Teresa, My Love: An Imagined Life of the Saint of Avila

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.