March 1639
I mentioned my interest in the Indies in a letter to my former professor at the Universidad de Salamanca. He has most kindly sent me a copy of a study he had by a Sevillian physician, Nicolás Monardes. It is a survey of the medicinal plants of America and is titled Joyful News out of the New Found World. Though it was written fifty years ago, from what I have studied thus far, it does not seem as though many of Monardes’s discoveries have been used here, though of course he mentions lignum vitae, the New World’s cure for its disease called syphilis. Can it be that God has hidden in this world the cure for all our ills, if only we are brave enough to find them? If only, in our rush to tame, we do not destroy.
April 1639
A friend has directed me to a most extensive study, which, though written in the time of Felipe II, has not been widely published. The author of this impressive work was one Dr. Francisco Hernández. There must be entries for over a thousand drugs and remedies, most of which Hernández learned of from the Aztecs. Among them is the use of sarsaparilla as a diuretic for kidney and bladder ailments. It can also be taken to treat rashes.
It is a matter of amazement to me that the Aztecs could have been so advanced in the study of medicine. For, although I do not know whether all of these remedies are effective, it can hardly be said that all treatments commonly practiced in Europe are in fact curative. No, it is rather the obviously systematic study that intrigues me, for how can such steadfast diligence help but lead to greater knowledge?
At least some of the peoples of these new lands must be more developed than is commonly thought. How I would love to observe them myself! Until that time, I will read what I can of them. Surely there are more writings by learned men who go beyond the simple descriptions penned by returned soldiers and merchants.
3
ANA
Ana slowly closed the journal, refraining from looking ahead to see when her name might appear. Though she had thought that she would rush through the writings, she decided to parse them, to prolong the time that she was hearing afresh from her Emilio.
As Ana pondered Emilio’s writing the next morning, she admitted to herself that she had never been much concerned with those lands so far away. It seemed that they touched her life not at all. From time to time Emilio would mention something about them, but she had often only half listened. Ana had been a girl in her father’s house, a woman in a convent, a wife in her husband’s home. How would thoughts of those alien lands even have entered her dreams?
Her day proceeded as usual, ministering to those who had come seeking her help. At times Ana would even skip her siesta if there were people waiting for her. Today had been such a day, and as she climbed the stairs to her room to prepare for the dinner at her brother’s home, Ana again reflected on Sebastián’s insistence on her presence at these periodic events. Perhaps he thought that she would feel needed to have a man to cater to, and this annoyed and touched her. Though he had not always succeeded, Sebastián had always tried to read her heart. If he truly thought that he required her aid, how could she deny him? If his motive was to make her feel needed, how could she rupture the complicity that is required when those we love seek to succor us?
Still, she wished that Sebastián were less demanding in his attempt to rescue her, even directing how she was to dress.
“You must look the part of the hostess of a house such as mine,” he had complained in the early days of her assumption of that role.
“But why must I wear the elaborate and extremely uncomfortable costume with which the wives of your acquaintances choose to adorn themselves? My apparel is in every way modest.”
“It is not about modesty. It is about what is expected in the household of someone of my rank. What you wear reflects upon me. After all, I am an important member of the Cortes of Madrid.”
And so Ana had acquiesced, though the hours of discomfort she endured had hardly seemed justifiable in light of the very few moments she was actually seen by her brother’s male guests. At his side, she briefly greeted the guests as they arrived, and then she and any ladies who had accompanied their husbands would retire to an adjoining room, where they dined separately from the men, ostensibly so they would not have to endure the masculine discussions of politics and the state of the country. Ana knew that for some of the women a dinner at Sebastián’s was a treat, as most husbands did not necessarily bring their wives to social events. Sebastián’s table was also always generously laid with marinated meats and stews, with fruits and almond cakes for dessert.
A few months before, Ana had brought up the subject of the furnishings in the room where the women dined. It consisted of the traditional accoutrements of mats, low tables, and large cushions. Ana had mentioned to her brother the opinion of her late husband, who had traveled in France and Italy, that the Spanish custom was a holdover from seven centuries of occupation by the Moors. Emilio had argued that, although the Catholic monarchs Ferdinand and Isabel had long ago rid the land of the last occupying Moors with the capture of Granada in that momentous year of 1492, and even the Moriscos, those of Christianized Muslim descent, had been expelled early in the present century, some Spaniards unwittingly clung to Moorish ways.
When Ana had broached the subject with her brother, he had replied, “Sister, I know that Emilio had an unusual arrangement in your home, and though I loved and respected him, he had some opinions with which I did not agree. We follow the custom of our own pure-blooded forefathers.” Ana had bitten her tongue and subjugated her opinion to her love for her brother, for he and Juliana were her only hope of escaping her loneliness. Then unexpectedly, some weeks later, Sebastián had installed chairs in the room, which surprised the women, but to which they happily adapted.
Three weeks ago, Sebastián had again shown his ability to alter his customs, and for the last two dinners, the men and women had eaten in the same room. Ana had noticed that the ladies, no less than the gentlemen, seemed uncomfortable, but Sebastián had announced his belief that the new arrangement would prove edifying for the women, allowing them to observe the serious nature of their husbands’ discourses. It would also curtail the idle gossip that he believed was the main focus of the ladies’ dinners. Finally, there was no need to further safeguard the modesty of the ladies, since all were proper wives with honorable husbands. Juliana, however, would no longer be allowed to attend.
Ana had mused that in some ways her brother was more open-minded than most of his peers. It seemed that at times he liked to flaunt his slightly unconventional ideas, including his belief that women should be educated, which in reality their father had instilled in him. Perhaps Sebastián felt that this image fit in well with his work as an arbitrista, those self-appointed creators of solutions to the country’s myriad problems.
As she now opened the door of her armario to choose which gown she would wear, Ana had to admit to herself that she had taken more care of her appearance for those last two dinners than she had done previously. It was not the case that she expected to attract the eye of one of the gentlemen, for she knew that she could not, even if she had aspired to it. No, her wish was simply that the guests might think, Sebastián’s sister looks less ill-favored than usual this evening.
Ana caught her reflection in the mirror above the paneled drawer fronts that served as her dressing table. The fingers of her left hand grazed her face lightly. She was again surprised at the discrepancy between the face she saw reflected back and the softened, more delicate version her imagination had soothed her mind into remembering. When she had been young, some days she had been able to unearth some pleasant aspect, if not beauty, but when she had entered the convent, Ana had forgone the use of a mirror, though many did not. Now she regretted those lost years, for when she had returned to the world, she had not been able to discover any kinder traces of the past. Though he had cared for her deeply, Emilio had never called her fair. While she told herself that she was glad Emilio had loved her for herself and not her face, part of her w
ould have relished inspiring love with beauty. Such beauty does not last, she knew from church and poetry and life, but it might have outlived her beloved. Surely, to have added loveliness to the world through her mere presence would not have been an evil gift.
Ana had loved Emilio, and his loss was a dagger in her heart, which only time would scar over. Still, she sometimes found herself wondering about another life that might have been. If she had been more comely, she might have married young, had children, and someday grandchildren to comfort her in her old age. “God made me thus,” was her oft-repeated chastisement and consolation when she sank into these musings, “and if my life has followed from the plainness of my face, then that, too, has been His will.”
Embracing this philosophy, and because of her status as a widow, Ana did not resort to the use of elaborate cosmetics: no ceruse foundation cream, over which pink or vermillion paint could be applied. She wore no wax upon her lips. There was something of submission to God’s will in this, but at the same time a kind of pride that said, I will not stoop to the futile indignity of trying to create a face that others will find more pleasing. She did spray herself with rosewater and spread almond paste upon her hands.
Unable to postpone it longer, Ana called Clara to her room to help her dress. She did not wear the most elaborate version of the guardainfante framework of whalebone hoops and osier twigs, but donning even a modified form required aid. Clara began her familiar refrain.
“I find it shameful that Don Sebastián should subject a respectable widow to the humiliation of dining with men not of her family.” Clara’s continuous reference to Ana as a “respectable widow” had begun to sound like advice, rather than description.
“It is Sebastián’s wish, and there is nothing immodest about it. In truth, I have found the political discussions particularly interesting,” Ana replied, as she stepped into the mass of hoops, which Clara then lifted to her waist, tied, and covered with a cinching corset.
“Interesting! Yes, I suppose that many improper things might be termed interesting,” retorted Clara, with an extra tug at the corset strings. Both women concentrated as they lifted the black silk dress over the underpinning they had just constructed. The skirt cascaded down the petticoat, and the hem gathered in folds upon the floor. Even when she had her leather shoes on, the hem would drag on the ground, the price a lady paid for keeping her feet concealed.
“You cannot tell me that those men are not harboring indecent thoughts when they see displayed before them women in disarray,” Clara continued, as she adjusted the ballooned sleeves, slashed at the wrists to reveal a lining of pale blue, the only relief to the widow’s black of Ana’s costume.
“I would hardly call it disarray to be sitting on a chair at a table.” Ana laughed. “Besides, you needn’t worry about me, since I am hardly likely to be the object of the gentlemen’s desires.”
“And what of the others?” Clara asked, as she continued to adjust the fall of the dress, and Ana could not help but feel some pain that Clara had not bothered to politely contradict her.
“Emilio approved,” Ana replied simply, using her proven weapon against Clara’s scolding. Ana knew that Clara had always held Emilio in such esteem that she would have counted him a living saint had this not seemed heretical to her.
“Well, Don Emilio—God rest his soul, though I’m sure he doesn’t need my blessing—even Don Emilio could be subject to some odd ideas from his readings about heathen lands.”
“Heathen, all under the mantle of Holy Mother Church? For shame, Clara!”
Clara did not respond, but pulled a little harder as she braided, twisted, and pinned Ana’s hair into place. Next she wrapped Ana’s manta over her body, covering her from head to foot, and silently walked with her to the door. Many fashionable ladies wore mantas of tulle or transparent silk, but the effect of these was often more one of coquetry than of modesty. Ana preferred her brown watered-silk manta, which allowed her to conceal the fact that at times she left the house wearing her comfortable but plain gowns.
Hoping to restore harmony, Ana said, “Besides, if I didn’t go to these dinners, how could I tell you about the ridiculous plain-lensed spectacles that Doña Elvira wore last week?”
“I thought that fashion was losing favor,” said Clara, conspiring with Ana to ignore the unpleasant moment of their discussion of each other’s virtue.
“Though she prides herself on wearing the epitome of the latest fashions, by the time she catches on, they are usually on the way out. Doña María was even more entertaining clumping about on her high-heeled chopines.” Both of the women laughed at the image of the portly señora teetering on her high cork heels. “At least my height allows me to forgo that particular insanity,” Ana said. She pulled the manta more closely around her face and stepped out her door and into her brother’s waiting carriage.
It was true, what she had told Clara: that the gentlemen’s political discourses had caught her interest. The week before, someone had cast aspersions on His Majesty’s favored minister, Marquis Luis Méndez de Haro, nephew of the former royal favorite, the much-maligned Count-Duke Olivares. One gentleman claimed that de Haro’s policies were what squelched trade and contributed to a series of monetary crises. While Ana had often heard her brother criticize de Haro’s ideas, and most especially the unfavorable Treaty of the Pyrenees, completed two years earlier, he did not blindly condemn all that de Haro did. At the dinner, Sebastián had reminded his guests that not all of the fault could be laid at de Haro’s door.
“The marquis cannot take all the blame, surely, for our dismal economy, for efforts to improve it meet only with hostility. The well-born Spaniard disdains the work of merchants as below him, and those who do successfully take it up are suspected of being conversos, with the blood of Jewish forebears running through their veins. Those of the highest aristocracy, whose wealth comes from their land, escape the stigma of work, as the very peasants who work their fields, by virtue of their poverty, it seems, boast of their pureza de sangre, pure blood untainted by Jew or Moor. These are hardly the attitudes of a society that would prosper in the world of trade, where only the ignorant peasant works and those successful men of higher birth are subjected to accusations of tainted ancestry.”
For a few moments no one replied to this attack upon the mores of the land, but then Sebastián’s guests had indulged in a heated defense of the superiority of Spain’s beliefs, of its love of honor, and of Catholicism.
Ana believed that Sebastián’s arguments had been in defense not only of de Haro, but of the programs of His Majesty’s government. As conditions in the country deteriorated, many whispered, then spoke aloud, uncomplimentary comparisons between Felipe IV and his grandfather the great Felipe II, or even between the current monarch and his father, but Sebastián was never one of these.
Many arbitristas freely disparaged His Majesty, but Sebastián, though his recommendations for change could be seen as an implied criticism of the king’s government, had once told Ana that he saw them as a kind of homage to Felipe, the offering of the product of his intellect to his most sovereign lord. Ana and Sebastián had often heard their father say that to speak ill of the king was to speak ill of the monarchy, of Spain itself, and Ana knew that Sebastián’s honor would never allow him to sink to the level of the complaining malcontents. Her brother had always been thus inclined, and his constancy had been repaid and reinforced by the monarch’s uncustomary indulgence upon the death of Juliana’s mother.
Yes, Clara, Ana thought, as she entered Sebastián’s home, I have found the discussions of my brother’s guests most enlightening, and I hope to do so again tonight.
But the evening had not been what Ana had hoped. The men seemed in a mood to make claims without providing reasoning, and the discussion soon descended into acrimony. As honorary hostess, Ana had felt it her duty to spare the ladies this ordeal and had reluctantly interrupted the discussion, begging the gentlemen to postpone their debate. Chivalry had at on
ce ruled, and most of the men had apologized, offering the quite plausible excuse that they were not accustomed to dining with ladies and had fallen into their usual habits.
Upon arriving home, Ana pled a headache, so as to limit discussion with Clara while the maid aided her in removing her encumbering garments. Having dismissed Clara, Ana retrieved from the chest at the end of her bed Emilio’s journal and pulled back the leather cover to reveal his fine hand.
4
Emilio
August 1639
I had hoped to be able to return to these pages with the answer that has so occupied my mind. But, alas, I find that the more I read, the less I am able to form a view of the natives of those lands across the sea.
I have taken advantage of the few political contacts that I have to get hold of manuscripts not generally available. One acquaintance, a secretary to a member of the Council of the Indies, has been most helpful in allowing me to borrow reports written for the council. When I expressed my concern that his position might be jeopardized if it were discovered that someone outside the official sphere was reading the papers, he answered that, for the man who had done such a great service to his family in treating his ill father, he was bound by honor to perform a service for me. Besides, he added, perhaps to further ease my discomfort, the manuscripts, some already decades old, were so numerous and so unorganized that no one would ever notice that any individual study was missing for a brief period of time. In the unlikely event that the file that I was reading should be asked for, he could readily retrieve it from me.
The Lines Between Us Page 2