(Il)legible Orthodoxy: Diligence and Impertinence Before Inquisitorial Curiosity

Abstract

This article proposes the Spanish Inquisition as a site of productive conflict between the polyvalent significations of curiosity in early modern Spain. On one hand, the Spanish Inquisition promoted curiosity through diligent inquiry, while on the other it prosecuted those whose curiosity led them to impertinence. This article examines the significance of an archival curiosity whose dubious relevance within the archive highlights its fundamental illegibility before Inquisitorial curiosity. This article argues that despite an ethos of apparent orthodoxy and cryptic invitations to curious readers, the manuscript ultimately fails to prompt Inquisitorial inquiry and itself becomes designated as “Escrito curioso por su valor caligráfico” by an unidentified archivist. Impertinent as an archival misfit and insolent in its failure to adhere to standards of confession, the “Escrito curioso’s” playful provocations invite a diligent reader to peruse its depths, only to find obstinate opacities nestled within the umbrage of orthodoxy. Ultimately, the article contends that the “Escrito curioso” ironically elucidates the Inquisition’s paradoxical dependence upon the heretical curiosity it condemned. As a diligent expression of undying faithfulness to the Church and her Inquisition, it is relegated to the forgotten margins of the Holy Office’s operations.

1. Introduction

For the uninitiated, Inquisitorial curiosity may at first seem like a paradox. The Spanish Inquisition was notorious for its censorship, its secrecy, and its violence against those who were too curious for their own good, and yet early modern lexicographer Sebastián de Covarrubias emphasized curiosity as a key characteristic of Inquisitors who had to be professionally inquisitive (de Covarrubias 1611b, “cvrioso”).1 Prominent twentieth-century scholars like Henry Charles Lea—whose collection of manuscripts this article examines—often portrayed Inquisitors as unrestrained, echoing the insolence attributed to heretics and claiming, “the power of the inquisitor had practically scarce any bounds but his own discretion” (Lea 1922, p. 527). However, historiography has since nuanced such stereotypes of Inquisitors as by recognizing Inquisitors more as “faceless bureaucrats rather than spectacular tyrants” (Edwards 1999, p. 65). More recently, Kimberly Lynn elucidated that though individual Inquisitors approached their positions differently, the virtue of diligence—a concept both linked to curiosity and pastoral love—united the profession (Lynn 2013, p. 53). Curiosity, then, describes the diligent inquisitiveness of Inquisitors who regulated the curiosity that could lead the Spanish population towards heresy.

The tension between Inquisition and curiosity aligns with an established understanding that curiosity had contradictory connotations in early modernity (Kenny 2004, pp. 150–57).2 On one hand, curiosity fostered empirical study and scientific discovery, but on the other hand, undue curiosity could carry one down perilous paths towards heresy. Covarrubias records a similar polysemy in the Spanish context, explaining that curiosity has “buena y mala partes”. He associates “diligencia” with the “buena parte” and the “mala parte” with those ”soplones delatores”—snitching rats—people who “se desuela en escudriñar las cosas que son muy occultas y reseruadas …” (de Covarrubias 1611a, “cvrioso”). But what is the limit between the diligent questioning of an Inquisitor and the indecent spying of the “soplones delatores”? Were Inquisitorial agents who reported on the secret lives of their potentially heretical neighbors curiosos diligentes or soplones delatores? Doubtlessly, the difference depends on one’s perspective. Both curiosos diligentes and soplones delatores discover hidden and reserved things. They ask, investigate, and spy to uncover what is hidden.

Studies that examine the intersection of Inquisition and curiosity continue to affiliate the Spanish Inquisition with the “mala parte” of curiosity through readings of Cervantes’s intercalated tale, El curioso impertinente (de Cervantes Saavedra 1978, I:XXXIII–XXXV, pp. 399–446).3 For instance, Michael Gerli points to inquisitiveness as the fatal flaw of the story’s intrepid protagonist (Gerli 2000, p. 115). Anselmo, impertinently curious, instructs his best friend, Lotario, to attempt to seduce his wife, Camila, in order to test her fidelity. His incipient curiosity precipitates the demise of all involved. Just like heretics whose curiosity carries them too far, Anselmo is too inquisitive for his own good, hastening his own demise through experimentation with his wife’s fidelity, to the ultimate chagrin of his all-important honra.

The titular adjective, impertinente, operates on two levels, as Anselmo’s impertinent curiosity parallels the disputed pertinence of the story within the broader narrative of Don Quixote. Covarrubias registers this polysemy in distinguishing between an impertinent man “el que es sin sustancia y sin modo,” and impertinencía “la cosa fuera de proposito” (de Covarrubias 1611b, “impertinente”). Impertinence conveys insolence, irrelevance, and being out of place, and both Anselmo and the text itself can be seen as all three. Anslemo hides in order to spy insolently on places he should not be, and characters find the manuscript stranded in an inn, bizarrely out of place both spatially within the narrative and textually through its inclusion in the broader novel. These transgressions metacritically fold upon themselves in typical Cervantine fashion. Anselmo spies upon a performance that was staged specifically for his forbidden sight, and in Part 2, characters criticize the tale’s inclusion in Part 1 on the grounds they were not germane to Don Quixote’s adventures (de Cervantes Saavedra 1978, II:3, 63; II:44, 366). On both levels, the notion of impertinence raises a key question when examining curiosity’s polysemy. What is the boundary between relevant and irrelevant curiosity if both require some form of transgression in order to uncover what was previously hidden? How does the Inquisition regulate this boundary?

In a provocative response to such questions, Kevin Larsen suggests that Inquisitors, like Anselmo, impertinently experimented with the Spanish population—creating and subsequently discovering the very deviancies it feared (Larsen 2013, p. 414). On one level, the Inquisition’s internal logic employed the “buena parte” of diligent curiosity against the “mala parte” of heretical curiosity. The Inquisition prosecuted those it deemed deleteriously curious, as curiosity has long been linked to heresy and original sin. Heretics are impertinently curious; like Eve, they pursue forbidden knowledge. What could be more hidden and reserved than the nature of the divine? Heretics questioned the unquestionable and exceeded the boundaries of licit knowledge. The Inquisition regulated those boundaries by discovering heretics and returning them to orthodoxy through public penance.

On another level, the tension between good and bad forms of curiosity haunts the memory of the Holy Tribunal. Twentieth-century scholarship viewed Inquisitorial curiosity schismatically—either as a boon to the prospering of Spanish culture or an impediment to its cultural progress. On one hand, the Inquisition’s critics fomented the Black Legend, which claimed the Inquisition promoted a culture of surveillance that restricted certain harbingers of “modernity”—the Reformation and the Enlightenment.4 For instance, for John Stoughton, the Inquisition’s “merciless bigotry,” in part explains why Spain, “lag[s] behind in the march of improvement. Their civilization is incomplete, and strangely contrasts with that of England, Germany, Italy and France (Stoughton 1883, pp. 13, 16). On the other hand, Catholic historian Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo contended, “Nunca se escribió más y mejor en España que en esos dos siglos de oro de la Inquisicion” (Menéndez y Pelayo 1992, p. 445). Leaving aside his superlative assessments, he is right to highlight the productivity of the Inquisitorial years. The sixteenth and seventeenth century are hardly characterized by a paucity of literary production. Without sharing Menéndez y Pelayo’s investment in sustaining that the Inquisition promoted “good” literature that bolstered Spain’s national identity, if we are to understand the impact of Inquisition on early modern cultural production, we must take the prolificness of Inquisitorial methods seriously.

Whether diligent or impertinent, benevolent or pernicious, Inquisitorial curiosity was certainly creative. While public indexes are a reminder that the Inquisition placed limits on what could be published, its internal mechanisms were immensely productive. During its 350-year tenure in Spain, the Americas, and the Spanish Pacific, the Spanish Inquisition produced prolific volumes of documentation as it investigated myriad forms of heresy. It merged the sacramental office of confession to the meticulous notetaking of bureaucratic juridical systems—producing copious records of its proceedings. If the Inquisition restricted what could be said publicly, it recorded privately the very ideas it censured. Scrupulous note-takers, the Inquisition’s notaries produced copious documentation, recording every detail of investigations as Inquisitors solicited myriad confessional texts of its witnesses and defendants. If the Inquisition is an institution of textual repression, it is equally an institution of textual production.

In this article, I contribute to a growing recognition of the Spanish Inquisition’s creative power by demonstrating that Inquisitors, as curiosos diligentes, fomented textual production as they sought to restrict the deleterious impact of curiosos impertinentes. Fundamentally, this article elucidates the Holy Office’s paradoxical dependence upon the curiosity it condemned through an Inquisitorial curiosity. It examines a small miscellany of texts that are now gathered as Ms. Coll. 728—the Henry Charles Lea Collection of Inquisition Manuscripts, 1533–1866—in the Kislak Center Special Collections at the University of Pennsylvania.

Our centerpiece is an illustrated manuscript fittingly dubbed, “Escrito curioso por su valor caligráfico” by an unidentified archivist. Five folded folios of paper loosely stitched together and wrapped in an unassuming cover open to reveal a beautifully penned prologue whose immediate legibility starkly contrasts the infamously difficult paleographic script of traditional Inquisition documentation. Its brief confessional preface introduces a collection of elaborate poems that are punctuated by three pages of ornate illustrations—all of which laud the Inquisition and express a profound fidelity to Catholic orthodoxy.

While curious in form, it is profoundly uncurious in ethos. The document vehemently rejects heresy and emphatically expresses a desire to spill blood and ink in Christendom’s service. While overall, “Escrito curioso” maintains some of the conceits of confession common in Inquisition documentation, and its legibility, brevity, and artistry single it out as a poor fit within Inquisition documentation. What was the Inquisition to do with a beautifully penned expression of resolute orthodoxy? How might an archival curiosity speak to our understanding of the Inquisition’s impact on early modern curiosity? Inversely, how do expressions of resolute orthodoxy, characterized by a lack of theological curiosity, resonate within Inquisitorial processes?

Submitted to the Mexican Inquisition in 1754 and now housed in Philadelphia, we might describe it as curiously impertinent (no pertenece)—it does not quite belong. Despite an ethos of hyper-legibile orthodoxy, “Escrito curioso” is ultimately ineffective at provoking Inquisitors’ curiosity. Departing from dominant representations of the Inquisition as a means to restrict early modern curiosity, this article demonstrates that curiosity was both vice and virtue before the Inquisition. If not a true virtue, then it was at least a procedural necessity, as Inquisitors required a salubrious form of curiosity in their efforts to control curiosity’s deleterious impacts, relegating impertinently uncurious expressions of orthodoxy to the margins of its operations.

2. Inquisition Confessions

This article will largely side-step the rabbit hole of traditional Inquisition confessions, instead examining how archival misfits inform our understanding of the Inquisition’s regulation and promotion of curiosity in its procedures. However, it is important to establish first the essential characteristics of Inquisition confession in order to perceive the subversion of the confessional conceit of “Escrito curioso”. Confession is the Inquisition’s preferred method for producing truth-telling narratives. As Foucault reminds us, confession develops within a relationship of power and involves the disclosure of the hidden inner realms of private thought and belief (Foucault 2020, pp. 58–59). In the confessional, a confessant discloses their thoughts to a priest who says little until administering an appropriate penance, but in the case of Inquisition confession, there is mutual disclosure developed through dialogue. Trials unfolded through a dance between revelation and obfuscation. Inquisitors strategically withheld information from confessants, and confessants—presumably—strategically withheld information from the Inquisition. Recorded for internal bureaucratic processes, these documents are notoriously difficult to read—full of abbreviations and in a loose cursive called procesal, which has initiated many migraines among early modernists.

A brief document housed alongside “Escrito curioso” exemplifies the typical structure of Inquisition trials. Mayor Garcia, a morisca from Daymiel, was tried in 1550 on suspicion of continuing Islamic practices, particularly the use of henna on the hands and stating that the “ley de los moros” was better than that of Christians. At only 21 folios, it was a relatively brief trial that certainly merits closer attention, and we will not, here, do it justice. For our purposes here, her first audience with the Inquisitors concisely illustrates the dialogical structure of Inquisition confessions as a procedural control of information which required confessants to navigate iterative confessions.

On 16 April 1550, after identifying the names, locations, and lineage of her grandparents, parents, and children, Inquisitor Valtdano asks Mayor if she knows the cause of her arrest and she responds succinctly: “preg[unta]da sy sabe la causa por q[ue] ha sido ma[n]dada a traher presa a este santo officio dixo q[ue] no lo sabe” (Figure 1. 5r).5 This brief exchange is a standard opening question from the Inquisition in which they ask open-endedly for the confessant to identify the reason for their imprisonment. In this instance, Mayor responds with a guarded denial, opting to withhold any potentially self-incriminating evidence. Her denial launches the three moniciones, three opportunities to confess fully before the charges are revealed. Confessions given in this state of ignorance are ostensibly treated as more genuine and meriting greater mercy.

In general, Inquisitors expected confessions to be complete and truthful admissions of guilt. David Gitlitz examines the impact of these standards in rhetorical terms, arguing that confessants had to create confessions that appeared true and complete, while obscuring or minimizing any truly damning evidence (Gitlitz 2000, p. 55). Those who the Inquisition believed lied during their confessions were termed “false confessants” (“ficta confitentes”).

Inquisitor Valtodano’s second monición reveals that the Inquisition demanded discursive conformity alongside theological adherence to orthodoxy. The second monición here reads:

fuele d[ic]ho por el d[ic]ho señor Inq[uisid]or q[ue] se le haze saber q[ue] ella ha sihido trahida pressa a este santo off[ici]o por aber hecho, d[ic]ho y cometido cosas contra n[uest]ra sancta ffee catholica por tanto se le amonesta y encarga q[ue] diga y co[n]fiesse todo aq[ue]llo q[ue] ella obiere hecho y d[ic]ho y visto dezir y hazer q[ue] sea contra n[uest]ra s[an]ta ffee catholica y lo q[ue] supiere de otras p[er]sonas aun sy bibas como defuntas/e absentes y q[ue] haziendo lo ansy se bsara con ella de la m[isericord]ia q[ue] lugar obiere de d[e]r[ech]o. que por na en buen estado su causa para ser con brebedad d[e]spachada y poderse absuelta de qualquier ex[empci]on en q[ue] aya yncurrido y lo contrario haziendo sera oydo el fiscal y ella y se hara justi[cia].

la d[ic]ha mayor garcia dixo q[ue] ella diria la v[er]dad pues ha venido a esta s[an]ta casa/y q[ue] lo q[ue]re pensar.

In his monición, Valtodano highlights the presumption of guilt standard across Inquisitorial practices. She was arrested because she has carried out, said or committed crimes against the Catholic Church that are known to the Inquisition, but unnamed to her. Often prompted to “descargar la consciencia,” there was no presumption of innocent until proven guilty. Quite the contrary; confessants were consistently informed that the Inquisition never arrested people without a chargethe confessant had to discover it (find it and reveal it), ideally with no additional information.

Valtodano’s monición also illustrates the centrality of denunciation to Inquisitorial practices. He encourages Mayor to reveal the names of those living or dead who also fell into heresy. The practice of implicating others in the trials was essential to ascertain the veracity of confession. Inquisition methods relied on a large conglomeration of anonymous testimony to verify the particulars of any individual’s confession. Any mention of another witness to an event would implicate that person and the Inquisition would call them to their chambers to submit a confession. The second person’s confirmation of someone else’s testimony from a state of ignorance—unaware of the particulars of the original testimony—would be convincing evidence of veracity. This exemplary monición further demonstrates a discursive mandate for comprehensiveness. Valtodano insists that Mayor “confiese todo aquello que ella obiere hecho, dicho, y visto dezir y hazer” with the demand including even hypotheticals captured in the imperfect subjunctive.

Throughout the moniciones, Mayor obfuscates, asks for more time, and denies any wrongdoing. However, on 6 May, Mayor’s first confession exemplifies the rhetorical utility of repentance, veracity, and verifiability—discursive constraints encouraged in the dialogical questioning between defendant and Inquisitor. Her confession reads:

dixo la d[ic]ha mayor garcia q[ue] podra aber treze o quatorze años q[ue] estando en daymiel a la puerta de casa de marcos manglano q[ue] hera b[ecin]a desta t[estig]o, hablando co[n] su muger y se o estando anbas solas antes q[ue] la d[ich[a y sro fuese presente en esta ynq[uisici]on. la qual dixo a esta declar[ant]e pareseme q[ue] hera mejor ley la de los moros q[ue] la q[ue] tomamos y q[ue] no le dixo mas y esta declarant[e] creyo algo dello. preg[unta]da q[ue] es esto algo q[ue] dize q[ue] creyo dixo la d[ic]ha mayor señor q[ue] de me ansi q[ue] no lo crey del todo

y aun q[ue] le fue d[ic]ho q[ue] declare bien esto q[ue dize[ y co[n]fiesa y fue le encargado q[ue] diga la verdad

dixo q[ue] no sabe más d[e]z[i]r de lo que ha d[ic]ho.

She names the time, place, and people present when a theologically suspicious statement was made. While mitigating her guilt by claiming she only believed the statement in part, the dialogical structure shows the Valtodano listened attentively for gaps in her narrative. He asks her to clarify the ambiguous “algo” (something), which she clarifies “que no lo crey del todo”. This answer does not satisfy Valtodano, however, who encourages her, “declare bien,” she attests she has stated this to the best of her ability and does not, here, clarify further. Eventually, however, the Inquisitors are satisfied with Mayor’s confessional performance. By the end of the trial, the Inquisitors decide to admit her back into the church as a “reconciliada,” on the basis that she was a “verdadera confitente y penitente” (19r–v). Truthful and repentant, Mayor eventually—though it seems it required some discursive coercion—produced a confession that achieved the standards enforced by Inquisitorial procedures.

3. The (I)llegibility of “Escrito Curioso”

The same cannot be said for “Escrito curioso”. It is curiously impertinent (no pertenece) not only for its aesthetic qualities, but for its significant departures from Inquisitorial confession as a conceit. It is an exemplary confession, purporting complete adherence to Catholic orthodoxy and faithful submission to the Inquisition. However, its divergences from procedural confessions emphasize a foundational tension between the Inquisition and the orthodoxy it demands. Despite its ethos of transparency and submission, “Escrito curioso” is a fundamentally opaque confession that ultimately resists the Inquisition’s operations. It presents itself as legible but obscures critical information that renders it useless to the Inquisition—an impertinent curiosity that seemingly fails to prompt the Inquisition’s diligent curiosity. The Holy Office exists to promote orthodoxy, submission, and conformity to Catholic standards. Those values are functionally useless to its operations. Orthodoxy and heresy are, of course, determinative others. Curiosity—impertinent or otherwise—sustains both.

Turning now to the peculiarities of “Escrito curioso,” we must first establish the basic contours of the document’s three central components. First, a neatly penned prose confession signed legibly by Antonio Joseph María Guerrero (Figure 2) expounds his reasons for composing and submitting his work to the Inquisition: it is a means to relieve his conscience as he approaches death, to express submission to the Church and her Inquisition, and to preserve a Catholic legacy for future generations after a lifetime as an educator. Despite its resolutely uncurious posture towards doctrine, its divergences from Inquisitorial forms would pique the curiosity of readers who will perceive behind its obsessive numerology and resolute adherence to Catholic doctrine, significant obfuscations, and contradictions that resist Inquisitorial diligences. After the prologue, three elaborate illustrations laud the triune God and the three members of the Tribunal. It expresses orthodoxy to an over-determined degree, and yet its details invite curious readers into puzzle-like games that play on the hiddenness of the archive. Finally, the work closes with an erudite but playful collection of hyper-orthodox poetry in Latin and Spanish. Again, the bizarre amalgamation of creative and overwrought stylistic forms invites a reader/viewer to seek out what is obscured. Each element of the manuscript demonstrates a profoundly uncurious ethos in regards to orthodoxy, and yet the twists and turns of each element invite a curious reader to peruse its depths with diligence.

Departing from the dialogical structure of typical Inquisition confessions, Guerrero emphasizes the totality of his admittedly brief confession through obsessive numerology. He requests pardon only for “lo corto de mi dezir,” and obsessively employs structures of twos, threes, and sevens throughout the entire work (1r). Twos allow for totalizing logic, dividing the world into comprehensive dualities. Threes and sevens communicate completeness in Christian numerology: seven days for creation and three members of the triune Godhead. On a structural level, Guerrero employs three modes of writing—prose, poetry, and illustration. After the two-part introduction, two full-page word-arts open to seven poems. The final illustration sets apart the last set of seven poems. There are fourteen poems total—nine of which are in Latin, three of which are in Spanish, and two of which are written half in each language.

Numerology is similarly used to structure the prologue. Addressed to the three Inquisitors on Three King’s Day, his first line establishes a duality that divides humanity into two parts: slaves and sons. This division organizes his confession; he writes the first half as son, the second as slave. At the moment of transition, he argues one identity does not negate the other: “ya me es preciso hablar como siervo sin apartarme del Ser de hijo”, and he ultimately signs the documents as “su humilde siervo, e hijo” (3r–v). Such dualities proliferate to establish an ethos of completeness throughout the confessoin. If the whole world can be reduced into sons and slaves, it can also be reduced into masters and fathers. Slaves/masters and sons/fathers can serve God through armas or letras, with blood or with ink, as clergy or laity. He divides humanity into two parts and proves he belongs to both, suggesting that nothing has been omitted.

Dualities also convey totality in his motivations for writing to suggest complete submission in his service to God and Inquisition. As Guerrero elaborates on his service to the Church first as a son and then as a slave, he aligns himself primarily with letters and laity. He bemoans his inability to take physical arms against heretics but offers his lettered ink as erudite compensation for un-spilled blood, and he laments his inability to preach. However, he also claims responsibility for the clerical and armed activity of his former students. As a lay teacher, he raised over three thousand clerical sons who preached and took arms in missions. He takes responsibility for the totality of possible Christian service to God—promoting letters and arms through lay and clerical offices in the service of Christianity.

Moreover, the paper connects the materiality of Guerrero’s literary and artistic service to an eternal submission, his physical submitting of document to the Inquisition’s hidden archives an act of faithful submission to God and Inquisition He explains, “Por es siendo de cada Christiano Padres en el particular, digo con el Prodigo. Da mihi portionem meam. La Cruz, que es el caudal de mis Padres, la Cruz, que es mi herencia, esa toca a mis hijos, y descendientes, como blazon, y Armas de mi eterno descanzo y nobleza” (2v).6 He aligns himself with the prodigal son to say, “give me my portion”. What portion does Guerrero inherit? The cross. He establishes a certain metonymy connecting the paper of “Escrito curioso” and the cross—both tree-based images that represent the spiritual wealth of orthodoxy. Guerrero writes, “Este papel, y obrita es mi Cavallería, mi caudal, y todos mis honores”. Both the cross and this paper represent his caudal, the wealth of spiritual inheritence he receives and leaves behind.

In affiliating with the prodigal son, Guerrero gestures to a moment of repentance for wastefulness, but how does the analogy of paper, cross, and the prodigal’s portion address the question of extravagant squandering? In the parable, the father grants his younger son’s somewhat impertinent request to pre-emptively receive his inheritance, which the son prodigiously wastes before returning sheepishly to his father—who welcomes him home with open arms. How might one squander the cross? Is there something wastefully extravagant in the paper? The squandering of such an indulgent manuscript—its elaborate illustrations and poetry cast into the oblivion of the Inquisition’s secret archives—echoes a certain throwing of pearls before pigs. Much more diplomatically, Guerrero acknowledges that his submission to the Inquisition inevitably enters a private space. He laments, “Siento solo el que uno es mi escripto, pues quisiera dexar en todas la Casas del mundo un fanto, para que fuera publico, lo que para mis Padres, y amos los Señores inquisidores es privado” (3r). In submitting his manuscript—his great wealth and inheritance—he re-encloses it into the secrecy of the archives, in the hopes that it might someday be made public—presciently foreseeing its discovery in Philadelphia some 150 years later. And yet, the paper and Cross collude to confer a form of immortality to this wasted treasure. Finding permanency in the written word as a “monumento de mis cenizas,” he claims, “quedando este papel, vivo yo confessando muerto lo que tanto he estimado estando en este destierro” (3r). Likely referencing terrestrial life as “destierro,” from the celestial Eden, Guerrero argues that the relative permanency of paper confers a form of immortality—continually confessing from the grave.

Appended to the prologue are two illustrations that synthesize the dualities elaborated in the prologue to visualize Guerrero’s dual submission to God and the Inquisition. In the first (Figure 3), a decorative frame encloses two forms: a heart and a circle. The inscriptions around each shape explicate their symbolism. The heart is formed from the words, “In toto corde meo exquisivite. In corde meo Abscondi eloquiatua. Inglina Cor meum in testimoniatua. Fia Cor meum immaculatum in iustificationibus tuis ut non confundar. Gloria Tibi Deus vnice”. While the heavenly inner realm of the heart is Latin, the earthly realm below is circumscribed with a rhyming quatrain in the vernacular. It reads, “Sobre el mundo todo entero, yo antonio estimo a mi Dios no se reparte entre un dos el amor que es verdadero”. Within these dualities, threes also flourish. Enclosed within Antonio’s heart is a trinitarian flower shape constructed entirely of triads, which enshrines the Trinity with the phrase “Unus Deus Trinus” at the center of the shape. Each petal contains the thrice repeated, “sanctus, sanctus, sanctus” and a temporal triplet, “qui fuit, qui est, qui erit. While extremely orthodox in its content, its form reinforces an ethos of complete submission—both the world and heart, in sacred language and the vernacular bound in unison under the banner of God’s name.

This first illustration transitions the reader/viewer to the next illustration, which celebrates the two totalizing responses of the Inquisition—justice and mercy (Figure 4). Once again, the symbolism is not subtle. Adopting the Inquisition’s iconography and centered around the Holy Office’s motto: “Veni Domine Iudica Causa[m] Tua[m],” the image depicts a lion with sword and a lamb with an olive branch, each with one paw on a crucifix, standing atop a pedestal. Just in case the imagery is lost on the viewer, the decorative chord over the olive branch reads, “This peaceful lamb carries this shining olive branch” (“Hic agnus pacis portat lucentis olivam”). Over the lion, “This ready sword continuously stops the evil ones” (“Hic ensis promptus destuit usque malos”).7 Mercy rests within the Cross as Christ’s feet sit atop the phrase “Miserere Nobis”. Beyond introducing the Inquisitorial frame of justice and mercy, this illustration incorporates the triads and dualisms employed in the prologue and preceding image. Addressed to three Inquisitors, a halo of three sanctus surround the diminutive body of Christ on the crucifix: Sanctus fortis on his right, santus immortali on his left, and he is crowned, “sanctus deus”. Guerrero again legibly pens his name—this time half in Latin and half in Spanish: Auctor Antonios Josephus Maria Guerrero Grammatices pre[c]tor. The vernacular quatrain that rests above the crucifix re-iterates the blood and ink motif of the prologue in the first couplet—”sangre tengo en estas venas// con ellas deseo firmar”—and the heaven and earth duality of the preceding image in the second: “que un dios trino ha de Reynar en el cielo, y las arenas”.

These two images synthesize the totality foundational to Guerrero’s project. It should not surprise us that Guerrero concludes his prologue with the affirmation that he has fully confessed. He claims, “He echo toda esta Confession de todo lo que debo creer y confessar” (3v). He affirms full, complete, extravagant submission to the God and his Inquisition in body and soul, ink and blood, heaven and earth, in Latin and the vernacular, in prose, poetry, and illustration—fully and completely surrendering to the service of God and Inquisition.

4. Confessing (Im)perfection

However, when compared to the traditional standards of Inquisition confession, myriad obfuscations emerge to highlight a critical dissonance between confessions of orthodoxy and Inquisitorial methods. While the Inquisition required completeness in its confessions, it also demanded verifiability (Gitlitz 2000, p. 56). Confessions had to be corroborated by other witnesses. Names, dates, and places were critical pieces of information that had to be disclosed. If we try to read this text like an Inquisitor, we immediately run into significant obfuscations.

If Guerrero pursues the standard of completeness with diligence, he eschews the standard of verifiability. Despite the legibility of his signature, his identity is profoundly ambiguous (See Figure 2 and Figure 4). At first, he questions the value of his name—claiming it cannot add to the value of the work. He writes, “Pueden creer VSS. (con toda ingenuidad lo digo) que solo me amilana, corre, y aflige ver quien soy; pues un sujeto de tan poco monio, no le da el vuelo, el valor, que este papel y obrita requiere” (3r). However, this modest gesture contrasts with the beautifully penned name signed at the end of the document in incredibly legible print. His metaphorical usage of his name further casts doubt on the assertion that the name adds no value to the text. Consider this passage from a later canción

Vivid Señor vivid

Pelead, Pelead en tan dichosa LID

Yo os sere Compañero

Que pasa eso de CHRISTO soy Guerrero

Y tengo fortaleza

Que el BAUTISMO me dio con su limpieza (Capitalization maintained from original; emphasis is mine).

While it may not add value to the paper the way a reputable, well-known name might, his name serves the logic that drives the whole collection. He fittingly sneaks his first name, Antonio, into the first poetic work in the collection and hides it in the first full-page illustration. Saint Anthony is the saint of lost things, and the hiddenness of the name emphasizes the public/private nature of the archive as he sends a document into obscurity, hoping it will be found. His prologue centers on his orthodox positioning as a child of God, taking Joseph and Mary into his lineage. The line, “que pasa eso de CHRISTO soy Guerrero,” aptly describes his name. The surname Guerrero, which means warrior, comes after “eso de Cristo,” the holy parents, Joseph and María (Joseph, curiously in the English spelling and not in the Spanish, José). He is a warrior—a guerrero—in the cause of the Christian empire, accomplishing with the pen what he was unable to do with a sword.

Given the ambiguity of his lineage and the metaphorical employment of the name throughout the text, I find it plausible that this is a pseudonym, a fiction constructed to more perfectly conform to the vision of empire that his text presents. However, even if his name truly is Antonio Joseph Maria Guerrero, the information he provides falls short of the information typically submitted in Inquisitorial confessions. He signs it from Mexico City, though at no point does he mention his city of birth. He does not identify his natural lineage and obfuscates the circumstances of his baptism. He provides one piece of biographical information with intense precision: he is 64 years, 9 months, and 13 days old.

Furthermore, in Guerrero’s hyper-pious display of filial conformity to the Church and her Inquisition, adopting Inquisitors as his “padres,” he obfuscates his natural lineage. In the same vein, he gives contradictory insight into the circumstances of his baptism. He implies that he made a verbal profession of faith in his baptism, saying, “Costumbre es en algunas Religiones renovar la Profession oy dia de los Santos Reyes. Pues a su imitacion renuevo la Profession, que hize en el Bautismo.” Is he here implying he was not baptized as an infant? Was he not born to Christian parents? Is that why their names are curiously absent from his prologue? Elsewhere, however, he claims he was baptized at three days old, “En tal manera, que si como consegui la Fortuna, a los tres dias de nacido, no la hubiera obtenido, por aver nacido entre infieles: a gritos pidiera las aguas sangradas; confessaria a DIOSTRINO, y UNO” (2v). The counterfactuals introduced by the imperfect subjunctive imply that he was born to Christian parents (at least not “entre infieles”) and was baptized at three days old; emphatically asserting that his conformity to the Church would exist even in alternate realities. However, he fails to affirm his natural lineage in the indicative, obscuring whether he was born into the faith or if he was an hijo por adopción.

Moreover, nowhere in the prologue does Guerrero confess to any sin, heresy, or moral failing. This curious omission contrasts Guerrero’s resolutely uncurious attitude throughout the work. He diligently represents his orthodoxy without expressions of guilt, sin, heresy, curiosity, wonder, doubt, or ambiguity. At one point he asks for forgiveness, only to offer a series of philippic interrogatives berating hypothetical heretics. Asking the Inquisitors forgiveness for the words he uses to unburden his heart—echoing the language of the confession— he instead lambasts heretics:

Como mis Padres me perdonen algunos terminos, que aqui pongo; desahogar mi corazon. Decidme hereges puercos, canalla del demonio gente sin razon. A quien debeis la vida? Quien es causa de que respireis? Quein os da en abundancia de todo lo necessario? Quien sufre con tanta paciencia vuestras envinciones y chismes? Dios, por que es bueno, por que es santo; porque es inclinado a hacer bien (2v).

These are not inquisitive questions; they are rhetorical. They do not discover information; they emphasize established beliefs. In many ways, these questions fit better within a catechism than a confession—an unsurprising stylistic marker given Guerrero’s past profession as a teacher. In fact, profession may be a better term for Guerrero’s project than confession. He does not reveal past error; he professes his conformity to the Church. This profession would be exemplary to anyone convicted of heresy, but confessions of faith without confession of sin have no home in court proceedings. While better understood as a profession of faith as a part of a death-rite practice, rather than a confession of sin, the Inquisition did not hear death-rite confessions. Simply put, as a confession, this document could not have launched a case and consequently serves little purpose.

5. Formal Playfulness

Nowhere is the curious futility of this manuscript more apparent than in the remaining collection of illustrations and poems. In a critical divergence from Inquisition testimony, Guerrero underscores enjoyment, pleasure, and playfulness as central motives for writing in the prologue, but gestures to the “elogios eruditisimos” appended to the opening statement as the synthesis for his efforts. He explains, “este hijo ha estado entretenido, y con summa gusto ocubado en hacer esa obrita, que directamente va a complacer a mis terrenos Padres, porque me persuado sera regozido de nuestro celestial P[adr]e Bien quisiera aver tenido una singular capacidad, para hacer elogios eruditisimos en honra de mi SS.a y Christiana Religion” (1r). Although we might accuse the corpus as overwrought thematically, Guerrero demonstrates this “singular capacidad,” through a somewhat ostentatious display of erudition. A clear penchant for acrostics and puzzle-like forms characterizes the collection, which proceeds through a variety of metrical forms, including the vernacular classics of the Golden Age, décimas, octavas, and quintillas, and canciones and classical forms, sonnets, odes, and elegies. Penning each poem’s genre with a large heading and underlining instances of Latin, Guerrero draws attention to his stylistic mastery of an array of poetic forms, as well as his ability to compose in a bizarre amalgamation of Latin and Spanish. Taken as a whole, the collection showcases a certain braggadocious playfulness, mixing erudition with pleasure under the auspices of rigorous orthodoxy.

While the whole collection certainly merits further study, I will here focus on two poems that directly engage a future reader. As we have seen so far, Guerrero diverges from traditional Inquisitorial curiosity by not invoking issues of sin or heresy. Even as he frequently displays the motif, to come and judge your cause (see Figure 2 and Figure 3), he offers his future readers very little to judge. However, the poem of octavas offers a significant exception in its metacritical reflection on the obrita’s relationship to Inquisition. It reveals a confounding awareness that Inquisitorial readers are looking for hidden places and obfuscated information

It is an intricate poem worth examining in detail, so I include a transcription and translations below. I will have to remit assessment of the quality of Guerrero’s late eighteenth century Latin to Latinists and proffer labored and yet surely imperfect translations into Spanish and English to guide our analysis of the poem.

1. Obumbrame leyendo este papel

2. Signum evidens de mi Fe crecida

3. Attendas illam dandome el Laurel

4. Nempe dicam, sub alís admitida

5. Confiteor, que me he visto en un Vergel

6. Turbatus quam vis por hazer lucida

7. Una obra quod vobis certe placeret.

8. Mirabile siendo, apud vos valeret

9. Tantum affectum recevid, prudentes.

10. Repellentes defectus de ignorante

11. Indignus sum, mas sois tam eminentes.

12. Boni, et Sapientes que saldre triumphante

13. Uniti los Tres, ceteri excellentes

14. Numeri Ministri, omnes por amante

15. Al parco inclinen, igitur lo pido

16. Luctans opere, por lo no lucido.

1. Asombrame leyendo este papel

2. Señal evidente de mi fe crecida.

3. Presta atención a ella, dandome el Laurel

4. Diré verdad debajo ala admitida

5. Confieso, que me he visto en un vergel

6. Turbado sin embargo por hazer lucida

7. Una obra que ciertamente os placiera.

8. Maravilla siendo, ante os fuera fuerte

9. Solo afecto recibid, prudentes.

10. Repeliendo los defectos de ignorante

11. Indigno soy, mas sois tan prominentes

12. Buenos y sabios que saldre triumphante

13. Unidos los Tres los demás excelentes

14. Los números del ministro todo por amante

15. Al parco inclinen, por lo tanto lo pido

16. Luchando obra, por lo no lucido.

1. Cover me reading this paper

2. Apparent proof of my grown faith.

3. Pay close attention to it, giving me the Laurel

4. Truly I will say under the accepted wing

5. I confess, that I have seen myself in an orchard

6. Although anxious to bring to light

7. A work that would certainly please you.

8. Being marvelous, before it could strengthen you

9. Receive goodwill, prudent ones

10. Repelling the failures of ignorance

11. I am unworthy, but you are so pre-eminent,

12. Good and wise that I will emerge triumphant.

13. United the Three, the rest excellent

14. Minister’s numbers, to all as lover

15. They incline to the frugal, therefore I ask

16. For you to wrestle and work for what remains unlit.

The poem reflects upon hiddenness and invites a diligent reader, suggesting that in the face of seemingly transparent orthodoxy, there is an invitation to peruse hidden meanings. The poem announces the confessional motif, “Confiteor,” adopting the first person to proclaim an Edenic provenance, emerging from a turbulent effort to bring the work to light.Recalling the garden not as of site of pernicious curiosity, he rather centers on the laborious effort of a creation that takes place in the shadow of an orchard. Guerrero opens with a demand that the work be cast in shadow and ends with an invitation to enter its unlit realms, even as he claims he wants to bring the work into the light for his audience’s pleasure, knowing his text would enter the shadowed secrecy of the archive.

The opening couplet weaves themes of revelation with notions of protection by relying on the polysemy of the words left in Latin. The opening word, Obumbrame, is itself an invitation, conjugated as a command; it appears to be a conflation of the Latin verb, obumbro, and the Spanish personal pronoun me. In Latin, obumbro can mean to overshadow or shade, but it can also convey a sense of protection, or defense—a cover or physical protection (Database of Latin dictionaries 2005, “obumbro”). It is from obumbro that Spanish received its word for shadow, sombra. Obumbrame, orthographically and semiotically, harkens to alumbrame (illuminate me) as both call forth notions of light and dark—of revelation. It also preserves the sense of protection, of taking umbrage under a shadow.

The second verse similarly binds visibility with defensibility, opening with another Latin phrase that asserts the paper of “Escrito curioso” is a signum evidens of Guerrero’s faith. Signum can mean sign, signal, referencing a thing’s visibility. It can also mean proof—a form of logical defense. Similarly, evidens can be translated as apparent/visible or evident/provable. This dualism raises the question: is this paper Guerrero’s public defense of his orthodoxy? Or is it an opportunity to return into shadow? Is it an invitation into the light, to embrace apparent signs and obvious proofs? Or is it an invitation into the cover of a shadow?

Guerrero’s invitation does not lead us towards a revelation of his identity or to a confession of infidelity. Instead, it leaves us clues that draw us to different parts of the work—only to lead us to more expressions of orthodoxy. In the enigmatic fourth line, he declares that he will say what he has admitted under a wing. On one level, this statement harkens to Biblical language, as sheltering under God’s wings, another instance of obumbrame’s relevance—he takes shelter in the umbrage of orthodoxy.

However, this allusion adopts a literal dimension, as the opposing page prominently displays a large bird with its wings lifted (Figure 5). Sure enough, on the underside of the wings we find a brief confessional text that reads, “Una cosa superior traigo en mi pecho metida, todo su ser es amor a solo amor reducida como prenda del señor”. Guerrero surprises us (nos asombra) with a hidden confession (in the sombra of a literal wing), but this invitation to peruse secret depths only reinscribes us deeper into orthodoxy.

The collection’s final work stands to synthesize the curious diligence of Guerrero’s eerily playful hyper-orthodoxy (Figure 6). Another acrostic announces the end of the work and contrasts the divergent ends available to humanity. Titled “The different ends between the just and the sinner”, it is a multi-tiered acrostic poem starting with the word FINIS, end. Each word in the line shares a last letter, so the last line reads: “Sanctificum nomen Iustus laudabit amicus” above and “stercoreum stramen dixus gaudebit ut hostis” below. It is meticulous, and once again, the totalizing power of dualities governs the structure of his writing—all of humanity is forced onto one of the two paths as friend or enemy to God. The end of the line is a new beginning. The poem reads acrostically, semes (seed). Fruitfulness is of course standard biblical imagery for spiritual and procreative (re)production, but it is not one we tend to associate with Inquisition. And yet, Guerrero directly links righteousness to artistic labor and creativity. However, Guerrero’s hidden or playful invitations to attentive reading largely escapes the attention of the Inquisitors. No marginal notes or underlines seem to indicate that an Inquisitorial scribe ever passed through the text, as was common in most confessional documentation. Its curious impertinence contrasts the ethos of uncurious diligence that governed its production.

6. Creative Curiosity

On the whole, my efforts to locate documents with a similar structure and purported purpose to “Escrito curioso,” have, thus far, been in vain.8 However, one of the neighbors of “Escrito curioso” in Ms. Coll. 728 offers a significant contrast between the two confessional styles, exemplifying the diligence so characteristic of Inquisition procedures. Folder 20 contains a document cataloged as “Correspondence-Marques, Josef Nicolas 1773” (Henry Charles Lea Collection of Inquisition Manuscripts, 1533–1866. 1773) Marques’s letter relates a particularly egregious tale heard in the confessional to the Inquisition. He makes a somewhat audacious request to be granted the authority to absolve an unnamed penitent, someone who made a pact with the devil, but was now repentant.

His brief confession is worth considering as a whole because it exemplifies classic elements of a denunciation to the Inquisition.

Ill[ustrisi]mo señor

Cierto penitente se a confesado conmigo arrepentido ya de haver cometido el siguiente exeso, es á saber: q[ue] desesperado de su pobreza, viendo q[ue] dios nu[e]s[tro] señor no le socorria, como deceaba, dijo, q[ue] renegaba se su mag[esta]d de su sacro-sancto Nombre, de la soberana Reina, y de todos los santos, (en voz vaja, tal, qual usaba intra confessionem) no por q[ue] negaba en Dios el poder socorrerle, y en los s[an]tos el poder le int[e]pretar el alivio; sino exasperado de no conseguirlo, por lo qual invoco a el Demonio, cuia figura traxia en un papel, diciendole, q[ue] si le aliviaba sus necesidades, no llamaria mas a Dios, y le daria su alma, se lo q[ue] asegura q[ue] luego se arepentia: en quatro ocasiones se quito el horario, jusgando, era el inconveniente q[ue] tenia, y ana q[ue] el Demonio no se le apareciese si ocurriese a su llamado, en dos de ellas lo arrojo, y escupió, diciendo era horario de porqueria, y en una de estas lo oyo otra persona. Es cierto, q este infeliz no nego misterio alguno expresamente ni desconfio de la Divina misericordia; pero vilipendiandola incurrio en una virtual apostasia, q manifesto por esa execrables demonstraciones; de todo lo qual por no poder ocurrir immediatam[en]te a V. S. Ill[ustrísim]ma pide arrepentido perdon, y misericordia por medio mio, e’ xo’ para proceder con mayor seguridad, suplico ardidissimamte a V.S. me conceda facultad, para absolverlo in foro o conscientie, asi lo espero de su piedad, y santo zelo. Luechula y sep[tiembr]e 28, 1773 a[ños].

p[i]do m[erce]d de v[uestra]. s[eñoría]. ill[ustrisi]ma su humilde siervo, y cape[lla]n

Br. Josef Nicolas Marques (Henry Charles Lea Collection of Inquisition Manuscripts, 1533–1866. 1773.).

It is a meta-confession, a confession of a confession. Marques reveals a secret while maintaining (for now) the anonymity of the penitent who confided in him. The disclosed information pertains to the Inquisition’s jurisdictions: questions of faith and apostasy. Marques’s report is saturated with expressions of guilt-ridden repentance, as the penitent allegedly drew an image of the Devil on some paper in an effort to make a demonic pact after God disappointed him by not responding to his impoverishment and suffering.

Distinct from “Escrito curioso,” the margins are full of annotations by Inquisitorial hands, indicating how specific Inquisitors responded to this confession. A marginal note records their response.

Respondase a este confesor aconseje y persuada al penitente haga su denuncia expontanea en el S[an]to Offi[ci]o asegurandole del inviolable secreto q[u]e en el se guarda; q[ue] no se servira daño alguno p(or) ello, y q[u]e antes bien le servira p[ar]a no ser castigado si se le delatare por alguno de los delictos o heregia en q[ue] buen confitente aq[ue]llo contrario que da expuesto p[ar]a lo que puede ocurrir al mismo s[an]to of[ici]o o a su comisario (Henry Charles Lea Collection of Inquisition Manuscripts, 1533–1866. 1773.).

This invocation to diligence encourages both the confessor and the confessant to quick action lest they incur Inquisitorial inquiry. They encourage the confessor to persuade the penitent to spontaneously denounce himself to the Inquisition, promising safety in the umbrage of their secrecy. They suggest that the penitent can rest assured no harm will come to him so long as he confesses voluntarily. However, they leave the consequences of not choosing to proceed voluntarily ominously ambiguous—leaving the work of explication to the confessor. The poorly veiled threat distinctly mars an otherwise warm invitation, exemplifying the duality of mercy and justice that Guerrero celebrates.

While any subsequent files produced by this demonic pact have since been lost or separated from this initial confession, it is easy to see how denunciation perpetually produces novel Inquisitorial documentation. Marques wrote a letter confessing on behalf of the penitent; Inquisitors wrote back and recorded their response. If diligence was followed, the penitent would soon be de-masked either by a voluntary submission or by other means. The final marginal note indicates that the request to give the Marques the aforementioned instructions was carried out on the following day, affirming, “se dio com[unicaci]on a este Ec[clesiasti]co p[ar]a que le reciba declaracion al espontaneo” (Henry Charles Lea Collection of Inquisition Manuscripts, 1533–1866. 1773.). While our records end there, it is clear this single folio had the potential to generate hundreds of pages of Inquisitorial testimony. While the Inquisitors deny Marques the authority to independently absolve, his request solicits a response.

By contrast, “Escrito curioso” is indeed a curious writing for its dearth of curiosity in the face of a diligent display of orthodoxy. It is not inquisitive, and yet it invites careful parsing. In many ways, “Escrito curioso” represents the perfect Inquisitorial subject in Guerrero’s adherence to orthodoxy, and it echoes the self-reflective language and diligent investigation of the heart expected within the confessional conceit. And yet, it is difficult to imagine how the Inquisition might respond to this elaborate display of fidelity. Flawed confessions, or confessions of flaws, legitimatize the Inquisition’s authority and power to question, or to be inquisitive. But what can it do with confessions of orthodoxy whose cryptic invitations only lead to more expressions of conformity?

Thus, the rarity of “Escrito curioso” within the archive underscores the Inquisition’s shadow desire: its desire for heresy. The impertinence of “Escrito curioso”—its lack of belonging—within the archive emphasizes that the Inquisition ultimately rejects such uncurious diligence. Illegible to an Inquisitorial reader who seeks to question the orthodoxy of individuals, Guerrero’s legible but un-functional work of piety remains a curiosity, stranded in a forgotten nook of Inquisitorial documentation. Not only does it require its Inquisitors to be diligently curious, but it also depends on confessants who are diligently and impertinently uncurious at the same time. If this is a contradiction, it is a productive one. When we understand the Inquisition as a productive site of conflict between polyvalent forms of curiosity, we are better poised to understand the multivalent impacts of Inquisition on Spanish textual production.