The disappointment was evident in Mercedes’s face. Even after having lived here all of her life, she was still too young to hide her innermost thoughts. It was a skill that I had just discovered had escaped me when most I needed it. Mercedes altered her expression, looked down humbly, and whispered her acceptance.
I began to read aloud from the life of St. Francis of Assisi. He had always been one of the saints I most appreciated. The way that he was always pictured with animals was what had appealed to me more than any particular manifestation of his holiness. I slowly began to notice, as we read first the life of St. Francis and then that of some of the other saints, that what appealed to Mercedes was the asceticism that was such a major thrust in so many of these stories. Although she was usually shy and quiet, she overcame her reticence and remarked, “The saints must have loved Our Lord very much to have suffered so much for Him. I hope that I will someday be able to love Our Lord that much.”
For me it has always been difficult to identify the pain of intense sacrifice with love. I have found that it is rather the kindness shown to us by another that can reveal to us Our Lord’s goodness and show our hearts what love can be. Such was the gift that Madre gave to me today.
29 September 1673
I have always looked to learning to answer all of my questions, but have wise men found the secret there, or do they, too, pretend? No learning could have saved me from what I suffered. God did not save me either. Is it not His duty, as Father, to care for those He has created? We condemn the human father who starts new life, only to abandon it. Can we expect less of the Eternal Father? I know these thoughts and doubts to be sin, and I would be condemned by the Inquisition if ever anyone were to read them, but in my low state, I cannot even bring myself to care. Perhaps the delusion that drives some of my sisters to punish themselves only masks the madness of not knowing, as though their sacrifice can make Him real.
18 February 1674
There are times when even the thought of my Mercedes fails to bring me joy, for if this is life, what favor have I done her? Sometimes it feels as though she were an insubstantial ghost to me, which could affect me neither one way nor the other.
5 August 1675
Over the years, when the darkness comes, I have at times thought to seek advice from my confessor. He is a kind man, but he does not comprehend the hopelessness and emptiness that at times overcome me, and he even seems a little frightened at the extreme nature of what I am describing. He gives me the rote answers, and counsels me to pray and do penance.
7 April 1678
I turn to these pages, for I feel it is the only place that I can express my fears. Madre Mónica’s health seems to worsen as the weeks go by, and I find myself performing many functions for her. The need for help, which I believe she feigned so many years ago to see whether she and I were souls of a kind, has become genuine. My concern for her deepens as I see daily tasks becoming ever more difficult for her. I must also admit that it is my selfish desire not to lose her companionship that makes me lament her condition all the more.
9 August
Madre Mónica has passed on to her reward.
I am the new abbess, a position I never desired. My sisters have chosen me, I’m certain, because of my closeness to our beloved Madre Superior, and because they rightly assume that I already know the business of running the convent. If they knew how unfit I am, both because of what happened to me so long ago and because of my own sometime doubts, I would not have to accept this burden, but I, too, am subject to my vow of obedience.
30 June 1679
Some days now are filled with convent business, but even these leave time for contemplation and prayer. At times I am able to pray sincerely. More often, my prayers, the product of long habit, pass through my mind as something seen in the periphery of vision, present but of little import.
At times I cannot help but return to the past. Although Our Lord commanded forgiveness, I know that in my heart I will never be able to pardon what Don Lorenzo did to me. I tell myself that Mercedes was the gift God gave me to heal my soul, but even this motherhood has been a blighted one.
When I think of my father, who both loved and betrayed me, I realize that I have long since let go of my rancor for what he did to me, for the life I have lived because he placed his honor above all else. Now he is only a memory to me, a dream, nor yet a dream. For years each night when I have lain down to rest, I have hoped to dream of him, to once again see his face, even as but the creation of my own slumbering imagination. But this has been denied to me. If I dream of him, I do not remember.
It is only these occasional writings that I have made and kept, and the sight of my daughter, that remind me that my memories were once reality.
11 November 1680
If suffering brings us to the Lord, why do I so seldom feel that I have found Him? Should I close my mind to my thoughts and insist that I believe, insist even to myself?
Lord, I pray to You to help me, though I do not know if You are there to hear me, though I do not know if You can care.
1 December 1681
I see what I wrote here a year ago, and I feel that I should also record that at times I have been content and even happy here. I can sometimes even believe that my prayers might help others, and I find solace in this. It is some small way in which I can exist outside these walls.
I will say that it has been difficult to keep up my enthusiasm for study. Without my dear Madre Mónica to share my interest, books are at times no more than cold comfort.
30 January 1683
Although we live away from the world, as Madre Superior I do have more contact with others. As was the case with Madre Mónica, there are those who have begun to include news of the world in our correspondence about the convent’s business. I have recently been told of an astonishingly learned nun, living here in Mexico City, who entered the convent so as to have no distractions from her studies.
I am delighted, and also somewhat puzzled. I must admit that I was surprised to find a woman as learned as Madre Mónica in this land that I had always, in my ignorance, considered an uncultured wilderness. So many of my father’s friends spoke of New Spain only in terms of a means to gain riches. I have come to understand, though, that there are people of taste and culture here, and even women of learning, though Madre once told me that her level of education was quite unusual for a woman here in the New World, just as it was in the Old.
1 April
After my request for further information about the learned nun whom one of the patrons of the convent mentioned in a letter, I have been told that her name is Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. A copy of some of her poems was also enclosed.
The poems are of the highest quality, comparable to much of the poetry that I read at home in Spain. But this speaks to me as a woman. I sense that it is penned by a woman’s hand yet is neither sentimental nor ecstatically mystical, as is the small amount of poetry by women that I have read before, including that of my patron, Santa Teresa. Sor Juana’s poetry is more refined and subtle, containing complexities of feeling that are a revelation to the soul and mind.
One poem is in the voice of a newly widowed woman, lamenting the death of her husband, questioning why she has been left behind. One marvels at the knowledge that this is nothing that the poetess has ever gone through. Yet also for me, the poem seemed to cause me to mourn a love that I will never know, a love the loss of which dims all other pain. The voice of the widow protests that heaven, jealous of her happiness, took her beloved from her. But what did I have that God so envied as to take even a hope of love from me?
Some poems speak of jealousy, the torments of love, or the sorrow of missing another, in terms so affecting, it is as if the reader can live another’s life through Sor Juana’s poems. How has she summoned these sentiments and committed them to paper? Perhaps it is that the passions are universal, and the creative mind need only imagine circumstances in which to place them to ignite another’s soul.
; 15 December 1686
I have not entered my thoughts here for some years, but I have done something momentous today, and I wish to record it here. I have written to my dear Tía Ana, in the hope that she still lives, though she must be past the age of seventy, and that she will answer me. I thought of writing to my dueña, Silvia, also, but I do not know whether she planned ever to return to Madrid. Our farewells were so rushed when she left to go to her cousins in the countryside outside Sevilla. Then, too, she would be even more advanced in years than my tía.
It has now been a very long time since I could say I missed those whom I was forced to abandon. When first I came here, I yearned to see them. But even those whom we love very much tend to fade in our memories and our hearts.
In my letter I explained my story: how I had been violated by Don Lorenzo, and how I had feared that my father would take my life to restore his honor. Having never told this tale to anyone except Luisa, and that so many years ago, at first it seemed as though the memories were but a wound that had scarred over. But as more details of that time were dragged from my past, the scar was torn open and the wound made fresh again. More memories, like blood, poured forth, unbidden and undesired. Still, I had resolved to tell my story to one who had loved me so well, and whom I had abandoned without a word.
I imagine my dear Tía Ana reading my words, and I question how she will react to this news, if news it is to her, about her brother. Will my letter bring her joy to know what became of me, or sorrow, or perhaps even anger? If anger, who will suffer from her judgment: the brother who threatened or the niece who fled? If he lives, will she rush to my father with my letter, and if so, will he feel the same rancor, unfaded, even after all these years, or will he wish that he could reach back and change that moment in the past, when his rage determined all of our destinies?
I shall anxiously await the reply from my tía, to learn how she has fared all these years, and whether my father still lives, and what fate befell Silvia. It will take many months before I hear back. My thoughts will travel over the seas with my letter, and with their answer in return, over the route I took so many years ago.
18 October 1687
I have received my answer, and the will and missive from a man born two centuries before my birth.
40
RACHEL
I abruptly closed Juliana’s diary. The reference to Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz had taken me by surprise, and for a moment I had wondered how I might add to the scholarship about the famous writer. But the next entries in the diary had quickly overshadowed that.
There were only a few pages left, but I imagined that Juliana would next comment on Ana’s response, and I wanted to see whether the pages she referred to were included in the stack of loose papers I had found at my mother’s, along with the journal. If they were there, I wanted to read them before I learned of Juliana’s reaction to them. I wanted to read them without that filter, as clearly as a prism of centuries would allow.
I looked at the folded papers, some written on both sides, so that a jumble of half-seen words confronted me. I looked for a paper, ink, and handwriting that seemed similar to that in Juliana’s diary, thinking that each age tends to have its own characteristic way of writing. I found what I thought would be Ana’s letter, but as I straightened out the pages and carefully spread them out on my desk, I saw that it had been folded in such a way as to enclose several other papers, of a different handwriting, but with paper and ink that seemed similar, though the date on top said 1512. Puzzled, I put those pages aside and, with a mixture of hope and anxiety that could have been only a pale reflection of what Juliana must have felt, began to read the letter from Ana.
41
ANA
My dearest Juliana,
The joy to know that you are alive, that you have been alive for all these long years, my precious dear, is more than I can describe to you! And you are blessed with a daughter! Surely she has been a great source of solace to you.
My prayers have been answered, and an old woman can die in peace at last! If only you had written sooner— but you have explained your lingering apprehension. Oh, my child, you need not have feared your father’s dark vengeance.
I know no kind way to tell you this, but your father, my brother, died long ago. After your disappearance, he became as a madman. He was taken away and placed with other poor wretches in his condition, but he did not linger. I believe that amid his ravings, your father grieved for you. Perhaps you will find some small comfort in this knowledge.
You also ask about Silvia, but I have never heard from her. I always hoped that she had stayed with you. I often imagined the two of you, according each other a degree of succor. I now suppose that she lived out her life in the countryside, hiding from your father’s wrath. Another blighted life, all from his injustice. I cannot imagine that she still lives.
There is something of the story that you do not know. I tried to find you and Silvia after your abrupt departure. I correctly surmised that you were journeying to Sevilla, but my basis for this guess was mistaken. I thought, I hoped, that your father had taken you on a business trip, though this required that I ignore the hasty and unannounced departure. Although I inquired of innkeepers along the way whether they had hosted travelers of your description, I did not know that your father did not accompany you, nor did I know of the precautions that you had taken. Upon my arrival in Sevilla, I asked for help from an acquaintance of my dear Emilio, but that was doomed to come to naught.
When I read the last entry in your diary and knew the explanation for your flight, I abandoned my search. I had heard of the murder of Don Lorenzo and now knew that your father had been his assassin. I no longer had any reason to believe that you might have escaped in the direction of Sevilla, and even if you had, my search for you might somehow aid your father in discovering you. Now I know that your father never went to Sevilla, but that you were still there, awaiting passage. If only I had known how to find you, my dearest, what hardship and loneliness I might have saved us both! I failed you in the moment you most needed me, just as your father failed your mother.
Although you were his victim, your father, too, was victim of his merciless honor. Try to ease any bitterness in your heart and remember him in the gentleness with which he raised you. When you dwell on that, you cannot doubt he loved you, though it was not always so. After your mother’s death, he thought to cast you off for what he saw as her shame. I said before that now an old woman can die in peace, and those were not mere words. I am ill, and I do not expect to last much longer, but I am content, now that I know that you are well.
You see, there is one last task I must perform before I leave this world. Your letter has made it possible for me to fulfill my vow, made to your mother long ago. You did not know her, and Sebastián would not allow her name to be spoken, although in the end, in his mad raving, he called her name again and again.
Although I knew your mother, Margarita, only two years, we were very close. She was the sister I never had. She told me her story, the cause of what she feared would be her demise, the night before they came and seized her.
Your parents’ marriage had been arranged by your two grandfathers, but Sebastián and Margarita grew to care for each other. How could they not have? Each was a person of good character, noble in thought, learned and true. They loved as many married couples do not, and when your mother found she was with child, they rejoiced in this gift from God. You believe that your mother died in giving birth to you, but it is not so. It was shortly after you were born that the tragedy began to unfold.
There was a servant by the name of Mencía in your father’s house, who had thought that she would be lady’s maid to the new young mistress, but your mother did not care for her vulgar ways. She was a dangerous enemy to make, as we soon learned, to our everlasting sorrow. This faithless servant looked for reason to discredit your mother with my brother, though it took her over a year to find her evil chance. One day, when you were but a few month
s old, she was cleaning your mother’s room and began to go through her things, probably with intent to steal something. She discovered more than she hoped for, and she brought it to Margarita, to threaten and to frighten. It was a ceramic object, of a plain gold-green color, with a base about as long as my forearm. On it were eight small cups, as though to hold oil, and one larger one. Mencía claimed to have seen such a thing at a trial of the Inquisition. She said that it was something used in the Jewish faith. Now she possessed the power to punish.
She lost no time in presenting the Jewish symbol to one of the familiars of the Inquisition, charged with reporting all suspect actions to the Holy Tribunal. She boasted of her betrayal and called it loyalty, to the Church, to the Spanish of pure blood, and to your father. When your mother heard what Mencía had done, she was apprehensive, though she hoped still that the life she had led, and the love and influence of your father, would convince the Tribunal that she was a true member of Holy Mother Church. Still, she wished to tell to me her story, and made me swear that, should she not survive, I would pass on to you the truth of her tragedy.
Her own mother, your grandmother, had given her the object, which was called a menorah, on the night before she was to wed. The tale your grandmother related was that which her own mother had told to her on the day of her marriage. For is not marriage the time for any woman to face the realities of life and live forevermore within that truth?
Your mother’s family had been of the Jewish faith, living in Castile until 1492, when all were forced to choose Baptism, exile, or death. The family chose to flee to Portugal, where they and their descendants remained for many decades. Even in Portugal they did finally have to submit to Baptism but kept their Jewish faith within their hearts. In 1581, after our King Felipe II had annexed Portugal, your mother’s great-grandfather moved his family back to Castile, where they hoped to find more prosperity than was then possible in Lisbon.
The Lines Between Us Page 22