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Overview
She is Saint Teresa—known as a mystic, reformer, and founder of convents, and the author of numerous texts that introduced her radical religious ideas and practices to a society suffering through the repressive throes of the Spanish Inquisition. In Bárbara Mujica’s masterful tale, her story—her days of youthful romance, her sensual fits of spiritual rapture, secret heritage as a Jewish convert to Catholicism, cloak-and-dagger political dealings, struggles against sexual blackmail, and mysterious illness—unfolds with a tumultuous urgency. Blending fact with fiction in vivid detail, painstakingly researched and beautifully rendered, Mujica’s tale conjures a brilliant picture of sisterhood, faith, the terror of religious persecution, the miracle of salvation, and of one woman’s challenge to the power of strict orthodoxy, a challenge that consisted of a crime of passion—her own personal relationship with God.
“This engaging novel depicts Teresa of Ávila as an extraordinary woman whose visions, church reform ideas and writing may well have been inspired by God . . . Surprisingly light and entertaining.” —Publishers Weekly
“A lifelong friend remembers Teresa of Ávila, ‘Spain’s most beloved saint,’ in this richly entertaining historical novel from Mujica . . . An earthy, humanizing portrait.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Mujica brings this tumultuous time in history to vivid life. A very interesting and compelling novel which focuses more on Teresa’s entire life rather than simply her religion.” —Historical Novel Society
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781468306132 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | ABRAMS, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 05/15/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 384 |
| Sales rank: | 313,044 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
October Roses
It must have been October, because I remember the air was chilled and crisp, the way it is before the snows begin. The winds were just beginning to whoosh over the sierra. Some of the peaks of the Guadarrama were already dusted with white. Still, my aunt resisted lighting the brazier. Coal was expensive, and she was thrifty by nature.
"It's winter already!" urged my mother. "Light the fire!"
You know what they say about Ávila: Nueve meses de invierno y tres de infierno. Nine months of winter and three of hell. By that reckoning, it was certainly time to haul in some coal.
"What will we do in December if we light the brazier in October?" protested Tía Cati.
I was only eleven, and I didn't see the logic of her argument. I was peeking out behind the burlap my mother had hung on the windows to keep out the nip. An icy sun hung low in the sky. Shadows crept along the road like prowlers, hugging the houses. Dusk came earlier every day. The mountains loomed enormous against the darkening heavens.
It was getting too dim to sew, but my mother and Tía Cati were still sitting on their cushions and drawing their needles in and out of fabric. They were edging the muffs — decorated sleeves — of the dress that Teresa de Ahumada would wear to the palace of the Count of Mollén.
"Get away from the window, Pancracia," snapped my mother. "Come finish your work."
I had learned to embroider as soon as I could hold a needle. The child and niece of seamstresses, I knew the difference between satin and taffeta, baize and flannel, frieze and cotton. I loved the feel of gossamer on my fingertips. I dreamed of grosgrain ribbons. I had stitched side by side with grown women practically since babyhood. Now I was supposed to be detailing the jubón, or camisole, Teresa would wear under her gown.
"Pancracia!" my mother called again. "This outfit has to be ready by tomorrow!"
I remained motionless, mesmerized by the scene unfolding before me. A girl, lithe and quick, had darted out from an alley. She wore a dark-colored dress, burgundy or russet, trimmed in lace and partially concealed by a cape. Her steps were so dainty that she seemed to glide over the dirt road, like the statue of Our Lady that flies along on wheels during the Holy Week procession. Her face was invisible behind a mantilla, but there was something about the movement of her hands, about her quick, nervous gestures ... Her delicate fingers quivered like the feathers of a dove. "Doña Teresa!" I whispered.
I wondered what she was doing in our part of town. The Cepeda Ahumada family had a mansion in the affluent old Jewish neighborhood. Now my mother and aunt were standing behind me. "Pancracia, come away from the window!"
I tugged on the burlap. It came flapping down to the floor. I turned to look at my mother and tensed. Clumsily, I struggled to lift the cloth and reposition it on the window.
"Pancracia, sit down this instant!" barked my mother. She raised her hand to smack me, but Tía Cati quieted her with just a touch on the shoulder.
A male figure appeared from behind the chandler's shop, his cape flapping loosely on his shoulders. His long, tapered, gloved hands showed that he was a person of position. Aside from his white gloves and the stiff, fluted ruff at his throat, he was dressed all in black. The rules of fashion allowed young men to wear colors, but in Ávila, that most conservative of towns, most wore black. His tight, padded doublet tapered into an elegant squeezed waist, then flared out into a skirt over trunk hose and stylish boots.
Teresa flew to him. It happened many years ago, but as I recreate the scene in my mind, I can see her shoulders quivering with emotion. For a moment they stood face to face, she looking up at him, he lightly touching her arm. Then he leaned forward and it seems to me, although I can't be sure, that he kissed her.
He took her hand and they vanished into a passageway. I felt my heart flutter. What had I just witnessed? What was he going to do to her now? Would he touch her bodice? Would he press her against him? I caught my breath. We all knew who he was: her cousin Javier. The whole town knew they loved each other, but to meet in the open like that, to kiss in the street ... Even as a child, I knew that Teresa was flirting with danger.
Teresa Sánchez de Cepeda y Ahumada was a heartbreaker. When she walked to church, head covered modestly but eyes flashing, armies of young men appeared out of nowhere and formed brigades on either side of the path. Those who caught her dart-like glance swooned and fell to the ground, some never to recover. People said Teresa caused more fatalities than the king's militia.
"Too pretty for her own good," said the women who gathered in my aunt's estrado. In hushed voices they would talk of the scandalous way in which Teresa flirted at the fair or the bullfights, which she attended with her cousins.
The estrado was the most important room in my aunt's house, the room where I lived my childhood, lost in dreams of blue-eyed dukes on white horses. At one side, in an alcove hidden by a heavy curtain, was my aunt's bed, which she had shared with Tío Celso when he was alive. The estrado was a sort of ladies' haven where we gathered to embroider, spin, or sew. It was the place we received guests, other women from the neighborhood, most of them as poor as we but from respectable families that had once had a bit of money. Widows of successful artisans — weavers or beer makers — who tried to carry on the family business, but barely made ends meet.
On chilly mornings we'd gather around the brazier to work and gossip and warm ourselves. My aunt, Catalina Fuentes de Rojas, had carpeted the cork platform where the coal-filled receptacle sat in order to protect it from the flames. Each of us had her own cushion. Mine was covered in a faded green remnant Teresa's father had given me. My mother, Inés Fuentes de Soto — she of the sad eyes and sharp tongue — sat on a cushion the color of withered red geraniums. Tía Cati's was the most elegant, far too elegant for a woman of her station. It was deep blue velvet with bits of tinted glass sewn into the fabric. Tío Celso, a successful tailor, had designed suits for titled gentlemen, and one delighted customer had rewarded him with a remnant of velvet large enough to make a cushion for his wife. Other cushions were strewn over the platform, none of them remarkable. These were meant for my aunt's friends, women who came to gab and embroider. Needlework is always more pleasant when done in the company of others.
My aunt regretted only that her own daughters weren't among us. The two eldest, Catalina and Irene, lived in Madrid with their husbands, a gilder and a musician. Bernarda had sailed for the Americas on one of those ships that take poor Spanish women to soldiers and colonists in need of wives. Doña Cati's two sons, Celso and Felipe, had themselves gone to the Americas and picked out brides from among the white-skinned virgins considerately supplied by the Spanish crown. Well, to be honest, not all of them were virgins. Some had agreed to the hazardous voyage precisely because they weren't. For those damaged flowers, it was either the high seas or the convent. There was no other choice. Anyway, both boys died abroad, Celso of fevers and Felipe in a skirmish with Indians. Tío Celso, heartbroken beyond recovery, joined them in heaven within a year of Felipe's death. God keep them all in His boundless embrace.
Around the platform Tía Cati had placed short-legged chairs and stools, where my grandmother, also named Catalina, and her sister Beatriz had sat sewing when they were alive. Now these stools were often occupied by neighbor women, sometimes as many as eight or ten of them. Since Tío Celso had died with no male heirs, my aunt was allowed to keep the house and its furnishings, including a chest, a wall tapestry, and a large, mahogany-framed mirror. Her father — my grandfather — was dead, and she had no brothers. Otherwise, she would have had to go to live with a male relative like other widows, but as it was, she was free to live with just my mother and me, the two women eking out a living as seamstresses. My aunt didn't consider herself poor. She had a house, furniture, and a few luxury items. The house, she knew, was a bit too grand, but it was hers and that was that. She didn't complain. Why should she? My mother, on the other hand, had nothing. All the material goods she enjoyed belonged to Tía Cati. She named me after Saint Pancracio, patron of job-seekers, because she was terrified of being without work.
"She runs wild since her mother died. Don Alonso should see to her marriage," growled my mother, who had had caught a glimpse of Teresa though the window. "She and her cousin Javier played together as children, but it's unseemly that ..." And she and Tía Cati lowered their voices so that I wouldn't hear gossip that might contaminate my purity.
Although I was just eleven, I would soon be taking an interest in men, and all the moralists said that if you plant the seeds of licentiousness in a little girl's mind, by the time she's a señorita, they'll have grown into gargantuan weeds.
"Don Alonso should have kept them apart from the beginning," murmured my mother. "Father Evaristo always says you have to separate little girls from little boys. If you don't, they begin to think it's natural to keep company with the opposite sex."
I only remember snippets of conversation: "lover ... cousin ... honor ... murder ..."
Murder? What could it all mean? I was too young to understand the law of honor, which dictated that any indiscretion by a woman was punishable by death. According to Father Evaristo, the neighbors, and everyone else, women were weak, terribly weak, and that's what made them easy prey for Satan. Women yielded easily to temptation. Like Eve.
"Daughters of the First Sinner!" thundered Father Evaristo from the pulpit. "Thanks to her, mankind fell from grace, redeemed only through the sacrifice of Our Lord Jesus Christ!"
"Lord Jesus, keep us free from sin!" pleaded the congregation.
Because women were likely to go astray, men had to rein them in, watch them like hawks. According to the laws of honor, if a woman transgressed — or was even suspected of transgressing — the men responsible for her had the right, the duty even, to take vengeance. That meant murder. A dishonored husband, father, or brother was expected to kill not only the seducer who had sullied the family's reputation, but also the errant woman. And if she was innocent? No matter. Suspicion alone was enough to justify a bloodbath. After all, if gossips were dragging a family's name through the mud, it was incumbent on the males of the household to cleanse it. Only blood could remove the stains from a man's honor.
"If your right hand offends you, cut it off!" roared Father Evaristo.
Plenty of men took his words to heart, but Teresa's father was different from most men. Everybody knew it, and everybody knew why.
Alonso Cepeda had been born in Toledo, a city throbbing with conversos, many of which had made fortunes as moneylenders. People turned up their noses at the New Christians, but those same people ran to Moisés the usurero or Solomón the prestamista when they needed a loan. Even the king of Spain wasn't above taking cash from a former Jew to finance his wars.
Teresa's grandfather, Juan Sánchez of Toledo, had obtained a letter of nobility in 1500. I know the date because it was the same year my aunt Cati was married, and she always said that the Sánchez family had become titled the same year she was "yoked." Tía Cati liked the Sánchez family, and she understood why Juan needed those documents. A letter of nobility was supposed to prove that you had sangre limpia, "clean blood," that is, that you were an Old Christian, with no taint of Jewish or Moorish ancestry. Of course, everyone knew such papers could be had for money, even if your ancestors were rabbis.
Nobody was really sure why Don Juan had come to Ávila, but people tried to guess. Some brushed aside the obvious, insisting it was because there were business opportunities for an ambitious young man in our city. The laws of primogeniture stipulated that only the eldest son could inherit, and Don Juan, not being his father's first-born male child, had to make his own way. At the time, Ávila was growing rapidly, with people flooding through our gates every day. Woolens and silks were big business, and an industrious younger son could make a go of it.
Others spoke openly of the Sánchezes' Jewish origins. My mother was one of them.
"He's as Jewish as Herod," she once said.
"Or as Jesus," retorted Tía Cati.
"What a sacrilege! Jesus wasn't Jewish!"
"He most certainly was," insisted my aunt.
But my mother stood firm, sure that such an idea would send us all straight to Hell. To protect me from the curse she thought my aunt had unleashed, she made me say fifty times a day for a week, "Jesus wasn't Jewish. Jesus wasn't Jewish."
Things had gotten bad for Jews in Toledo toward the end of the last century, and many of them sought refuge in Ávila, where Jews, Christians, and Muslims lived in relative harmony. But then, things got bad even here. Harsh new laws forbade Jews to wear ornaments of gold or silver and clothing of silk, brocade, or velvet. Worse yet, they couldn't lend money for interest, which turned out to be bad not only for the Jews, but for everyone. We were at war with Portugal at the time, and how were we going to fund battles without the Jewish moneylenders? The nobility complained, and the legislators changed the law. Then they ordered the Jews to cough up the necessary maravedís to beat the Portuguese. When the time came to repay these loans, though, the authorities suddenly remembered the decrees against usury and defaulted.
All this happened before I was born, but sewing by the brazier in my aunt's estrado, the women of our household talked about these things endlessly, always in hushed voices.
I was a child then. I didn't understand things. But I did grasp this: Teresa's family was still in danger. The authorities were ever on the lookout for converso backsliders.
The Santo Niño de la Guardia brought it all to a head. This was a famous case that people are still talking about, even now, eighty years later: Toledan Jews were accused of kidnapping a child from the village of La Guardia and crucifying him, then using his heart in demonic rituals. They were guilty, of course. They confessed under torture. If you're innocent, you don't confess, no matter how horrible the pain, because God gives you strength. If you're really innocent, you can bear anything ... I suppose.
They were burned at the stake in the Mercado Grande, outside the city walls, and that sent the crowds into a frenzy. Suddenly, people who had Jewish friends, bought cloth from Jewish merchants, or sold candles to Jewish households had an abrupt change of heart. The incident unleashed an anti-Jewish rampage. If you owed a Jew money and he was badgering you for it, now was the time to run him through with a knife and set his house on fire. If you were mad at a Jew because he'd snubbed you in the street, you could knock him senseless with a plank and leave him to bleed to death. If you had your eye on a pretty Jewish girl, you could rape her with impunity. And if you were nursing a grudge against a Christian neighbor, you could claim he was really a Jew and throw him down a well. Carnage erupted in every part of Ávila. Thugs roamed the streets from the cathedral to the shrine of San Esteban bashing in the workshops of Jewish artisans, setting fire to their stables, peeing on their cadavers, and stealing their goods.
Well, I understand the Jews killed Our Lord Jesus, but still, I don't see how setting fire to a cottage and murdering innocent children — potential Catholics, after all — is doing the will of God. It doesn't make sense. Of course, I'm just an ignorant woman. But I guess those ruffians knew what they were doing because our holy Catholic monarchs, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, validated their acts by passing an important law: Jews would either have to convert or leave the kingdoms of Castile and Aragón.
In Ávila, most Jews converted. They became conversos. But the question was this: Could you trust them? Were their conversions sincere, or were they secretly practicing their old religion? Every person known to be a converso was suspect. For New Christians like Don Juan Sánchez and his sons, the safest road was assimilation. They had to wipe out their Jewish past. They had to prove they had no tainted blood. That's why they needed patents of nobility.
Well, the facts are the facts, and you can't change them. And the fact is that Ávila was full of conversos. They controlled the textile trade and they stuck together, one helping the other. So maybe, as some folks said, that's the real reason Don Juan came to Ávila. He had contacts here. He had a chance to make money. He could start a new life, hiding behind his patent of nobility. Who would know what he had been in Toledo?
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Sister Theresa"
by .
Copyright © 2007 Bárbara Mujica.
Excerpted by permission of Abrams Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Also by Bárbara Mujica,
Copyright,
Dedication,
About the Translation,
Prologue,
Part I The Belle of Ávila,
Chapter 1 October Roses,
Chapter 2 To Love and Serve the Lord,
Chapter 3 Passages,
Chapter 4 Encarnación,
Chapter 5 New Directions,
Chapter 6 "Blessed Are Those Who Mourn",
Chapter 7 Awakenings,
Part II Teresa in Ecstasy,
Chapter 8 Dancing with the Devil,
Chapter 9 Still Dancing,
Chapter 10 Enter the Jesuits,
Chapter 11 Confessions,
Chapter 12 Farewells,
Chapter 13 Madwoman or Saint?,
Chapter 14 Hazardous Roads,
Chapter 15 The Jewel of Spain,
Chapter 16 Miracles,
Part III From Ávila to Heaven,
Chapter 17 Deliver Us from Evil,
Chapter 18 Correspondences,
Chapter 19 The One-Eyed Devil,
Chapter 20 Traitors and Spies,
Chapter 21 On Eagle's Wings,
Chapter 22 The Gates of Hell,
Chapter 23 Hell,
Chapter 24 One Dark Night,
Chapter 25 A Quiet Victory,
Chapter 26 Muero porque no muero,
Epilogue,
Author's Note,
Cast of Characters,
