Sources and Suggested Readings

• Chavez, Exequiel A. Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Mexico City: Editorial Porrúa, 1970.
• Cruz, Juana Inés de la. Obras Completas. Ed. Alberta Salceda. Mexico: Fondo de Culture Economica, 1957.
• ———. A Sor Juana Anthology. Trans. Alan S. Trueblood. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988.
• ———. A Woman of Genius: The Intellectual Autobiography of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Trans. Margaret Sayers Peden. Salisbury, Conn.: Lime Rock Press, 1982.
• Hellner, Nancy Ann. “Marginal Laughter: Humor in Contemporary American Lesbian/Feminist Drama.” Ph.D. diss., Arizona State University, 1992, chap. 2.
• Kretsch, Donna R. “Sisters across the Atlantic: Aphra Behn and Sor Juana Inéz de la Cruz.” Womens Studies 21 (1992): 361-79.
• Lavrin, Asunción. “Unlike Sor Juana? The Model Nun in the Religious Literature of Colonial Mexico.” In Stephanie Merrim, ed., Feminist Perspectives on Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, 61-85. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1991.
• Merrim, Stephanie. Early Modem Womens Writing and Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1999.
• Merrim, Stephanie, ed. Feminist Perspectives on Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1991.
• Montross, Constance M. Virtue or Vice? Sor Juana's Use of Thomistic Thought. Washington, D.C.: University Press of America, 1981.
• Paz, Octavio. Sor Juana: or, the Traps of Faith. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988.
• Rabin, Lisa. "The Blason of Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz: Politics and Petrarchism in Colonial Mexico.” BHS (Bulletin of Hispanic Studies) 72, 1 (January 1995): 29-39.
• ———. “Speaking to Silent Ladies: Images of Beauty and Politics in Poetic Portraits of Women from Petrarch to Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.” MLN (Modern language notes) 112 (1997): 147-65.
• Scott, Nina M. “Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz: ‘Let Your Page 85 →Women Keep Silence in the Churches ...”’ Womens Studies International Forum 8, 5 (1985): 511-19.
• Warnke, Frank J., trans. Three Women Poets, Renaissance and Baroque: Louise Labé, Gaspara Stampa, and Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 1987.

First Dream (1685)

... In remote mountain hideaways,

misshapen hollow crags

whose ruggedness is less defense

than their darkness is protection,

abodes of utter blackness

where night is safe from daylight's glare,

to which sure foot of practiced hunter

has never yet ascended,

the legions of wild animals lay resting—

some shedding all ferocity,

others, their timorousness—

each to Nature's power

paying the tribute

imposed by her on all alike.

The king of beasts, though open-eyed

pretending to keep watch, lay fast asleep.

That once-illustrious monarch

cornered by his own dogs,

now a timid hart,

pricks up an ear

to catch the slightest motion

of the peaceful surrounding night,

the merest shift of atom,

and twitching each ear in turn,

perceives the faint and muffled sound

uneasily through his sleep.

In the quietude of the nest

built out of twigs and mud—

hammock hung where foliage is thickest—

the light-pinioned tribe

slumbers away and gives the wind

a respite from the slashes of its wings.

 Jupiter's majestic bird,

the dutiful king of fowl, rejects

complete repose, holding it a vice,

too far indulged, and taking care

not to fall unwittingly asleep.

Entrusting all his weight to a single leg,

he keeps a pebble in the other foot—

an alarm for his light sleep—

so that, when slumber impends,

it may not be prolonged,

will rather be interrupted

by kingly pastoral concern.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!

Not for one instant may he lay it down.

Mysterious explanation this may be

why crowns are circular,

the golden round betokening

the unending obligation of the king.

 All was now bound in sleep,

all by silence occupied.

Even the thief was slumbering,

even the lover had closed his eyes.

 The hour of silence is drawing to a close,

the dark time is half over

when, worn out by daily tasks—

oppressed not only

by the heavy burden

of bodily exertion, but fatigued

by pleasure as well (for any object

continually before the senses,

even if pleasurable, will cloy them:

hence Nature is always shifting weight

from one side of the balance to the other,

setting the unsettled needle to its task

of logging all activity—now leisurely,

now toilsome—as she directs

the universe’s complicated clockwork);

the limbs, then, all were occupied

by deep and welcome sleep,

leaving the senses for a time

if not deprived, relieved

of their customary labor—

labor indeed but labor greatly loved,

if labor can be loved—

the senses, I say, had yielded

to the likeness of life’s opponent,

who, slow to arm and cowardly in attack,

with sleepy weapons is a lazy victor

over lowly shepherd's crook and lofty scepter

and all that stands between,

purple and sackcloth being all one for him.

His level is all-powerful:

it never makes exceptions

for any man alive,

be he one who wears the sovereign tiara

made up of triple crowns, or one

who dwells in hut of straw,

a man whom the Danube gilds in mirrored glory

or a denizen of humble rushes:

with one unvarying measuring-rod

(Morpheus being, after all,

a powerful image of death)

he graduates brocade and sackcloth.

 The soul now being released

from outward governance, activity

which keeps her materially employed

for better or for worse the whole day through,

at some remove although not quite cut off,

pays out their wages

of vegetal heat only

to listless limbs and resting bones

oppressed by temporary death.

The body in unbroken calm,

a corpse with soul,

is dead to living, living to the dead,

the human clock attesting

by faintest signs of life

its vital wound-up state,

wounded not by hand but by arterial concert:

by throbbings which give tiny measured signs

of its well-regulated movement....

 And that most marvelous and scientific

manufacturer of heat,

provident supplier of the limbs,

always at work and never stinting,

which neither favors the closest member

nor overlooks the farthest

but keeps exact account

on her natural dial

of the share she apportions to each one ...

so this, if not forge of Vulcan,

moderate bonfire of human warmth,

was sending to the brain

vapors from the four well-tempered humors,

humid but so clear

it not only failed to cloud with them

the images which the estimative sense

furnished to the imaginative

and the latter, for safer keeping,

passed on in purer form

to diligent memory

to incise retentively and store with care,

but also offered the fantasy

a chance to put together

further images....

so the fantasy was calmly copying

the images of everything,

and the invisible brush was shaping

in the mind’s colors, without light

yet beautiful still, the likenesses

not just of all created things

here in this sublunary world, but those as well

that are the intellect’s bright stars,

and as far as in her power lay

the conception of things invisible,

was picturing them ingeniously in herself

and displaying them to the soul.

 Meanwhile the latter, all intent

on her immaterial being,

was contemplating that most lovely spark,

that portion of highest being

in whose likeness in herself she took delight.

She thought herself almost loosed

from that bodily chain,

that always blocks her path,

obstructing crudely and grossly interfering

with the flight of intellect through which she plumbs

the vast immensity of the firmament

or ponders the well-regulated orbits

in which the celestial bodies

variously run their courses—

a heavy sin with punishment inherent,

the relentless shattering of inner peace,

when it lapses into vain astrology—

placed, so she thought, on the towering crest

of a mountain next to which that very Atlas,

which like a giant dominates all others,

becomes a mere obedient dwarf,

and Olympus, whose tranquil brow

has never admitted violation

by buffeting winds,

is unworthy of foothill status....

 The two Pyramids—proud boast

of vainglorious Memphis, ultimate refinement

of architecture, pennants, if not fixed,

no fluttering ones surely—whose great mass,

crowned with barbaric trophies,

was tomb and ensign to the Ptolemies,

broadcasting to the wind and clouds

(if not to heaven as well)

Egyptian glories, deeds of Memphian prowess—

of that great city, Cairo now, I mean,

forever undefeated—

deeds never sung by Fame, too dumbstruck

by their very abundance,

glories still written in the wind and sky;

these Pyramids, in lifting higher and higher

in smooth and level stages, their vast bulk,

shrank so in girth and with such art

that the closer the lynxlike gaze

of the observing eye approached the heavens,

the more it lost its way amid the winds,

unable to discern the minute tip

that feigns a juncture with the lowest heaven,...

These, be they glories of Egypt

or high points of idolatry,

barbaric hieroglyphics

of purblind error, as that singer says,

that Greek, blind also, and a sweetest poet— ...

 In Homer’s opinion, then,

the pyramids were mere material versions,

outward manifestations only

of inner dimensions instancing

the human spirit’s attitude:

for just as the ambitious fiery flame

assumes pyramidal shape when mounting

heavenward, so the human mind

assumes this very shape

in ever aspiring to the one First Cause,

the center toward which the straight line tends,

if not indeed the circumference

containing every essence ad infinitum.

 These two artificial mountains, then

(be they miracles or marvels),

and that lofty blasphemous Tower

whose unhappy remnants to this day—

languages diversely shaped, not stones,

lest voracious time devour them—

are the divers tongues which still obstruct

the easy intercourse of humankind

(causing those Nature formed as one

to seem entirely different

simply because their tongues are unfamiliar),

if those three were compared

to the elevated pyramid of mind

on which, not knowing how, the soul

found herself now placed, they would see themselves

so far below that anyone

would assume her perch was in another sphere,

since her ambitious urge,

making of her very flight a summit,

lifted her to the highest point

of her own mentality,

mounted so high above herself, she thought

she had emerged in some new region.

 At this almost limitless elevation,

jubilant but perplexed,

perplexed yet full of pride,

and astonished although proud,

the sovereign queen of this sublunary world

let the probing gaze, by lenses unencumbered,

of her beautiful intellectual eyes

(unperturbed by distance

or worry lest some opaque obstacle

by intervening hide objects from her view)

range unrestricted over all creation.

Such an immense assemblage,

a mass so unencompassable,

though holding out to sight

some chance of being taken in,

held none to the understanding, which being dazed

by objects in such profusion, its powers

surpassed by their very magnitude,

turned coward and drew back....

 But, as one who has been deprived

by lengthy darkness of all color

in visible objects,

if suddenly assaulted by bright light

is made the blinder by its very brilliance— ...

and appeals to that same shade which formerly

had been a shadowy obstacle to the sight,

against the light’s offenses,...

natural procedure, this inborn wisdom,

which, with confirmation by experience,

a silent teacher perhaps,

but exemplary persuader,

has led physicians more than once

to mete out scrupulously

in proportions carefully determined

the secret harmful qualities

of deadly poisons,

now via an excess

of properties hot or cold,

now through the unknown sympathies

or antipathies whereby

natural causes carry out their action

(providing our astonished admiration

with a sure effect born of an unknown cause,

by taking endless pains and with observant

empirical attention tested first

in experiments performed on animals,

where the danger is not so great)

so that they might concoct in a healthful brew—

final goal of Apollonian science—

a marvelous counterpoison,

for thus at times from evil good arises;

not otherwise, then, did the soul,

astounded by the sight of such a mass

of objects, pull the attention back,

which, scattered over such diversity,

as yet had found recovery impossible

from the portentous shock

that had blocked her reasoning power,

allowing her scarcely more

than a rudimentary embryo

of muddled discourse, one so shapeless,

that from the confusion of species it embraced

it formed a picture of disordered chaos—

associating species in no order,

dissociating them in none,

so that the more they mix and intermingle,

the more they come apart in disarray

from sheer diversity—

forcibly cramming the vast overflow

of objects into a tiny vessel

unfit to hold even the humblest, most minute.

 In fine, the ship of the soul, sails furled,

whose inexperience she entrusted

to the treacherous sea, the fanning wind,

thoughtlessly presuming

the sea to be loyal, constant the wind,

against her will was forced

to run ashore on the beach

of the vast sea of knowing,

with rudder broken, yardarms snapped,

kissing each grain of sand

with every splinter.

Recovering there,

for calking she resorted

to prudent rumination,

the temperate wisdom bom of thoughtful judgment,

which, reining in its operation,

considered as more appropriate

restriction to a single subject

or taking separate account

of each thing, one by one,

contained in every one

of those artfully constructed

categories, ten in number:

a metaphysical reduction teaching

(by encompassing generic entities

in the purely mental constructs

of abstract thought, eschewing

embodiment in matter)

the art of forming universals,

sagely compensating by such art

for a deficiency:

the inability to know by one sole act

of intuition every created thing,

the need instead to move up, step by step,

as on a ladder, from one concept

to the next, adopting of necessity

the relative order of understanding

required by the restricted power of Mind,

which must entrust its progress

to a graduated form of reasoning.

 The imparting of such doctrine fortifies

Mind’s weaknesses with learned nourishment

and the lengthy, although smooth,

continuing course of discipline

endows it with lusty energies,

wherewith inspirited, its pride aspires

to the glorious banner that rewards

the most arduous undertaking;

to ascend the lofty stair,

by cultivation, first of one,

then of another form of knowledge

till honor’s summit gradually comes in view,

the easeful goal of a most laborious climb

(from bitter seed a fruit delighting taste,

which even at such expense is inexpensive)

and treading valiantly, Mind implants

sure footsteps on the summit’s lofty brow.

 Of this series now my mind

desired to pursue the method:

namely, from the basest level

of being—the inanimate

(the one least favored

by the second productive cause,

yet still not wholly destitute) —

to move on to the nobler hierarchy, . . .

a hierarchy furnished with some four

operations diverging in their action,

now attracting, now excluding carefully

whatever it judges unsuited to itself,

now expelling superfluities and making

the most useful of countless substances its own;

 then, this form once examined,

to scrutinize another form, more beautiful—

one that possesses feeling

(and, what is more, equipped with powers

of apprehending through imagination):

grounds for legitimate complaint—

if not indeed for claiming insult—

on the part of the brightest star

that sparkles, yet lacks all feeling,

however magnificent its brilliant light—

for the lowest, tiniest creature

surpasses even the loftiest of stars,

arousing envy;

and making of this bodily way of knowing

a foundation, however meager,

to move on to the wondrous

composite, triplicate

(set up on three concordant lines)

mysterious compendium

of all the lower forms:

the hinge that makes the link

between the purest nature,

that which occupies the highest throne,

and the least noble of the creatures,

the most abject,

equipped not only with the five

faculties of sense,

but ennobled also by the inner ones,

the three that rule the rest;

for not for nothing was he fitted out

by the powerful and knowing hand

to be supreme over all the others: . . .

 In short, I speak of man, the greatest wonder

the human mind can ponder,

complete compendium

resembling angel, plant, and beast alike:

whose haughty lowliness

partook of very nature. Why?

Perhaps that, being more fortunate

than any, he might be lifted high

by a grace of loving union.

Oh, grace repeated often,

yet never recognized sufficiently,

overlooked, so one might think,

so unappreciated is it,

so unacknowledged it remains....

 Now if, from a single object—

my timid thought kept saying—

true knowledge shies away,

and reason ingloriously turns aside;

if on a species set apart

as independent of all others—

thought of as unrelated—

understanding turns her back;

if reason, overwhelmed, recoils

before so difficult a challenge,

refusing to take action resolutely,

doubting in her cowardice

that she can grasp even this single object,

how can she hope to function in the face

of so astounding and immense a system?

Its burden, terrible, unendurable—

were it not upheld at its very center—

would make the shoulders even of Atlas sag,

outdo the strength of Hercules,

and they, who proved sufficient counterweight

to the sphere of heaven,

would judge its fabric far less burdensome,

its framework less oppressive,

than the task of investigating Nature.

Bolder at other times,

my mind denounced as height of cowardice

yielding the laurels without one attempt

to meet the challenge of the lists.

Then it would seize upon the brave example

set by that famous youth, high-minded

charioteer of the chariot of flame;

then courage would be fired

by his grand and bold, if hapless, impulse,

in which the spirit finds

not, like timidity, a chastening lesson

but a pathway summoning it to dare;

once treading this, no punishment can deter

the spirit bent upon a fresh attempt

(I mean a thrust of new ambition).

Neither the nether pantheon—

cerulean tomb of his unhappy ashes—

nor the vengeful lightning bolt,

for all their warnings, ever will convince

the soaring spirit once resolved,

in lofty disregard of living,

to pluck from ruin an everlasting fame.

Rather, that youth is the very type, the model:

a most pernicious instance

(causing wings to sprout for further flights)

of that ambitious mettle,

which, finding in terror itself a spur

to prick up courage,

pieces together the name of glory

from letters spelling endless havoc.

Either the punishment should not be known

so that the crime would never become contagious,

a politic silence covering up instead,

with a statesman's circumspection,

all record of the proceedings;

or let a show of ignorance prevail,

or the insolent excess

meet its just deserts by secret sentence

without the noxious example

ever reaching public notice,

for broadcasting makes the wickedness

of the greatest crime all the greater

till it threatens a widespread epidemic,

while, left in unknown isolation,

repetition is far less likely

than if broadcast to all as a would-be lesson....

... The overtired limbs,

worn out by rest,

reacting to the lack of sustenance,

and neither wide-awake nor fast asleep,

were showing signs of wishing

to be stirring once again

by the languid, drawn-out stretching

the torpid sinews were engaging in.

Even without their owner's full assent,

the limbs were turning tired bones

from side to side;

the senses were beginning to resume

their functioning, despite mild interference

caused by the natural toxin,

half-opening the eyes;

and from the brain, now cleared,

phantasms had taken leave

and, being formed of lightest vapor,

converted easily to smoke or wind,

now let their shapes be dissipated.

Just so, the magic lantern

casts on white of wall

simulations of different painted figures,

made possible by shadow no less than light

Maintaining amid shimmering reflections

the distances required

by the science of perspective

and confirmed in its true measurements

by a number of experiments,

the fleeting shadow

that faces into the brilliance of the light

simulates a body's form,

one possessing all dimensions, though it merits

no consideration even as surface.

 Meanwhile the father of flaming light

saw that the appointed hour was arriving

when he must climb the East.

He took his leave of our antipodes

with light departing down the West,

for through the flickers of his fading light

the same point serves to mark his going down

as ushers in the brightening of our East.

But not till Venus as the morning star,

beautiful and serene,

had pierced the first faint dawnlight,

and the fair wife of old Tithonus—

amazon arrayed in countless lights

(her armor against the night),

beautiful though bold,

valiant although tearful—

had let her lovely brow be seen

crowned with the lights of morning,

a tender prelude though a spirited one,

to the fiery planet,

who was busy marshaling his troops

of glimmering novices—

reserving glowing veterans, more robust, to fill the rearguard—

against the tyrannical usurper

of the empire of daylight,

who wore a laurel girdle with countless shadows

and with her dreadful nighttime scepter

ruled over shadows

of whom she stood in awe herself.

But scarcely had the lovely harbinger

and standard-bearer of the Sun, unfurled

her luminous pennant in the East,

as all the bugles of the birds,

soft yet bellicose, sounded the call to arms

(resonate trumpeters and skilled,

though uninstructed)

when—cowardly as tyrants always are,

and beset by timorous misgivings—

although trying to put up a valiant front

with her forces, although flaunting

her funereal cloak as shield,

that took short wounds

from the stabbing brightness

(even though her uneasy bravery

was merely a crude cover for her fear

since she knew how weak was her resistance) —

as if relying more on flight

than belligerence for her salvation,

Night was blowing her raucous horn

to gather her swarthy squadrons in

and make an orderly retreat—

when a burst of bouncing light

assaulted her from closer by

as it bathed the topmost tip

of the loftiest of turrets in the world.

 The Sun appeared, the circle now complete

which he carves in gold against the sapphire blue.

From his luminous circumference there sprang

a thousand times a thousand golden specks,

a thousand streams of gold—

lines, I mean, of brilliant light

ruled on heaven's cerulean page,

drawn up for orderly attack

upon the dismal despot of his realm

who, in hasty headlong flight,

stumbling over her native terrors,

was treading on her very shadow

as she sought to reach the West

with the routed, broken ranks

of her shadow army, harassed by light

in close pursuit upon her heels.

At last her fleeing footsteps reached the point

where the West came into view

and, though rushing, regaining her composure,

plucking courage up from her very ruin,

she resolved, rebelling once again,

to see herself made sovereign

in that half of the globe

left unprotected by the sun

when the beauty of his golden locks

brought luster to our hemisphere.

Dealing judiciously with his light,

by orderly distribution he dispensed

to all things visible their colors,

restoring to every outer sense

full functioning,

flooding with light whatever had been opaque

throughout the world, and summoning me awake.

Sor Juana’s Admonishment: The Letter of Sor Philothea [Filotea] de la Cruz [Bishop of Puebla] (1690)

Madam:

I have seen the letter in which you take issue with the Reverend Father Antonio de Vieira regarding the signs of Christ’s love treated by him in his Maundy Thursday sermon. So subtle is his treatment that the most erudite persons have opined that, like a second Apocalyptic Eagle, his singular talent outsoared itself as it followed the scheme set forth earlier by the Most Illustrious Cesar Meneses, a Portuguese talent of the first rank. In my opinion, however, anyone following your exposition must admit that your quill was cut finer than either of theirs and that they might well have rejoiced at finding themselves confuted by a woman who does honor to her sex.

I at least have admired the keenness of your concepts, the skill of your proofs, and the vigorous clarity that lends conviction to the subject, a quality inseparably linked with wisdom. This is why the first word uttered by Divine Wisdom was light, for without illumination there can be no word of wisdom. Even Christs words, cloaked in parables when He spoke of the deepest mysteries, were not held to be marvelous in the world. Only when He spoke out clearly did He win acclaim for knowing everything. This is one of the many special favors you owe to God, for clarity is not acquired by toil and diligence; it is a gift infused with the soul.

So that you may read yourself in clearer lettering in that document, I have had it printed; likewise, so that you may acknowledge the treasures God has placed in your soul and, being made thus more aware, may be more grateful, for gratitude and awareness are always born twins. .. .

I do not subscribe to the commonplace view of those who condemn the practice of letters in women, since so many have applied themselves to literary study, not failing to win praise from Saint Jerome. True, Saint Paul says women should not teach, but he does not order women not to study so as to grow wiser. He wished only to preclude any risk of presumptuousness in our sex, inclined as it is to vanity....

Letters that breed arrogance God does not want in women. But the Apostle does not reject them so long as they do not remove women from a position of obedience. No one could say that study and learning have caused you to exceed your subordinate status. Indeed, they have served to perfect in you the finer forms of obedience. For if other nuns sacrifice their wills for the sake of obedience, you hold the mind captive, which is the most arduous and the most welcome sacrifice one can offer on the altars of Religion.

As this judgment shows, I do not mean you to modify your natural predisposition by giving up books; I do mean that you should improve it by sometimes reading the book of Jesus Christ. None of the Evangelists called the genealogy of Christ a book, except Saint Matthew [Matt. 1:1]. This was because at his conversion our Lord’s wish was not so much to change his natural bent, as to improve upon it, so that if earlier as a publican his occupation was to keep books recording his transactions and interest, as an apostle he might better his nature, transforming the books of his ruin into the book of Jesus Christ. You have spent much time studying philosophers and poets. Surely it is only right for you now to better your occupation and upgrade your books.

Was there ever a nation more learned than Egypt? In it the world’s first letters had their beginning and there were admirable hieroglyphics. In order to underscore Joseph’s wisdom, Holy Scripture calls him a past master of Egyptian learning. Notwithstanding this, the Holy Ghost openly calls the people of Egypt barbarians, because all their learning served at most for probing into the courses of the stars and the heavens; it was not applied to curbing the unruliness of the passions. Their entire learning had as its goal perfecting men for political life, not lighting their way to the eternal. And learning which does not enlighten men for their salvation is deemed folly by God, who knows everything....

I do not on this account ensure the reading of these authors, but I pass on to you some advice of Gerson’s: Lend yourself to these studies; do not sell yourself to them, nor yet allow yourself to be carried away by them. The humanities are slaves and as such they have their usefulness for sacred studies. But they must be rejected when they dislodge Divine Wisdom from possession of the human mind and, though destined to be menials, take over as masters. They are to be recommended when the curiosity that has motivated them, which is a vice, gives way to studiousness, a virtue....

Philothea de la Cruz [Bishop of Puebla]

The Reply to Sor Philothea (1691)

. . . Forgive, my Lady, the digression wrung from me by the force of truth; and, to tell the whole truth, as a way of eluding the difficulty of answering; indeed I had almost made up my mind to let silence be my answer. Yet, since silence is something negative, although it explains a great deal by its insistence on not explaining, some brief label is needed to enable one to understand what it is intended to mean. Otherwise, silence will say nothing. The vessel of election was transported to the third Heaven and, having seen the arcane secrets of God, he says: Audivit arcana Dei, quae non licet homini loqui [“He heard secret words, which it is not granted to man to utter” (2 Cor. 12:4)]. He does not tell what he saw; he says that he cannot tell it. Thus, of those things that cannot be spoken, it must at least be said that they cannot be, to make clear that keeping silent does not mean having nothing to say, but rather that words cannot encompass all there is to say. Saint John says [21:25] that were he to write down all the miracles worked by our Redeemer, there would be insufficient room in the whole world for the resultant books. About this passage Vieira says that the Evangelist spoke more in this one sentence than in everything else he wrote. And this is very well said (and does the Lusitanian Phoenix ever fail to say things well, even when it would be as well not to say them?), because with these words Saint John says all that he had left unsaid, and expresses whatever he had left unexpressed....

Coming down to particulars, I confess to you, with the ingenuousness owed to you and the truth and clarity natural and habitual with me, that my not having written much on sacred subjects is not from disinclination or lack of application, but from an excess of the awe and reverence due those Sacred Letters, for the understanding of which I acknowledge myself so ill-equipped and which I am so unworthy to treat.... Then how should I dare to take this into my unworthy hands, when my sex, age, and especially my way of life all oppose it? And so I confess that many times this fear has taken the pen from my hand and caused the subject to sink back into the very mind from which it sought to emerge.

I encountered no such problem in secular subjects, since heresy against art is punished, not by the Holy Office, but by the laughter of the intelligent and the censure of the critical. The censure, iusta vel iniusta, timenda non est [whether deserved or not, is not to be feared], for it does not interfere with communion and attending mass, whence it concerns me little or not at all. For, in the opinion of the very people who slander me for writing, I am under no obligation to be learned nor do I possess the capacity never to err. Therefore my failure involves neither fault nor discredit: no fault since there is no chance of my not erring and ad impossibilia nemo tenetur [no one is obligated to attempt the impossible]. And in truth I have never written except when pressured and forced to and then only to please others and even then not only without enjoyment but with actual repugnance because I have never thought of myself as possessing the intelligence and educational background required of a writer. Hence my usual reply to those who urge me on, especially where sacred matters are involved: what aptitude have I, what preparation, what subjects, what familiarity do I possess for such a task, beyond a handful of superficial sophistries? Let such things be left to those who understand them: I want no trouble with the Holy Office. I am ignorant and shudder to think that I might utter some disreputable proposition or distort the proper understanding of some passage or other. My purpose in studying is not to write, much less to teach (this would be overbearing pride in my case), but simply to see whether studying makes me less ignorant. This is my reply and these are my feelings....

... I became a nun because, although I knew that that way of life involved much that was repellent to my nature—I refer to its incidental, not its central aspects —nevertheless, given my total disinclination to marriage, it was the least unreasonable and most becoming choice I could make to assure my ardently desired salvation. To which first consideration, as most important, all the other small frivolities of my nature yielded and gave way, such as my wish to live alone, to have no fixed occupation which might curtail my freedom to study, nor the noise of a community to interfere with the tranquil stillness of my books. This made me hesitate a little before making up my mind, until, enlightened by learned persons that hesitation was temptation, I overcame it by the grace of God and entered upon the life I now pursue so unworthily. I thought I was escaping from myself, but, alas for me, I had brought myself along. In this propensity I brought my greatest enemy, given me by Heaven whether as a boon or a punishment I cannot decide, for far from dying out or being hindered by all the exercises religion entails, it exploded like gunpowder. Privatio est causa appetitus [Privation arouses the appetite] had its confirmation in me.

I went back (I misspeak: I had never stopped); I went on with the studious pursuit (in which I found relaxation during all the free time remaining from my Page 93 →obligations) of reading and more reading, study and more study, with no other teacher than books themselves. One can readily imagine how hard it is to study from those lifeless letters, lacking a teacher’s live voice and explanations. Still I happily put up with all those drawbacks, for the sheer love of learning. Oh, if it had only been for the love of God, which would have been the sound way, what merit would have been mine! I will say that I tried to uplift my study as much as I could and direct it to serving Him, since the goal I aspired to was the study of theology, it seeming to me a mean sort of ineptitude for a Catholic not to know all that can be found out in this life through natural means concerning divine mysteries. I also felt that being a nun and not a lay person, I should, because of my ecclesiastical status, make a profession of letters—and furthermore that, as a daughter of Saint Jerome and Saint Paula, it would be a great disservice for the daughter of such learned parents to be a fool. This is what I took upon myself, and it seemed right to do so, unless of course— and this is probably the case—it was simply a way of flattering and applauding my own natural tendency, proposing its own pleasure to it as an obligation.

In this way I went on, continually directing the course of my study, as I have said, toward the eminence of sacred theology. To reach this goal, I considered it necessary to ascend the steps of arts and sciences, for how can one who has not mastered the style of ancillary branches of learning hope to understand that of the queen of them all? ...

... How then, could I, remote as I was from virtue and learning, find the strength to write? Thus, for the acquisition of certain fundamentals, I would constantly study divers things, without inclining in particular to any given one, inclined rather to all generally. So it happened that my having concentrated on some more than others was not a matter of choice but came about through the chance of having found books dealing with the former subjects closer to hand, which gave them preference without any decision of mine. As I had no material goal in mind, nor any limitation of time constraining me to the study of any one thing to meet degree requirements, almost at once I was studying different things or dropping some to take up others, although this was not wholly unsystematic since some I called study and other diversion. The latter brought me relaxation from the former. It follows from this that I have studied many things, yet know nothing because each one always interfered with some other. True, I am referring to the operative aspect of those which have one, for, obviously, while the pen is in motion, the compass is at rest, and while the harp is being played, the organ is still, et sic de caeteris. For, because much bodily practice is required to develop a skill, one who spreads herself out over a number of exercises will never acquire any one skill perfectly. In the formal and speculative realms, however, the opposite is true, and I should like to convince everyone by my own experience not only that different subjects do not interfere with one another, but that they actually support one another, since certain ones shed light on others, opening a way into them by means of variations and occult connections. It was to form this universal chain that the wisdom of their Author so put them in place that they appear correlated and bound together with marvelous concert and bonding. This is the chain that the ancients pretended emerged from Jupiter’s mouth, on which all things were strung and linked together. So much is demonstrated by the Reverend Father Athanasius Kircher in his curious book De magnete [On the Magnet]. All things proceed from God, who is at once the center and the circumference from which all existing lines proceed and at which all end up....

What I might point out in self-justification is how severe a hardship it is to work not only without a teacher but also without fellow students with whom to compare notes and try out what has been studied. Instead I have had nothing but a mute book as teacher, an unfeeling inkwell as fellow student, and, in place of explanation and exercises, many hindrances, arising not only from my religious duties (it goes without saying that these occupy one’s time most profitably and beneficially) but also from things implicit in the life of a religious community—such as when I am reading, those in a neighboring cell take it upon themselves to play music and sing. Or when I am studying and two maids quarrel and come to me to settle their dispute. Or when I am writing and a friend comes to visit, doing me a great disservice with the best of intentions, whereupon I not only must put up with the bother but act grateful for the injury. This goes on all the time, because, since the times I devote to my studies are those remaining when the regular duties of the community are over, the others are also free then to come and bother me. Only those who have experienced communal religious life can know how true this is. Only the strength of my vocation allows my nature to take pleasure in this and the great bond of love between me and my beloved sisters, for since love is union, there are no poles too distant for it....

... Well, the most arduous part of the difficulties still remains to be told, for those related up to now have been simply necessary or incidental annoyances which are such only indirectly. Still to come are the outright ones which have worked directly to hinder and to prohibit my pursuit of learning. Who could fail to believe, in view of such widespread plaudits, that I have sailed with a following wind on a glassy sea to the Page 94 →encomiums of general acclaim? Well, the Lord knows that it has hardly been so, for amidst the bouquets of that very acclaim, asps of such invidiousness and relentlessness as I could never describe have stirred and reared up. Those most harmful and painful to me are not the persons who have pursued me with open hatred and ill will, but those who, while loving me and wishing me well (and being possibly very meritorious in God's eyes for their good intentions), have mortified and tortured me much more than the others, with their: “This study is incompatible with the blessed ignorance to which you are bound. You will lose your way, at such heights your head will be turned by your very perspicacity and sharpness of mind.” What have I not gone through to hold out against this? Strange sort of martyrdom, in which I was both the martyr and my own executioner!

Why, for the ability (doubly infelicitous in my case) to compose verse, even when it was sacred verse, what nastiness have I not been subjected to, what unpleasantness has not come my way! I must say, Madam, that sometimes I stop and reflect that anyone who stands out—or whom God singles out, for He alone can do so—is viewed as everyone's enemy, because it seems to some that he is usurping the applause due them or deflecting the admiration which they have coveted, for which reason they pursue him....

... Oh singularity, set up as a target for envy and an object for contradiction! Any eminence, be it in dignity, nobility, wealth, beauty, learning, is subject to this penalty, but most implacably subject to it is eminence of mind. First of all, because it is the most defenseless, since wealth and power punish anyone daring to challenge them; but not mind, for the greater it is, the more modest and long-suffering, and the less prone to defend itself. Secondly, because, as Gracian so learnedly put it, superiority of mind goes with superiority of the whole being. The angel is superior to man for no other reason than superiority of mind; man surpasses animals in mind alone. Thus, as no one wished to be inferior to anyone else, no one will admit that another is superior in mind, since this proceeds from natural superiority. Anyone will allow and admit that another is nobler than he, richer, handsomer, and even more knowledgeable, but that someone else has a better mind scarcely anyone will grant. Rarus est, qui velit cedere ingenio [Rare is the man willing to acknowledge another's superiority of mind (Martial, Epigrams 8.8)]. That is why assaults on this gift are so successful....

... I confess that I am far removed from wisdom's confines and that I have wished to pursue it, though a longe. But the sole result has been to draw me closer to the flames of persecution, the crucible of torture, and this has even gone so far as a formal request that study be forbidden me.

This was successful in one instance involving a very holy and very ingenuous prelate who thought studying was something for the Inquisition and ordered me to cease. I obeyed her (for the three months her right to so order me lasted) as regarded not taking a book in hand, but as to ceasing study altogether, it not being in my power, I could not carry it out. For, although I did not study from books, I did from everything God has created, all of it being my letters, and all this universal chain of being my book. I saw nothing without reflecting on it; I heard nothing without wondering at it—not even the tiniest, most material thing. For, as there is no created thing, no matter how lowly, in which one cannot recognize the me fecit Deus [God made me], there is none that does not confound the mind once it stops to consider it. Thus, I repeat, I looked and marveled at all of them, so much so that simply from the person with whom I spoke, and from what that person said to me, countless reflections arose in my mind. What could be the origin of so great a variety of characters and minds, when all belonged to one species? Which humors and hidden qualities could bring this about? If I saw a figure, I at once fell to working out the relationship of its lines, measuring it with my mind and recasting it along different ones. Sometimes I would walk back and forth across the front of a sleeping-room of ours—a very large one— and observe how, though the lines of its two sides were parallel and its ceiling horizontal, one's vision made it appear as if the lines inclined toward each other and the ceiling were lower at the far end, from which I inferred that visual lines run straight but not parallel, tending rather toward a pyramidal figure....

This type of observation would occur to me about everything and still does, without my having any say in the matter; indeed, it continually irritates me because it tires my mind. I thought the same thing occurred in everyone's case, and with writing verse as well, until experience proved me wrong. This turn, or habit, of mind is so strong that I can look upon nothing without reflecting on it. Two little girls were playing with a top in my presence. The moment I saw its movement and form, I began, in my crazy way, to consider the easy motion of the spherical form, and how, the impulse once given, it continued independently of its cause, since at a distance from the girl's hand, which originated the motion, the top went on dancing. Nor was this enough for me. I had flour brought and sifted, so as to tell, when the top danced over it, whether the circles its motion described were perfect or not. I discovered that they were simply spirals which moved farther and Page 95 →farther from the circular in proportion as the impulse wore down. . . .

What could I not tell you, my Lady, of the secrets of Nature which I have discovered in cooking! That an egg hangs together and fries in fat or oil, and that, on the contrary, it disintegrates in syrup. That, to keep sugar liquid, it suffices to add the tiniest part of water in which a quince or some other tart fruit has been. That the yolk and white of the same egg are so different in nature, that when eggs are used with sugar, the yolks must be used separately from the white, never, together with them. I do not wish to tire you with such trivia, which I relate only to give you a full picture of my native turn of mind, which will, no doubt, make you laugh. But, Madam, what is there for us women to know, if not bits of kitchen philosophy?...

But to continue with the workings of my mind, let me say that this line of thought is so constant with me that I have no need of books. On one occasion, when, owing to some serious stomach trouble, the doctor forbade my studying, I obeyed for several days, but then I pointed out that allowing me books would be much less harmful, since my mental activity was so vigorous, so vehement, that it used up more spirits in a quarter of an hour than studying from books did in four days. So they agreed reluctantly to allow me to read. And not only that, my Lady: even my sleep was not free from this constant activity of my brain. In fact, it seems to go on during sleep with all the more freedom and lack of restraint, putting together the separate images it has carried over from waking hours with greater clarity and tranquility, debating with itself, composing verses, of which I could draw up a whole catalogue for you, including certain thoughts and subtleties I have arrived at more easily while asleep than while awake, which I won't go into, not wishing to bore you....

I must admit, likewise, that although, as I have said, a truth such as this requires no exemplification; nevertheless the many precedents I have read about in both divine and humane letters have greatly assisted me. For I see a Debbora [Judges 4 and 5] setting up laws in both military and political spheres, and governing a nation that could boast so many learned men. I see a most wise Queen of Sheba [3 (1) Kings 10; 2 Paralipomenon (Chronicles) 9], so learned that she dared to challenge with enigmas the wisdom of the wisest of the wise, without suffering on that account any reproof. Rather, thanks to that, she becomes judge of the unbelieving. I see so many and such outstanding women, like Abigail [1 Kings (1 Sam.) 25], endowed with the gift of prophecy; others, like Esther, with that of persuasiveness; others, like Rahab [Josh. 2], with piety; others, like Anna, mother of Samuel [1 Kings (1 Sam.) 1 and 2], with perseverance; and an infinite number of others, all possessing other gifts and virtues.

If I look among the Gentiles, the first I come upon are the Sybils, chosen by God to prophesy the principal mysteries of our faith—and to do so in such learned and refined verse that it holds wonderment itself in suspense. I see worshiped as goddess of learning a woman like Minerva, daughter of the first Jupiter and giver of all the learning of Athens. I see a Polla Argentaria helping her husband, Lucan write the Pharsalian Battle. I see divine Tiresias' daughter, more learned than her father. I see a Zenobia, queen of the Palmyrans, as wise as she is brave. An Arete, daughter of Aristippus, learned in the extreme. A Nicostrata, inventor of Latin letters and extremely erudite in the Greek. An Aspasia of Miletus, teacher of philosophy and rhetoric and instructress of the philosopher Pericles. A Hypatia, who taught astrology and lectured for a long time in Alexandria. A Leoncia, the Greek woman who wrote in opposition to Theophrastus, the philosopher, and won him over. A Jucia [Julia], a Corinna, a Cornelia—in sum, the whole throng of those who earned a name for themselves—Grecians, muses, oracles, who all were simply women of learning, considered such, celebrated as such, and venerated as such by the ancients. Not to mention innumerable others, of whom the books are full, for I see that Egyptian Catherine, lecturing and winning over to her view all the wisdom of the sages of Egypt. I see a Gertrude reading, writing, and teaching. And, to stay with examples close to home, I see a most holy mother of mine, Paula, learned in the Hebrew, Greek, and Latin languages and most skilled at interpreting the Scriptures. And how could she fail to be, when the supreme Jerome, her chronicler, considered himself scarcely worthy of being such, for with that striking emphasis and power of expression, of which he has the secret, he says: If all the limbs in my body were tongues, they would still not suffice to publish abroad the wisdom and virtue of Paula. He was moved to similar praise of the widow Blesilla and the illustrious virgin Eusto-chium, daughters both of the same Saint, the latter so noteworthy that, by reason of her learning, she was called the Wonder of the World. Fabiola, the Roman woman, was also most versed in Holy Scripture. Proba Falconia, a Roman woman, wrote an elegant book in the mysteries of our Holy Faith, by putting together quotations from Virgil. Our Queen Isabella, the wife of Alfonso X, is known to have written on astrology. Not to mention others whom I shall pass over to avoid relaying what others have said (a vice I’ve always detested) and because in our day there flourishes the great Christina Alexandra, Queen of Sweden, as learned Page 96 →as she is courageous and great-hearted, and their Excellencies the Duchess of Aveiro and the Countess of Villaumbrosa.

The venerable Dr. Arce (in virtue and cultivation a worthy professor of Scripture) in his Studioso Bibliorum, raises this question: An liceat foeminis sacrorum Bibliorum studio incumbere? eaque interpretari? [Is it legitimate for women to apply themselves to study of the Holy Bible and to interpret it?] He brings in many opinions of saints in support of the opposing view, especially that of the Apostle: Mulieres in Ecclesiis taceant, non enim permittitur eis loqui etc. ["Let women keep silence in the churches, for it is not permitted them to speak” (1 Cor. 14:34)]. He then brings in other opinions and especially that of the same Apostle addressing Titus: Anus similiter in habitu sancto, bene docentes ["The aged women, in like manner, in holy attire . . . teaching well” (Tit. 2:3)], with interpretations of the Church Fathers. He finally decides, in his judicious way, that to lecture publicly in the classroom and to preach in the pulpit are not legitimate activities for women, but that studying, writing, and teaching privately are not only allowable but most edifying and useful. Of course this does not apply to all women— only to those whom God has endowed with particular virtue and discernment and who have become highly accomplished and erudite, and possess the talents and other qualities needed for such holy pursuits. So true is this that the interpretation of Holy Scripture should be forbidden not only to women, considered so very inept, but to men, who merely by virtue of being men consider themselves sages, unless they are very learned and virtuous, with receptive and properly trained minds. Failure to do so, in my view, has given rise precisely to all those sectarians and been the root cause of all the heresies. For there are many who study in order to become ignorant, especially those of an arrogant, restless, and overbearing turn of mind, who are partial to new interpretations of the Law (where precisely they are to be rejected). Hence, until they have uttered something heretical merely in order to say what no none else has, they will not rest. Of these the Holy Spirit says: In Malevolam animam no intoibit sapientia ["For wisdom will not enter into a malicious soul” (Wisdom 1:4)]. Learning does more harm to such than remaining ignorant would. A clever man once said that a person who does not know Latin is not a complete fool, but that one who does is well qualified to be one. And I add he is even better (if stupidity is a qualification) who has studied his bit of philosophy and theology and has a smattering of languages, for therewith he becomes a fool in many branches of learning and language, his mother tongue not offering room enough for a great fool....

Oh, how much harm would be avoided in our country if older women were as learned as Laeta and knew how to teach in the way Saint Paul and my Father Saint Jerome direct! Instead of which, if fathers wish to educate their daughters beyond what is customary, for want of trained older women and on account of the extreme negligence which has become women’s sad lot, since well-educated older women are unavailable, they are obliged to bring in men teachers to give instruction in reading, writing, and arithmetic, playing musical instruments, and other skills. No little harm is done by this, as we witness every day in the pitiful examples of ill-assorted unions; from the ease of contact and the close company kept over a period of time, there easily comes about something not thought possible. As a result of this, many fathers prefer leaving their daughters in a barbaric, uncultivated state to exposing them to an evident danger such as familiarity with men breeds. All of which would be eliminated if there were older women of learning, as Saint Paul desires, and instruction were passed down from one group to another, as is the case with needlework and other traditional activities....

. . . This should be taken into account by those who, being wedded to that Mulieres in Ecclesia taceant, rail against women’s being educated and becoming teachers, as if the Apostle himself had never said: bene docentes. Besides which, that injunction referred to a historical circumstance related by Eusebius, namely, that in the early Church women had begun to indoctrinate one another in places of worship and the noise interfered with the apostles’ preaching, for which reason they were told to keep still—exactly as now it is the case that while the preacher is preaching one does not pray out loud.

The understanding of many passages doubtless requires much study of history, customs, ceremonies, proverbs, and even the ways of speaking of the times in which they were written, so as to learn to what certain locutions of Holy Writ are referring and alluding.... That reply of the virtuous matron to the irksome suitor: Hinges won’t be greased nor will torches burn for me, a way of saying that she had no desire to marry, with an allusion to the ceremony of greasing doors with fat and lighting nuptial torches at marriages—as if we were now to say: there will be no outlay for dowry nor will the priest give his blessings on my account. And along these lines there are countless other observations of Virgil and Homer and all the poets and prose writers. Aside from these, how many difficulties cannot be found in Biblical passages, even in matters of grammar —the plural used for the singular, the second person giving way to the third, in those words of the Canticle of Canticles: osculetur me osculo oris sui: quia Page 97 →meliora sunt ubera tua vino [“Let him kiss me with the kiss of his mouth: for thy breasts are better than wine” (1:1)]? The adjective in the genitive instead of the accusative, as in Calicem salutaris accipiam [“I will take the chalice of salvation” (Ps. 115:13)]? The use of the feminine for the masculine and, on the contrary, calling any sin adultery?

All of this requires more study than is thought by some who, not having gone beyond the level of grammar or knowing at most a few terms of formal logic, undertake to interpret the Scriptures and fasten onto Mulieres in Ecclesiis taceant, with no idea of how it should be interpreted. And, from elsewhere in the Bible, onto: Mulier in silentio discat [“Let the woman learn in silence” (1 Tim. 2:11)], even though these words speak more in womens favor than against them, since they direct them to learn, and it is obvious that while women are learning they must keep silent. And it is also written: Audi, Israel, et tace [“Hear, Israel, and hold thy peace”], words which address the whole conglomeration of men and women telling them all to maintain silence, since anyone listening and learning must naturally be attentive and keep silent. . . . And nowadays we see the Church allowing women, both saints and not, to write, for the nun of Agreda and Maria de la Antigua are not canonized, yet their writings circulate, nor were Saint Teresa and the others when they wrote. Thus Saint Paul's prohibition referred only to speaking in public from pulpits; if the Apostle had prohibited writing, the Church would not allow it. So today I am not so bold as to teach—it would be the height of presumption in my case. Writing requires greater talent than I possess and a great deal of thought. So Saint Cyprian says: Gravi condiseratione indigent, quae scribimus [The things we write need to be very carefully considered]. My whole wish has been to study so as to be less ignorant, for, as Saint Augustine has it, some things are learned with a view to action, others only for the sake of knowing: Discimus quedam, ut sciamus; quaedam, ut faciamus....

If I turn to the facility in writing verse which has been so censured in me, it is so innate that I am even doing violence to myself to keep this missive in prose and could cite that line Quidquid conabar dicere, versus erat [Anything I set out to say turned into verse (Ovid, Tristia 4.10.26, inexactly quoted)]. Seeing it so condemned and so impugned on all sides, I have expressly tried to determine what is so wrong about it and have not been able to. What I find instead is that verses are applauded on the lips of Sybils, sanctified in the pens of the Prophets, and especially of King David, of whom that great expounder and beloved father of mine, in explaining their metrical patterns, says: In morem Flacci et Pindari nunc iambo currit, nunc alcaico personat, nunc sappico tumet, nunc semipede ingreditur [In the manner of Horace and Pindar, now it runs along in iambics, now it is resonant with alcaics, now it swells with sapphics, now it moves in half-feet]. Most of the sacred books are in meter—....

Now if the wrong consists in the practice of verse by a woman, since so many have practiced it in a fashion so evidently praiseworthy, what can be so wrong about my being a poet? Though I readily confess that I am base and vile, I am not aware that anyone has seen an unseemly ditty by me. Furthermore, I have never written anything of my own volition, but always at the request, and to the specifications, of others. So much so that the only thing I can remember writing for my own pleasure is a trifle called The Dream....

... If it should be your pleasure, my Lady, that I do the opposite of what I had proposed to your judgment and view, my decision will yield, as is right, to the least indication of your wishes. As I said, it had been to remain silent because, although Saint John Chrysostom says: calumniators convincere oportet, interrogators docere [slanderers should be won over, questioners enlightened], I see that Saint Gregory also says: Victoria non minor est hostes tolerare, quam hostest vincere [It is no less a victory to tolerate an enemy than to overcome him], and that patience conquers by tolerance and triumphs by sufferance. And it was the custom of the pagan Romans, at the highest peak of their captains’ glory, when they returned home in triumph from the conquest of nations, dressed in purple and crowned with laurel; with, instead of animals, crowned heads of conquered kings pulling the chariot; with the rich spoils of the whole world in their train; with the victorious militia decorated with the insignia of their prowess; while they enjoyed the popular acclaim of such honorable and greatly reputed titles as Fathers of their Country, Mainstays of Empire, Bulwarks of Rome, Protectors of the Republic, and other titles to glory: it was, I say, the Romans’ custom, in the full flush of human glory and felicity, to have a soldier go alongside the conqueror, saying to him in a loud voice, as if expressing his own sentiments and acting on the Senate’s order: Don’t forget you are mortal, that you have such and such a flaw, without sparing them the most shameful, as happened at Caesar’s triumphs, when the lowliest soldiers shouted into his ears: Cavete romani, adducimus vobis adulterum calvum [Beware, Romans, we bring you one who is bald and adulterous!] This was done so that such great honors should not go to the conqueror’s head, and so that the ballast of these affronts should counterbalance the sails of such acclaim, in order that the ship of judgment should not be endangered by the winds of so much cheering.

If this, I say, was done by pagans having solely the light of natural law, is it so much for us Catholics, who are required to love our enemies, to tolerate them? For my part, I can assure you that calumnies have sometimes mystified me but have never harmed me, since I consider very stupid the person who, having the opportunity to win merit, takes no less trouble to lose it, like those people who resist the thought of dying, yet die in the end, their resistance being of no avail in avoiding death and serving only to deprive them of the merit of acceptance and turning what could have been a fine death into a poor one. Thus, Madam, I consider these things more beneficial than harmful and hold the risk of applause the greater one for human weakness, which has a way of appropriating what does not belong to it. One must be very wary and keep those words of the Apostle written in one’s heart: Quid autem habes quod non accepisti? Si autem accepisti, quid gloriaris quasi no acceperis? [“or what hast thou that thou hast not received? And if thou hast received, why doest thou glory, as if thou hadst not received it?” (1 Cor. 4:7)], that they may serve as a shield to resist the sharp spikes of praise, a lance which, when not attributed to God, to whom it belongs, takes our lives and turns us into robbers of God’s honor and usurpers of the talents He has entrusted to us and the gifts he has lent us, of which we must give a most exact reckoning. I therefore fear praise more than censure, my Lady, for the latter, by only the simplest act of patience, may be turned to advantage, while the former, if it is not to do one harm, requires many reciprocal acts of humility and self-knowledge. ...

If the style of this letter, my venerable Lady, should not have been such as is owed you, I ask you to pardon my homespun familiarity or inadequate respect, in treating you as a veiled nun, sister to me, and forgetting the distance that separates me from your most illustrious person. Had I seen you with no veil, this would not have happened. But with your good and benign judgment, you will fill in or emend the forms of address, and if you find incongruous my addressing you with no title, because I felt that considering the reverence I owe you, the title of Your Reverence would actually show very little reverence, replace my familiarity with any form of address you deem worthy of your merits, for I have not had the daring to exceed the limits of your style nor to infringe the margins of your modesty.

And keep me in your grace in order to obtain God’s for me, and may He grant you great increase thereof and keep you, as I beg and need Him to do. From this convent of Our Father Saint Jerome of the City of Mexico, the first day of the month of March of the year sixteen hundred ninety-one. Your most favored servant kisses your hands,

Juana Inés de la Cruz