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

TERESA’S VOICE, while Bernini’s Transverberation is refracted by the jewel. In chess, the queen has many advantages over the king, and is supported by all the other pieces. Well, there’s no queen like humility for forcing the divine King to surrender. Humility drew Him from heaven into the Virgin’s womb; and with it, by one hair, we will draw Him to our souls. (Beaming smile.) People say, “Here is a very contemplative soul,” and immediately expect him to possess all the virtues of a soul elevated to great contemplation. The person concerned aspires to this and more. But he is misguided from the outset, because he didn’t know how to set up the game. “He thought it was enough to know the pieces in order to checkmate the King. But that was impossible, for this King doesn’t give Himself but to those who give themselves entirely to Him.”¹⁰¹

(In a serene voice.) “La dama es la que más guerra le puede hacer en este juego, y todas las otras piezas ayudan. No hay dama que así le haga rendir como la humildad. Esta le trajo del cielo en las entrañas de la Virgen, y con ella le traeremos nosotras de un cabello a nuestras almas. Y creed que quien más tuviere, más le tendrá, y quien menos, menos. Porque no puedo yo entender cómo haya ni pueda haber humildad sin amor, ni amor sin humildad, ni es posible estar estas dos virtudes sin gran desasimiento de todo lo criado.”

As Teresa’s voice inundates the stage, we watch the slow rotation of the watery gemstone of her dwelling places.

Chapter 33. ACT 4: The Analyst’s Farewell

The distillation and centralization of the ego. Everything is in that.

Charles Baudelaire, My Heart Laid Bare

SYLVIA LECLERCQ

The diamond of the previous act retreats into the background, where it refracts the anonymous portrait of Teresa of Avila commonly attributed to Velázquez. The left side of the stage represents Sylvia Leclercq’s office. There are a couch, an armchair, and a desk. The analyst is writing. Her voice follows the rhythms of her thoughts, and sometimes the movements of her hand. She is bidding La Madre farewell, from the first to the third person.

SYLVIA LECLERCQ. It’s infectious, this journeying to the far depths of private dwelling places, like a sort of self-analysis.…(Mocking smile.) I’ll never see the end of it.…Just when I thought I’d done with all that…I managed to send Marianne off to Cuenca and to reconcile her with her father.…The way of perfection is full of surprises, once you set off on it. I might have guessed, in light of the trajectory from beloved fatherhood to loving fatherhood.…(Hands on temples, affectionate, moved expression. Neutral voice.).

I never dreamed of my father again, after that teenage nightmare in which I had him run over by a train, inverted Oedipus oblige, it’s all in the pink pages of the Larousse of psychoanalysis.…One kills one’s Laius as best one can these days, preferably by night and at high velocity. Corny as anything. Modern daughters won’t be pushed around, and the fathers, or some of them, play along.…(Silence. Hands folded over the white pages. Adopts dreamy voice.) But for the last week…Holy Week, in fact…some coincidence…Dr. Thomas Leclercq has visited me in dreams, no face, just a presence, and his voice. Singing. All those years of analysis, all those years of clinical practice, and I never gave a thought to Dad’s singing.…With his decent tenor voice and knowledge of opera and musical culture in general, my doctor of a dad was great company. He really livened up our family meals — though not to the point of leaving his daughter with any recollection of his favorite tunes. (Still speaking in a dreamy voice, opens a notebook, gropes for a pen.) For me, his charming amateurism was secondary; his scholarly erudition when in serious “doctor” mode obliterated his fondness for singing in my mind…though I do remember how it provoked Mom’s pitying condescension, of course. She was a sensible woman, Mme Blandine Leclercq, doctor’s wife, schoolteacher, almost a proto-feminist in her way.…(Hesitant voice, screwed-up eyes.) In my defense, I should say that Dad stopped singing early on, at least I think he did…when I graduated from kindergarten, pretty early in my life, anyway. Yes, it was around then.…If I remember right.…