothing, nothing and all…todo and nada.…Silence.

  In a flash, look, a few vice-ridden little hussies skipping past. One is the anonymous novice, who will remain anonymous: it was she who spread the rumor about discalced nuns scourging each other while suspended from the ceiling.

  And this better-looking one, Ana de la Fuertísima Trinidad, a nosey parker who was always ferreting through my business, as if she wanted to impose an illegitimate proximity on me, or maybe she was a spy, but whose? The princess of Eboli? Officials of the Inquisition?

  As vices go, I prefer ambition and scope, thinks Teresa. In the style of Catalina de Cardona, say. Here she is: I project the black shadow of this melancholic soul over the Alcázar gate that pierces Avila’s girdle of walls.

  TERESA, calm and composed. You exerted quite a pull on me, as the daughter of the duke of Cardona, I can tell you that now, in the endgame of the end. (Pause. Cheeks reddening, elbows sunk into the mattress, makes huge effort to straighten up, fails, tries again.) You were governess to the ill-fated prince don Carlos, son of Philip II, weren’t you? And also to don John of Austria, the illegitimate child of Charles V? (Wrinkles nose.) Because I’m always attracted by rank and honor, nobody escapes the family sin, I know it. Your noble self, as a doña, had considerable appeal for me, I must admit. (Hands fingering veil, adjusting it on head.) Then, suddenly, aged forty, you marched into the desert of La Roda, laden with penitentiary chains and blood-soaked hair shirts, in the sole company of your demons—gray serpents and fierce mountain cats. Not to mention fasting, dear me, every day but Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday! (Gabbling, out of breath.) You chose to wear a monk’s cowl, and I’ll be frank, to me you’re just a kind of transvestite. At the Escorial palace, did Princess Juana and King Philip invite you in that guise? I had to put up with you; my penances were small fry, compared to yours. I wanted to equal you, which was confusing. That’s it, I was overcome with confusion when I thought about you—especially when the Toledo community, a convent you once briefly visited, described being enchanted by the odor of sanctity emanating from your clothes, although it strikes me that your grimy habit could not but stink to high heaven. I can’t help it, you see, I hate bad smells, I dread them, I run from them, there we are. (Getting redder and more voluble.) I trust my corpse will not be smelly, I’m sure it won’t be. Here, have a vision, I’ll share it for free: long after my death some good sisters will discover my fragrant body—so unlike yours, do you get me?—under a heap of limestone rocks (of course), and the news will astound the world. Jealous?

  (Catalina de Cardona’s shadow remains mute. No sign, no sound, petrified in its transvestite pose.)

  TERESA, in a hammy, pseudo-humble voice. I felt all mixed up before you, oh yes I did, and I confess it. His Majesty understood, and reassured me: “I value your obedience more,” His voice told me; you can imagine my relief. I didn’t ever get to be as mortified as you, or as dirty, and certainly not a man, needless to say—ha ha ha! (Open-mouthed, is she expiring, gagging, or laughing?) I know all about obedience. Most of the time I obeyed as sincerely as I could. Quite often I did so playfully, I can say that now. The Lord knew it, for nothing eludes His infinite wisdom, and He let me, because if I was pretending it was only to please Him. (Pause.) I know how to obey, then. Despite the hardness of my heart, which is certainly male. Harshness, too, I cultivated just to please my Spouse! But not in your way, oh no! A female I was and a female I find myself to be, for the purposes of suffering, of course. And for those of enjoyment, obviously! Especially! Not like you, no. But sure of His love, in sovereignty, like Him, whatever else might happen. With or without Gratian. With everything and with nothing.…You’d never understand. You see, we belong to two different species. There is a great difference in the ways one may be…(
Smiling.) To bud forth, to be drenched in water like a garden, streaming with joy, to say yes to everything, to nothing.…(Smiling again.) What else is there to do? To write, to make foundations, to hurry, because time is getting short, to lie…Truly I say this unto you.…(Lips.)

  At these words the black shade of Catalina de Cardona disappears from the place where Teresa was amused to see it—the Alcázar gate in the ramparts of Avila—and takes refuge, offended, in Carmelite memory.

  ACT 1, SCENE 3

  LA MADRE, with

  ANA DE SAN BARTOLOMÉ and TERESITA

  CASILDA DE PADILLA

  BEATRIZ DE LA MADRE DE DIOS

  TERESA DE LAYZ

  MARÍA ENRÍQUEZ DE TOLEDO, Duchess of Alba

  The voice and ghost of the EMPRESS MARIA THERESA

  The opalescent light of the death scene grows paler as the hours tick by. Even though La Madre knows her Spouse is waiting, her old, shrunken body cries out for motherly caresses. Does she really exist, this “mother without flaw”? Teresa no longer utters a word. Only her mind, the thoughts that leave her behind as they flee toward the Lord, clothe the visions—those wings, those ships—carrying her to Him.

  That young noblewoman advancing toward her bed, isn’t that Casilda de Padilla, the daughter of the Castilian adelantado, Juan de Padilla Manrique? Her father died when she was very young, leaving her to be raised by her mother, María de Acuña Manrique, and guided by her confessor Fr. Ripalda—the inspired Jesuit priest who ordered the writing of the Foundations.

  TERESA. I miss you, daughter. (Now her words run through the dying woman’s mind, through neurons that obstruct or let them pass, but no word is uttered.) Why did you leave me? Barely a year ago, it was. For the Franciscans of Santa Gadea, near Burgos, I seem to recall. (Long stare.) I recognized myself in you, or rather not—you ranked so far above me. And again, I hated that stubborn taste of mine for the finer things that drew me to you, that ambushed me in my unwitting state as a semi-Marrana determined not to know, that made me laugh at myself when I caught myself being so frivolous! First, from tender youth, like me you despised the world. (Fast.) They found a way to betroth you to a brother of your father’s, so as to keep the fortune and the family name; your brother and one sister had already taken vows, that was enough, they thought. Your parents obtained a papal dispensation to license the match with your uncle. You were only twelve at the time. You fled to a convent, they dragged you out, you went back, your uncle-husband got you out, you fled again, but this time you came to me, to the house at Valladolid.

  (The film rewinds inside her head, the brain sees, speaks without uttering, scrambles, speeds up, bumps into itself.)

  Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we. Your story reminds me of my own paternal uncle, the pious, unforgettable Pedro Sánchez. (Jumpy encephalogram.) No connection? You’re right, there isn’t. Except, and this is the point, that Uncle Pedro was the one who made me decide to take the veil. I can admit it now. Nobody knows, only you. Do you see? My story was the exact opposite of yours: I didn’t marry my uncle, he made me marry Jesus. Strange, isn’t it? By the grace of God, I escaped sooner than you did from the fate reserved for women, mothers, families. You took your time. You tried to do it through me. At last you obtained what I offered, didn’t you? (Pause.) In matters of love only the Other’s love endures, don’t you agree? The rest, including the attractions we feel as women, or especially those, is insoluble: the shadow of the mother gets in the way, do you follow me?

  Teresa contemplates her reflection in Casilda de Padilla’s specter, plunges into the other’s life before retreating, lucidly; doubles briefly back onto the self to loop the loops of the writing and the girls’ portraits sketched out in the Foundations. That’s not me, is it? It’s not me so who is it, who is she, what is a Me? Exile or castle? Dwelling places, maybe, but no me, there is no Me…unnameable Me that tells lies, basely splashing in the unnameable fount divine, of the Word rejuvenated.…

  TERESA, like an excited little girl. Is that still you, Casilda, or have I got you mixed up? Do you know you’re dressed like doña Catalina, my father’s first wife? In the clothes that were packed away in wardrobes and precious chests. How can that be.…

  CASILDA. You dressed me yourself, Mother, just now, with your own hands. (She’s trying to explain that it’s all happening in the older woman’s foggy mind. Or is it La Madre speaking, taking Casilda’s role? She stares at the visitor for a long time. Superimposed images, chromatic deluge.) You picked out this shantung skirt, made from the watered silk of old China, with a bias binding in slashed yellow taffeta and a red lining. And this violet damask bodice, ribbed with black velvet. You used to say your mother Beatriz used to put them on when she wasn’t feeling sad, until, near the end of her life, she wore nothing but black…

  TERESA. That’s right, I did, I remember now! (Carried away by reminiscence.) And you used to speak so sweetly about your own mother, and the joy and fun she gave you every day, that I felt quite at home. And yet that same wonderful mother provoked violent inner struggles in you, with her sainted praying. (Raising hands and holding them up, open, before eyes.) To be faithful to such a perfect mother, as I tried to be to mine, you couldn’t do better than leave the world that had caused her such grief, reject your marriage, and keep all your love for the holiness she herself aspired to, though she lacked the courage to pursue it wholeheartedly. Are you with me?

  CASILDA. I thought I cared for my betrothed, Madre, much more than his age might warrant. Rather as you loved your Uncle Pedro, if I understand correctly…(Reading from the Foundations.)43 “At the close of a day I had spent most happily with my fiancé…I became extremely sad at seeing how the day came to an end and that likewise all days would come to an end.”

  TERESA. All is nothing, I realized that at the same age you did. Or earlier. (Pause.)

  CASILDA. I began to hate the world in the midst of its pleasures. (Pause.)

  TERESA. We are much alike, daughter, and I love you because you persevered. Your mother couldn’t bear to lose you to a nunnery. God bless mothers who pray on the one hand, and cherish worldly vanities on the other; such mothers sow war in the souls and bodies of their daughters. And war is the only thing worth living, my daughter; I mean it. Peace? (Pause.) Ah, peace! You too, you mouth it like everyone else, “Peace! Peace!” You, of all people! Peace doesn’t exist, my heart. There is no peace, remember Jeremiah! (Voice cracks.)

  Casilda de Padilla will never know the thoughts of a mind now beyond the power of speech. She is full of her own story, as we all are.

  CASILDA. Father Báñez believed in the sincerity of my vocation. Twice I entered the convent at Valladolid, and twice I was expelled, even though I’d already put on the habit. I got no support from my mother; did she think I was being childish, or that I was possessed? (Pause.)

  TERESA. Maybe she wanted to test you? That’s what she told me, and your mother was a holy woman, my girl, believe you me. (Momentary smile.) So you worked out a compromise between you as follows. You signed away all your goods and assets, dear Casilda; that’s what it comes down to, choosing the religious life. Which is to say, choosing me—clear as day. Then your mother arranged with Rome to whisk you away from my lowly Carmelite house to become abbess at Santa Gadea, a convent founded by your own parents. Thus the family honor remained safe; but as for ours.…Let’s drop the subject, shall we? (Breathes out.)

  (Teresa is smiling, yet there’s no detectable expression on her placid face. Ana de San Bartolomé thinks she must be with her Creator. But she’s not there yet. Her mind wanders back to her part in Casilda’s story, for this was one of her favorite daughters.)

  TERESA. I can still see the way you lost your pursuers! (This movie doesn’t bother her, on the contrary, it’s entertaining.) Once you got safely into our house, your habit went straight back on. It suited you, it still does, I must say. But I hope you don’t mind if I like you better this way I dressed you just now? In that festooned skirt and purple
bodice, Sister, you bring my mother’s youth back to me! Between ourselves, our rough habits never make us forget that we’re women. (Pause.) There’s always something underneath.…Do you find that funny? (Pause.) And those unspoken wars the mothers waged, they passed them down to us, via invisible and downright twisted paths. But I can’t stop thinking that those paths, those secret conduits, are precisely what make us so quick to turn toward the Lord, and so amenable to that divine Spouse. (Forcefully.) Come now, don’t look so embarrassed! Keep them, keep the skirt I put on you and the top as well, I’d have given you all of Catalina’s clothes if I could. I like you. You please me because you please the Lord, it’s that simple, there’s no sin in it. It’s a game, let’s be merry, daughter, it’s only a game.…And playing is not forbidden, take it from me. Only today, for instance.…(Pause. Asleep. Dreaming.)

  (The mind journeys, but the stiffened body does not move. Has she become paralyzed?)

  Ana, Teresita, I don’t sense you anymore, are you there? (Wakes up, full face.) I know you can’t hear me, my voice won’t come out. I’m cold. This blue air chills me to the bone, I wish there were some warm arms around my neck. I long for nurturing breasts, soft lap. Hot water, the four waters of the divine garden. Can’t you see that I’m a newborn babe? Bathe me, fill my mouth with warm milk! (Convulsions. Thin trickle of blood from corner of mouth.)