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

TERESA, in an anxious voice. They’ll reproach me, I’m sure, for not mentioning him enough in my writings. His body was not at all attractive. Unlike his eyes. And his mind. It’s true Fr. Antonio de Jesús takes up more space in my Foundations, and God knows he was no genius, nor an hombre in the strong sense, well, I know my meaning. Brother John practically forced us to overlook him, such was his urge to self-annihilation.…(Pause.) He nearly caught us out that way.…I wouldn’t let him…I went all the way to our good Philip II, to rescue him from the mitigated lot…and succeeded, thanks be to God. (Pause.) There’s nobody like him for making me feel obscurely unworthy and infinitely guilty.…(Pathetic voice.) Under the steady gaze of his burning eyes, I stop being a crystal, I become once more that black pitch I’ve never ceased to be, as I know better than anyone, with or without the Lord’s voice, between ourselves. (The dying woman, appeased, has recovered the critical lucidity that is the hallmark of her writings. Casts circular glances around her.)

TERESITA, mothering her beloved aunt. Don’t beat yourself up so on your deathbed, Auntie: after all, the asceticism of John of the Cross was hardly yours, while you lived.…

TERESA, exhaling. Never fear, darling, I can look after myself, and even John got the sharp end of my tongue when he deserved it. I must say…(coughing) over and above the obliviousness to his person that he more or less deliberately instilled in us…(eyes looking right, pause) the great purifier aroused in me a dash of, what’s the word, impatience. (Eyes looking left, pause. She is no longer uttering a word, but knows her little niece can read her thoughts and only wishes to do her some good.) Oh, it was just a game between us, he wasn’t fooled…a piece of mock cruelty, don’t get me wrong.…(Circular glances, sighs.) Just for a laugh at his expense, and at mine too, of course. I’d found the sweet key to revenge, you see! (Looks at her fixedly for a while.) When in distress…and to shake up any who wallow in it just to show off…there’s nothing more effective than to be happy. (Pause.) And to laugh. Do you think that’s easy? (Pause.) But not everyone has the knack.…Try it and see. It’s enough to disarm the Inquisition itself. Even the “chief angel,” as I used to call him in my letters to Gratian, you know, the grand inquisitor…that’s right, Gaspar de Quiroga, bishop of Cuenca, archbishop of Toledo, well, even he came around to my reforms. As I was saying.…One of his nieces became a Carmelite.…But to bend such a model of perfection as dear Seneca, that’s a whole other matter.…It can be done.…Well, we’d better wait and see (Wry smile.). Death himself may get nothing for his pains, I’ll let you know from the Beyond once I have passed over.…(Stops smiling.). Does it seem to be taking a long time, little one? I think so too. How am I supposed to be afraid of the Reaper, as the wicked call him, when he is what I desire? One stage in my long desire for the Other…hardly anything…I’m nearly there.…(Deep sigh.)

The din made by the alguaciles can still be heard.

ANA DE SAN BARTOLOMÉ, upset at her inability to make La Madre’s last moments quiet and peaceful. What a hellish racket!