In final answer to any anxiety I might feel on his behalf, he said, “Don Emilio, we trusted you with the life of my father. How could I not trust you with some papers?” At times I feel both blessed and unworthy to practice my profession. It offers me so much: a livelihood, the gratification of being able to help others, intellectual stimulation, and this gratitude from patients for simply performing the duties of my position, as does any man.
But to my subject, where I confess that my readings serve more to broaden than to dispel my confusion. Who are these people I would know? Are they barbarians, as described by so many returning conquistadores, who thus justified their slaughter? Or should we see in the very difference of those races an innate nobility that we have lost, as Peter Martyr d’Anghiera wrote in Decades over a century ago?
Juan de Betanzos, in his Narrative of the Incas, says that the conquistadores could not understand because they did not choose to do so, and that simply learning the language of a people can open the door to their ways. What does it say of those in the area of Brazil that they pierce their lips and cheeks with pointed bones or green stones, or paint their thighs and legs with dye, as Jean de Léry wrote? Though de Léry was both French and a minister of the heretical Calvinist group, his descriptions are intriguing, and the fact that he does not condemn even more so.
Perhaps we can see only what we already know. If we did not know a sailing ship for what it was, might we not, upon seeing it in the distance, think it some gigantic water bird, its head concealed by spreading wings? We might fear it for its power, or disdain it for its bestiality, but we would hardly ascribe to it complexity or sophistication, or any affinity to men such as ourselves. So it is with the men of the Indies, who might be other than we see, with our quick labels of savagery or nobility. Perhaps they are neither so base nor so exalted, but merely men, who have constructed for themselves ideas and rules to try to understand and tame the world around them, as we have constructed country, honor, and perhaps even religion (though it would be construed heretical to say so) to explain and complicate our lives.
November 1639
I despair of ever understanding the population of the New World. It is not only that the European writings contradict one another, but also that the number and variety of the groups of peoples there is so vast. If a stranger from a faraway land came to what we call Europe, what would he see—one group: Europeans; dozens of groups: French, Dutch, Spaniards, English; hundreds of groups: Andalusians, Neapolitans, Lombards, Scots; or thousands: Castilian hidalgos, Roman priests, Venetian beggars, English tradesmen? Stranger still, would they classify us in ways we have yet to imagine? Thus I wonder whether we have clustered and arranged those inhabitants of the Indies as they divide or unite themselves.
Some even put forward the theory that the Indians were made by nature to be our slaves. It is doubtful that before we invaded the lands of the Indies, their inhabitants saw themselves as slaves to men whose existence they did not imagine. Yet what they are now will forever be a reaction to what has happened to them since we strangers came. The peoples who were there are no more. And what of the tens of thousands we have killed with our greed, our diseases, and our swords?
March 1640
Though I have not altered my belief that we have forever changed the true face of the Americas, I am told that there is still much to be seen there that is fantastic and novel, both the peoples and the landscape, which is said to be passing strange.
I have thought of a way that I might make my journey, by putting on as ship’s physician in some trading fleet to the Indies, though this must remain a future dream. For now, my duties to my family must prevail. I shall hold close and secret my vision of a voyage to those lands.
July 1640
I will be traveling much sooner than I had anticipated, but not to my desired destination. My brother has asked me to go to Naples for him, to oversee the selling of some of his assets there. I cannot deny that I undertake this trip with some reluctance. I have little experience with matters of business, but my brother has taken pains to explain to me in some detail the nature of my task there, and I believe it will not lie outside the realm of my competence.
The other reason for my hesitance is one that I would confess only to myself, for I fear that it betrays some smallness of character on my part. Does it not seem presumptuous of my brother to ask me for help, when his business was given to him exclusively by our father? It is true that our father felt that to divide the business would have provided neither of us with sufficient income to live in a style suited to our birth, and that he paid generously for my education. Neither has my brother become fantastically wealthy, though he and his family live very comfortably, while I have had to earn my way as a physician, a profession that many of my birth would disdain. Though I find my occupation’s rewards go far beyond the monetary, this is simply a happy circumstance. I might just as easily have found myself earning my way by some more irksome means.
Still, my brother will pay for the journey and compensate me well for my time. He says there is no one else he can trust in these dealings, and so he relies upon me. I shall go by sea and thus test my constitution for the rigors of such a voyage.
5
ANA
If there had been witnesses, they would have seen the jerking movements sometimes made in sleep, a physical connection to the world of dreams, unlooked for and disconcerting, emissaries that, when they awaken us, add to our unease. Ana knew that the dreams had commenced at the time of her sister-in-law’s death, some sixteen years earlier, yet in the dream she was always a child, not understanding the source of her terror but perceiving the dread and fascination of those around her.
Ana put the dream from her mind, as much as she was ever able to do. Life may be a dream, and even that dream composed of dreams, as Don Calderón de la Barca suggested in his play, but Ana had found that often dreams were more intense, not more ephemeral, than waking reality. Too frequently sleep did not offer the desired oblivion.
Nor had her dream put out of her mind the pages she had read the night before. Emilio had continued with his speculations about the New World, and though the pages dated from before she knew him, she could not help but feel hurt by the fact that he had never spoken in any depth to her of these studies and speculation. Neither had he ever spoken of his desire to venture across the sea.
Putting these thoughts aside, Ana pushed back the bed curtains. It was early, for the light had barely begun to show itself through the opaque windows, but she decided to rise and manage her dress alone, since she did not wish to hear Clara’s prattle this morning, her sermons of responsibility. Ana had done her share of duty.
Yet she recognized that solace could be found in helping others, as she had learned at the convent and in her work with Emilio. Those who came for her help were those who could only rely on her charity, for they had no other resources. Ana did not live lavishly and so could use what she had to help others. Her brother had objected to his sister’s doing such work, though he had kept that to himself while Emilio had lived, but in this Ana had not allowed him to overrule her.
As she approached the part of the house that had been reserved for her ministering, already there were people waiting for her in the courtyard. She greeted them all, assuring them that she would give to each what help she could. She silently prayed that it would be enough, if not to save, at least to mitigate pain or postpone tragedy.
The day went quickly as she immersed herself in the maladies of others, and at its end she asked to have a simple meal brought to her room, as she had no energy for anything more formal. The quiet of her room was a welcome shelter, and she ate and then readied herself for bed.
Juliana had asked to meet her the following morning for Mass, and Ana wished to be well rested for her time with her beloved niece, with whom she expected to spend much of the day. She knew that Sebastián had treated his daughter to an afternoon at the theater that day, and she hoped that the girl would wish to sha
re her experience with her aunt.
Sebastián, though strict with Juliana, was not of the opinion, as were so many fathers, that to educate a daughter was to invite rebellious behavior. He had declared that, were a student to receive proper guidance, education would not only enlighten the mind but refine the sensibilities, sharpen the understanding, and instill a respect for propriety. The course of Juliana’s studies had been quite dry, and Ana had suggested to her brother that some lighter reading, such as works of fiction, would not only be enjoyable but could be edifying as well.
Finally, Sebastián had relented. “Very well, but I will select the books. Heaven knows what you might see as fit reading for a young girl, Ana. Undoubtedly, you would think that even a picaresque novel—Lazarillo de Tormes, perhaps, or a ridiculous tale of chivalrous knights—would be appropriate. Cervantes had it right when he skewered those fantastical works, which pose for their heroes some simplistic problems, inevitably solved with a sword, and set women to dreaming of brave and handsome fools. Still, neither would I have my daughter read Don Quixote. Though the object of the parody is well deserving of the treatment it receives, I’ll not have my daughter learn that subtle form of disrespect.”
“No, I would not have had her read any of those works,” Ana had replied, though it was more the disillusion of the second part of the Quixote from which she would desire to shield Juliana. There would be opportunity enough later in her niece’s life to understand the poignancy of the fate of the would-be knight errant.
Sebastián had decided upon works of some fairly contemporary playwrights, who conveyed the types of lessons he wanted his daughter to learn. He had given Juliana a beautiful leather journal on her birthday, believing that it would be an added inducement to a serious study of the morals to be found in the works. Ana had been touched to see how pleased her niece had been with her gift, a far cry from the new gown or necklace that other girls of her age and class would have received.
Ana again considered a comment her niece had made the week before. Juliana had not shared very much with Ana about her studies, and Ana had felt a little hurt. She had waited for the girl to mention something about her readings, but when she hadn’t, Ana had brought up the subject. A murmured “My father is not satisfied with how I view the plays,” was the only response she had received, and Ana did not press her, for she knew that Juliana loved and respected her father and wished to please him.
The previous evening, as she had bidden farewell to Sebastián, Ana had commented on the upcoming trip to the theater. “I have put it off for as long as I could, being reluctant to expose Juliana to the gaze of so many young men, but I hope that seeing a play performed will give her a better understanding of its intended message,” her brother had replied seriously, and Ana had recalled Juliana’s words.
As she pulled out Emilio’s journal, Ana brushed aside any disquieting implications of these remarks and hoped that the experience of having seen a play performed would make Juliana more loquacious about her studies. She smiled to herself in anticipation of the time she would spend with her niece, as she opened the book on her lap. She would read only a little while. She had gotten to a section where Emilio had inserted some extra sheets. This would work out well, for they were brief, and Ana could read them and then rest. Emilio must not have taken his journal on the trip of which he had spoken, for these sheets were written in Padua. In his enthusiasm for the medical discussions he had engaged in there, he seemed not to have been able to wait until his return home to record his thoughts.
6
Emilio
Padua, September 1640
Having concluded my brother’s business in Naples, I traveled north to Padua, desirous as I was of attending some lectures at the university here, this great seat of medical learning, where Andreas Vesalius himself studied and gave us his great work, De Humani Corporis Fabrica Libri Septem, on the anatomy of the human body. I treasure my own copy of this book, which my mentor gave to me upon completion of my studies at the Universidad de Salamanca. His grandfather had known Vesalius when the great anatomist had been at the court of Felipe II, and so he valued the book all the more, and the gift touched me greatly.
As exciting as Vesalius’s refutation of Galen’s view of human anatomy was for the last century, I believe that the work of an Englishman named William Harvey may be to ours. I had heard of a book he published a decade ago, but many refuted it at the time. Harvey received his doctorate in Padua in 1602, and some here still remember his brilliance. They tell me of Harvey’s exciting work on the topic of human blood. Making use of the description of the valves in the veins, done by his teacher here, Giralomo Fabrizio, and of his own extensive observations, measurements, and calculations, Harvey has shown that the blood cannot be constantly made in the liver and sent to the tissues, as Galen taught. Harvey believes that the blood is constantly circulated throughout the body, and that this is the reason for the beating of the heart! I do not know how this new understanding might one day affect the way we practice our profession, but these new discoveries are like finding another world within us.
7
ANA
It had been a long time since Ana had anticipated a day with true delight, but the prospect of seeing Juliana afforded her great pleasure. Ana set aside the nagging doubt she had experienced the previous night upon reading of Emilio’s excitement about the future of his calling. She had known that the ministrations she offered were merely pale imitations of what Emilio would have been able to employ. Still, she decided to forgive herself for not having the training that would never have been allowed her as a woman anyway, and turned her thoughts to her niece.
Juliana had been not merely ardent in her request, but insistent that they attend Mass at the Iglesia de San Nicolás where Ana, but not Juliana, usually worshipped. Ana suspected that there was a certain young man there whose smile Juliana sought, but she could see no harm in this, though she knew that Sebastián would not tolerate even this small liberty to be taken with his daughter. Still, Ana could not reproach herself. Accompanying her niece to Holy Mass could hardly qualify her as a go-between. She was also anxious to hear Juliana’s impressions of the theater.
Ana would take Communion at Mass and so would not breakfast. Having dressed and descended, Ana instructed Clara that dinner should be light, donned her manta, and left the house.
As Ana approached the twelfth-century Iglesia de San Nicolás, she studied the brick tower with its horseshoe arches. The Mudéjar architecture was unmistakable, and she had even heard it said that the tower had originally been the minaret of a Moorish mosque. Some were scandalized at such a thought, but Ana believed it and even found it fitting that the beautiful structure had, like so many of the Moors themselves, become part of the one true faith.
Ana thought that she saw Juliana, though it was difficult to distinguish one young lady from another in the sea of mantas. In Ana’s youth, one would have seen many women wearing the tapado, the veil that revealed only a hint of the face beneath. More than twenty years ago His Majesty had prohibited that covering attire, and he had not been the first to try to forbid it. Those who defied the law risked a fine of a thousand maravedís, and double that for second offenders. Still, courtesans used it to pass themselves off as ladies of quality, and even highborn women sometimes made a clever use of the tapado, adding mystery meant more to excite men than to repel them.
Having finally sighted Juliana and the squat figure of Silvia, dueña to Juliana, as she had been to Ana in her childhood, Ana headed for the pair. As she approached, she noticed her niece looking about, the manta exaggerating the discreet movements of her head. Ana thought that she was looking for Antonio, whom Juliana had mentioned to her in passing the week before, with the hint of a blush coloring her cheeks. Nearing Juliana and Silvia, however, she noticed that the girl’s movements seemed agitated.
Upon reaching her niece, Ana was taken aback. This was more than disappointment at not seeing a dashing young gentleman. Julian
a’s eyes were red, her skin pale and translucent. In response to Juliana’s quiet greeting “Buenos días, Tía,” Ana took her niece’s hands in hers.
“Juliana, querida, what is wrong?” Before Juliana could answer, Silvia stepped to Juliana’s side, close to Ana, nearly blocking Juliana from Ana’s view.
“She does not feel well, Doña Ana. I begged her not to come to Mass, but as we were afraid that word would not reach you before you left, Juliana did not want to leave you waiting.”
Ana hid the annoyance she felt at Silvia’s interference as she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry that you have come. Juliana really does look quite unwell.”
“Perhaps it is something she ate, or the excitement of her excursion to the theater yesterday.” Again Silvia had replied, and Juliana seemed content to have it so.
“Has Sebastián seen her? I’m surprised he let her leave the house in such a condition.”
Silvia and Juliana exchanged glances, and Silvia explained, “We did not see Don Sebastián this morning.”
“Perhaps we should not stay for Mass but take Juliana home.”
“Oh, no, Tía!” Juliana had found her voice. “I must stay for Mass, and I also wish to make my confession.”
“What sins can you have, mi amor, that would need to be confessed?”
“Please, Tía Ana—I feel fine. Please allow me to stay.”
Ana chided herself for the frivolous motivations she had ascribed to her niece’s desire to attend Mass. Juliana was a serious young girl, much as Ana herself had been, and Ana remembered the need she had sometimes felt to seek comfort in the confessional for some small infraction of thought, word, or deed.
The Lines Between Us Page 3