Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru: Spanish-Quechua Penitential Texts, 1560-1650 9780292758858

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Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

Joe R. and Teresa Lozano Long Series in Latin American and Latino Art and Culture

Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru Spanish-­Quechua Penitential Texts, 1560–1650 Regina Harrison

University of Texas Press   Austin

Copyright © 2014 by the University of Texas Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2014 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 7819 Austin, TX 78713-­7 819 http://utpress.utexas.edu/index.php/rp-­form ♾ The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-­1992 (R1997) (Permanence of Paper). Cataloging data is on file with the Library of Congress. doi:10.7560/728486

Contents

Preface vii

Introduction 1

1. Confession and Restitution in the Andes: Las Casas’ Avisos y reglas 23 2. Converts to Confession: From Ychu- (with Straws) to Confessacu- (as a Christian) 50 3. Dictionary Definitions: Sin (Hucha) and Flesh (Aycha) 84 4. Codifying Sexuality: Huchallicu- (to Sin, Fornicate), Huaça- (to Have “Improper” Sex) 115 5. Confessing Commerce in the Plaza: Ranti-­, Catu-­, Manu-­ 151 6. Confessing Work and Laborers: Llamca-­, Mit’a-­, Mink’a-­ 186

Conclusion. Wills as Quasi-­Confession: Testamentocta Quellca 220

Notes 237 Bibliography 271 Index 295

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Preface

I confess. This book about confession has taken too many years to research and write. My interest in the topic began when Monica Barnes directed me to the piles of books in her study carrel at Cornell University during my Latin American Studies Center fellowship there in the summer of 1988. I turned to the “Annotations” of the 1584 Doctrina christiana (in facsimile). Leafing through the pages to the section of “difficult lexemes,” my interest in confession piqued when I read “There is no word for ‘animal’ in this language. You must use llamacuna hina (like llamas)” to express the category of nonhuman. How provocative. I finished my research on the potato as a cultural metaphor and turned to analyzing the priests’ expectation of language universals in the Andes: of souls, commerce, forgiveness, justice. A Fulbright Americas Award in 1991–1992 immersed me in the new world of Catholic theology when, graciously included among the priests and nuns who also studied at the Instituto de Pastoral Andina, I studied Quechua in Cuzco. A local anthropologist slyly looked around as he arrived to lecture our language class and said, “Por lo menos hay una pecadora aquí” (At least there is one sinner here). He thus pointed out my deviance from the norm, an anomaly among the religious. Despite the pious nature of the Quechua learners, we harmonized while singing lyrics of double entendre and recited phrases addressed to local Andean deities, along with complex conjugations of verbal phrases. Before classes were over, I spoke in my newly acquired Cuzco dialect of Quechua (how hard it was to stamp out my Ecuadorian Quichua [as Quechua is named in Ecuador] pronunciations!) in a half-­hour interview on the local Quechua radio station. Sitting in the sunny central plaza of Cuzco at midday, I bought an Andean cloth (lliclla), a purchase that I hoped would get me into Quechua conversa-

viii  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

tion with the seller: “What is it that you confess to the priest?” His answers belied strict adherence to Catholic doctrine: “If I picked flowers and I should not have.” “What else?” “If I urinated in the river.” “If I did not treat my parents well.” These answers, spoken by the street vendor, were echoed by a local priest, Padre Juan Antonio Manya A. He remembered seeing confessional khipus years ago, when Quechua-­speaking penitents pulled out their knotted strings to speak of their sins in color. Black knots (for homicide), red knots (for sexual sins), yellow (hypocrisy), gray (lies), orangish/red (theft), green (a kiss on the chin). Cuzco is also the site where priests escaped my queries. Ricardo Valderrama Fernández and Carmen Escalante Gutiérrez took me around to visit a neighborhood priest in the barrios outside Cuzco. We knew he was at home, but he never emerged from behind the large wooden door despite the many times I knocked. A Mosbacher Fellowship at the John Carter Brown Library placed the 1631 confessional manual written by Juan Pérez Bocanegra in my hands. For hours, seated in the “old” reading room, with velvety snakes weighing down the pages, I read of a time long ago when Quechua-­speaking converts were compelled to make a yearly confession. Pérez Bocanegra’s Quechua is exquisite and precise: “Thou shall not fornicate” (commandment six) poses 236 bilingual questions regarding sexual conduct. That commandment enlivened my daily conversations with fellow researchers and actually caused me to blush at the obligatory luncheon talk about our research progress. Director Norman Fiering, knowing the topic, tactfully held off my presentation until the dessert course was placed on the table. Over the years, the restricted Andean focus has ceded to a more global perspective on confession. Encouraged by my friend and colleague Alison Weber and drawing on her excellent work on Saint Theresa, I looked at the exuberant visionary confessional discourse of nuns from the convents of colonial Quito. It was Alison who also helped fill in the syllabus for my undergraduate Honors course (“True Confessions in Literature and Film”) at the University of Maryland, suggesting Peter Brooks’ Troubling Confessions for themes of cinema (Hitchcock), coerced confession, and false memory. A creative enactment of confession was built into that course when April Householder, then a teaching assistant in comparative literature, guided me to Michael Renov’s summary of “video confessions.” Thus, the students and I filmed our own personal confessions and then edited them to reveal our lives as examined by means of a camera lens, not a priest.

Preface ix

Research for my video Mined to Death brought me face to face with the booming colonial economy of the silver mines in Potosí. I was exposed to the transatlantic nature of confession sited in the heights of the Andes in disputes over workers’ rights to ore they dug out of the tunnels; some colonial priests considered this act thievery and refused to absolve the indigenous miners. Thus, money and markets became the source of two more chapters on confessional discourse. My colleague and friend Brett Williams and I delved into readings on debt and debtors; while she focused on lending networks in the nation’s capital, I held forth on colonial debates regarding restitution and absolution. International finance often colors my conversations with Kathy Waldron, a friend whose knowledge is both economic and historical. Her genuine concern for “matters of conscience” and financial engineering has enriched my writing and my life. As administrators, Sandy Cypess and I juggled budgets and dispersed departmental funds while we also prodded each other along, chapter after chapter, in the agony and pleasures of writing. Rolena Adorno graciously responded to my call years ago as I assembled an interdisciplinary panel on Guaman Poma for the Modern Language Association. Our friendship is long—and long lasting—despite my requests for her to read critically (sparing no words) and despite requests for many letters of recommendation. She and David Adorno included me in their innovative scholarly pursuits and also in their lives. Joannne Pillsbury has actively promoted intellectual reciprocal networks in Andean Studies. The Guide to Documentary Sources for Andean Studies is evidence of her ability to collect all of us in dialogue on the printed page. I appreciate her words of encouragement, as well as the numerous fiestas with purple potatoes, empanadas, and celebratory brindis. The agony of sitting for long periods secluded in the writing shed outside was broken up by phone conversations with friends such as Fred Padula, Betsy Piotrowski, Laurie Donnelly, Edmundo Morales, Tom Grooms, Billie Jean Isbell, Kitty Allen, Jean Colvin, Joanne Pillsbury, Ned Harwood, Silvia and Alex Speyer, Mirona Magearu, Joan Gero, and Stephen Loring. Family members also cast asunder my escapist authorial tendencies with e-­mails and phone calls: my mother, Gene Harrison (now deceased); my brother, Sandy Harrison; niece Robin Honan; nephew Sean Honan; cousin Peggy Slattery Dreyer. For these interruptions of celebration, laughter, and chatter, thank you. Most recently, I have presented papers on the economics of evangelical conversion that benefited from the comments of many scholars. The International Institute of Ibero-­American Literatures, the meetings of the Society of

x  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

Americanists, the Fulbright Association Forum in Ecuador, the International Symposium on the Indigenous Americas in Mainz, and the Association of Bolivian Studies provided a forum for discussions of the monetary aspects of penance. The sex texts of confession dominated my scholarly presentations for many years in the usual venues such as the Latin American Studies Association, national and regional meetings of the Modern Language Association, the 1990 Five College Symposium in honor of Lewis Hanke, the Society for Reformation Research of the American Historical Association, the Andean Seminar at the Universidad Andina de Simón Bolívar, the FLACSO seminar in Quito, as Kreeger-­Wolf Professor at Northwestern University, at the Latin American Studies Center at Kansas University, as well as talks hosted by those same centers at Stanford University and Arizona State University, the Yale Symposium on Colonial Latin American Literature, and the “Andean Worlds” Seminar sponsored by Princeton University, New York University, and the Americas Society. By far the most responsive “confessants” to this theme were Gary Urton and Joanne Pillsbury, who laughingly “repented” at the roundtable on khipu held at Dumbarton Oaks one Sunday morning. Many people have improved my thoughts on confession over the years: Maureen Ahern, Denise Arnold, Margot Beyersdorff, Heraclio Bonilla, David Boruchoff, Galen Brokaw, John Charles, Marco Curatola, Jean-­Jacques Decoster, Eric Deeds, Lisa DeLeonardis, Martha Paley Francescato, Jean Franco, Juan Carlos Godenzzi, Karen Graubart, Michael T. Hamerly, Teodoro Hampe, Sara Castro Klarén, Asunción Lavrin, Jim Leamon, Martín Lienhard, Bruce Mannheim, Ramiro Matos, Walter Mignolo, Lucho Millones, Kenneth Mills, Segundo Moreno, Marcelo Naranjo, Igidio Naveda, Julio Ortega, Ricardo Padrón, Osvaldo Pardo, Mary Louise Pratt, Jeff Quilter, Tina Quispe, Joanne Rappaport, Will Rowe, Frank Salomon, Irene Silverblatt, Doris Sommer, Karen Spalding, Louisa Stark, Vicki Unruh, Flora Vilches, Barbara Weinstein, and Tom Zuidema. Rosaleen Howard helped analyze some difficult Quechua passages before this book went to press. I also have benefited from the work of many other scholars whose works are acknowledged in the endnotes and bibliography. Teaching demands a creative energy that is its own reward, and I cherish the students who have enlivened my classes. In Quechua studies, Michael Horswell, Odi González, Ariruma Kowii, Pam Martin, Alison Krogel, Raúl Vallejo, and Lisa Warren were excellent students and now colleagues and friends. Ana Rebeca Prada, Isabel Bastos, Alejandra Echazú, Victoria Cox, Flora Vilches, Silvia Mejía, and Luis Fernando Restrepo—Andean specialists who have studied with me—have extended many invitations to host me in their academic spheres.

Preface xi

Yet this book could not have been written without the support of grants and fellowships. A Resident Fellowship at the John Carter Brown Library granted me access to a treasure trove: riches of words and maps, and friendships with the director, Norman Fiering, and with Daniel Slive and Susan Danforth. Saúl Sosnowski, director of the Latin American Center, hosted me as a Rockefeller Residential Fellow at the University of Maryland in the early stages. That year, in Washington, D.C., I roamed the stacks of the Library of Congress with special consideration provided by the Hispanic Division (under the guidance of Georgette Dorn), for which I am so appreciative. The “American Republics” Fulbright Award perfected my Quechua and Quichua (Ecuadorian dialect of Quechua) fluency in both Peru and Ecuador; I also benefited from the library resources of the Biblioteca Nacional in Lima, the archives of the Centro de Estudios Regionales “Bartolomé de Las Casas,” and the holdings found in the Biblioteca Ecuatoriana Aurelio Espinosa Pólit in Cotocollao. The directors of Fulbright—Marcia Koth de Paredes, Gonzalo Cartagenova, and Susana Cabeza de Vaca—often provided valuable letters of introduction. The Graduate Research Board of the University of Maryland supported my research on colonial Quechua with a fellowship that also provided funding for instruction in video editing. A seminar directed by Natalie Zemon Davis at the Folger Institute expanded the scope of my Andean world, with its focus on “Between Worlds.” A Fulbright-­Hays Resident Abroad Fellowship, with funding from the U.S. Department of Education, renewed friendships with scholars at the Universidad Andina Simón Bolívar, a university where I am madrina as well as a visiting member of the faculty. Fernando Balseca, Raúl Vallejo, Guillermo Bustos, Alicia Ortega, and the president, Enrique Ayala, always express an interest in and a desire to publish my scholarship. I am thankful for the assistance provided for me as a reader by Bridget Gazzo, the librarian of pre-­Columbian studies at the Dumbarton Oaks Library. A John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Fellowship has provided me with considerable time to bring this project to completion, and I am thankful for the award. I am appreciative of the advice from Rolena Adorno, Billie Jean Isbell, Joanne Pillsbury, Frank Salomon, and William Taylor regarding the proposal submitted to the Guggenheim Foundation. I have been fortunate at the University of Maryland to share offices surrounded by members of collegial entities, the Department of Spanish and Portuguese and the Comparative Literature Program, the Department of Anthropology, and the Latin American Studies Center. All of these university entities have supported my research over the years and have stimulated me to offer courses beyond the confines of the Andes, such as the “Survey in

xii  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

Latin American Studies: I and II,” and “The Americas in Film,” as well as “American Indians in Literature and Film.” A special nod to Ralph Bauer, Ira Berlin, Chuck Caramello, Kent Cartwright, Janet Chernela, Merle Collins, John Fuegi, Pat Herron, Carleton Jackson, Michael Israel, Sue Lanser, Eyda Merediz, Carol Mossman, Phyllis Peres (and her sister Leonore R. Delgado), Ana Patricia Rodríguez, Karin Rosemblatt, David Sartorius, Martha Nell Smith, Mary Kay Vaughn, and Orrin Wang. The University of Texas published my first book, Signs, Songs, and Memory in the Andes. Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru thus continues a long collaboration with Theresa May, editor-­in-­chief and my sponsoring editor. A special thanks to Gary Urton, one of the readers of the manuscript, and to the other anonymous reader for their welcome suggestions for improvement. All of us (Theresa and I and the staff ) have progressed from floppy disks and slide negatives to attachments and drop box exchanges in the cloud to enact the publication of this manuscript. Molly Frisinger and Kathy Bork, as editors, were ever-­vigilant regarding comma abuse, Quechua plurals, and many other textual matters: gracias. Kaila Wyllys, production coordinator, offered professional advice regarding dpis, tifs, and contrast resolution along with words of encouragement. At the University of Maryland, College Park, Janel Brennan-­ Tillmann and Jeffrey Maurer also worked with me patiently as I pondered the intricacies of fonts, burns, scans, and other media service categories. Jay Marchand worked long and diligently in the trilingual index that proved to be too much of a task for me to contemplate. Nancy Bryan was instrumental in suggestions for the cover text. This book all but disappeared in my Great Computer Crash of 2006, when three chapters evaporated into cyberspace. Joe Thrash, seeing my anguish, gallantly retyped the many pages of my handwritten text despite having a doctorate in mathematics . . . not Spanish literature. His gentle prodding turned my steps to the writing shed many a day when I had no inclination to go that route. He is a constant and affectionate partner wherever we are: in Washington, D.C.; in Quito; in Madrid; in Venice; under sail; or in the high mountains of Potosí. Simply stated, Joe, thank you so much. Over the years, portions of this book have been published in preliminary form. I was granted permission by the University of Massachusetts Press to include portions of my chapter “The Theology of Concupiscence: Spanish-­ Quechua Confessional Manuals in the Andes,” from Encoded Encounters: Race, Gender, and Ethnicity in Colonial Latin America, ed. Francisco Javier Cevallos, Jeffrey A. Cole, Nina M. Scott, and Nicomedes Suárez-­Araúz (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1994), pp. 135–153. Dr. Mary Preuss

Preface xiii

granted permission for passages from “The Case of the Pregnant Penitent: Translating Quechua in the Andes,” Latin American Indian Literatures Journal 11, no. 2 (Fall 1995): 108–128. Ms. Sybille Lepper of Winter Publishers I thank for the use of some pages of “Economies of Exchange in the Colonial Andes: Translating Christian Commerce in Quechua,” in Native American Studies Across Time and Space: Essays on the Indigenous Americas, American Studies Monograph Series, ed. Oliver Sheiding (Heidelberg: Winter 2010), pp. 53–73. These early publications have been revised and rewritten for inclusion in Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru. Dr. Ivan Boserup of the Royal Library graciously granted permission for the use of illustrations from El primer nueva corónica. Dr. Teresa Gisbert warmly agreed to my request to include her photograph of “La buena y la mala muerte.” Transcriptions and Translations Quechua words cited from sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century documents are written with the orthographic variations common to these texts. The endnotes and the index provide the variant spellings, as well as definitions of the Quechua conceptual categories. In the colonial texts of Spanish and Quechua, missing text is indicated by square brackets within a quotation. All translations from non-­English texts are by the author unless otherwise noted. I also use square brackets to indicate more idiomatic versions of the literal translations of the quoted texts. Quechua has a variant spelling—Quichua—in original texts of the colonial period. In the contemporary period, Quichua also refers to the Ecuadorian varieties of the native language. Quechua designates the dialects spoken in Peru. Occasionally, I have adapted the excellent translations for Quechua texts transcribed by Alan Durston, César Itier, Frank Salomon, and George Urioste (see endnote citations). Rosaleen Howard came to my aid and perfected several Quechua passages; I am grateful for her expertise and I acknowledge all further errors as my own. The index provides definitions for Spanish and Quechua concepts that are highlighted in this volume. In addition, variants in spelling are given to include the apparent inconsistencies of the colonial period.

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Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

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Introduction

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Hundreds of years ago the recounting of sins was a scene of terror and shame as well as of consolation. Compelled to accomplish a scrupulous remembrance of each transgression, the sinner cowered because, with omissions, there was the threat of hellfire in the end. The shame of admitting these sins, either facing the community as a whole or face-­to-­face with the priest, was unbearable for many penitents. Fulfilling the imposed “tariff ” of the prescribed penance often was humiliating or was accomplished at great cost. Queries as to the most intimate of thoughts, or the naming of parts of the body, demanded a response about pleasure with one’s self or with another. The priest, as both “judge” and “doctor,” was endowed with the power to punish and also to cure as he joined in the dialog. We say confession is good for the soul; thus we acknowledge that the need to confess is human, is innate, and signifies an incipient budding of individual consciousness. In episodes of Law and Order, in the police station, or in courts of law, confession is extolled as the “queen of proof ” as long as it is extracted with proper procedures outlined in “Miranda” rights. The criminal is unburdened of guilt. However, for other commentators, the autobiographical assessment brought forth by confession is rendered up as a concession to power, where the confessant is coerced into an utterance about self. Confessing secrets of the self, when multiplied by all the whispered secrets of all the sinners in a community, creates an opportunity for disciplinary action. Sinners must “pay for their sins”—either before stepping out from the confession box or before entering the locked-­down cells of a penal institution to “erase their debt to society.” For Michel Foucault, it is within confession that the penitent is brought

2  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

Figure 0.1. Confession: “Your sins must be known, do not try to cover them up, either you utter them, or they will be for all to read.” From “La buena y la mala muerte,” Caquiaviri, Bolivia, 1739. Courtesy of Dr. Teresa Gisbert.

closest to defining self—or the truth of the self—prompted by the confession manuals. In the queries, in the tariffs of penance, the penitent plunges into his or her very core of being to reveal in words the darkest secrets about him- or herself, from the innermost thoughts to the most pleasurable acts: Since the Middle Ages, at least, Western societies have established the confession as one of the main rituals we rely on for the production of truth: the codification of the sacrament of penance by the Lateran Council in 1215, with the resulting development of confessional techniques, the declining importance of accusatory procedures in criminal justice, the abandonment of tests of guilt (sworn statements, duels, judgments of God) and the development of methods of interrogation and inquest, the increased participa‑ tion of the royal administration in the prosecution of infractions, at the expense of the proceedings leading to private settlements, the setting up of tribunals of Inquisition: all this helped to give the confession a central role in the order of civil and religious powers.1

Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru traces the implementation of the sacrament of Roman Catholic confession in the heart of the Andes, in the century after Spanish conquest. Indigenous populations were taught the codified rules

Introduction 3

for self-­examination and the means to express their Christian conversion in their own language, Quechua. The practice of confession and its social functions in the Andes are examined with an interdisciplinary focus, combining the methodologies of history, linguistics, literature, and anthropology. The particularities of the Andean context are drawn from the ecclesiastic literature, mainly from the confession manuals, and compared to the practices and models developed within European circumstances. Of Sin and Penitence: Beginnings With its origins in monastic practice, private confession entails the presence of two entities: the confessant and the confessor. The Irish monks, for whom we have the most detailed record, turned to a spiritual advisor to best profess their love for God, and thus confession was made a practice. A confessional technique of exagoreusis was developed in the monasteries, and Foucault, in his studies of confession, highlights the state of “permanent verbalization” that confession enacted because one’s thoughts were constantly revealed to a spiritual director, who demanded obedience: “ ‘everything that one [a monk] does not do on order of one’s director, or everything that one does without his permission, constitutes a theft.’ ”2 As Foucault discerned, in these origins it was not actions that were controlled but thoughts during contemplation, as these thoughts were directed to God.3 Thus Heloise, with her mention of her erotic desire for Abelard, commits no sex act yet deviates from the prescribed pure thoughts of religious contemplation. Irish missionary monks are credited with expanding the practice of contemplative confession outside of the monastery walls and included laity in the private act of revelation. Evidence of ecclesiastic efforts early on to practice private confession exists in the penitentials of the sixth century. One of the earliest is the Penitential of Vinnian, along with the Penitential of Columbanus; both were carried to the European continent. In these books are instructions to the confessor on how to confess “well,” combined with a listing of various sins with their corresponding penances.4 These personal reference books for confessors are a guide to conducting a confession that reflects liturgical contexts, encourages a complete confession, overcomes penitents’ shame, and allows for absolution. Sinfulness and reconciliation operated in an early system of canonical penance where the sinner publicly declared sins and was reconciled to the faithful by the performance of “arduous” penitential exercises. At first, this process was permitted only once in a lifetime. Even with the performance of

4  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

penance, the sinner forever bore the marks of transgression and was forbidden to serve in the military, to contract marriage, to join the clergy, or if married, the penitent was denied conjugal rights.5 Thus, centuries ago, confession determined whether a person would be integrated into the social bonds of community or be cast out of fraternal interaction for a lifetime. Many sinners avoided the once-­in-­a-­lifetime public confession with its exacting penance. Some Christians opted for a deathbed confession and avoided public proclamation of their sins and a lifetime of restrictions.6 Overwhelmingly, the penitentials of the early period dedicate considerable space to sexual behavior. Many early manuals for confessors reveal that sex was proscribed and codified. Thomas N. Tentler, using the Confessio generalis brevis et utilis, cites the gradations of the sin of lust as illustrative, where the sixteen categories are ranked beginning with the “unchaste kiss,” to simple adultery and voluntary sacrilege, to the gravest of sins, sodomy and bestiality.7 The books are filled with canons, “brief, succinct statements that specify an offender, an offense, and an appropriate penance, for example, ‘He who sins with a beast shall do penance for a year; if by himself, for three forty-­day periods; if he has [clerical] rank a year; a boy of fifteen years, forty days.’ ”8 In the early manuals, “tariffs” were strictly imposed; however, in the late medieval period, penance became more arbitrary. Economic sins, especially usury, were cause for deliberation, particularly because reparation was necessary for the sin to be absolved.9 Ecclesiastic reform definitely shaped the fashioning of confessional practices and confessional literature in twelfth- and thirteenth-­century Europe, notably by means of the ecumenical Lateran councils. Lateran II emphasized the imposition of penance by bishops and priests; Lateran III was concerned with educating clerics, and four works for confessors were written that encompassed current learning and law.10 However, it was Lateran IV in 1215 that marked a profound change in confessional practice as canon twenty-­one required “Christians of both sexes once they had reached the age of reason to confess their sins at least once a year.”11 And this canon effectively decided in favor of the oral confession that required a parish priest to be present. Confession was now a Christian obligation, and failure to obey meant excommunication. It is this pivotal date that brought forth Foucault’s exclamation: “Imagine how exorbitant must have seemed the order given to all Christians at the beginning of the thirteenth century, to kneel at least once a year and confess to all their transgressions, without omitting a single one.”12 These new obligations for the laity legislated by Lateran IV were accompanied by pastoral texts for training the confessors, often categorized as summa penientiae. There were two types: the summae confessorum were created for the

Introduction 5

intellectual preparation of the priests, and the summa confessionis contained practical descriptions of confessional procedures.13 Often, the penitentials contained elements of both categories; furthermore, the legalistic and juridical character was apparent, as framed by canon lawyers. The didactic nature of these texts was seen in the alphabetical labeling of topics and the indexes provided for consultation. Diocesan synods also weighed in on conceptions of confession and penance through the publication of statutes wherein bishops informed and controlled the clergy.14 The decrees of the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215, held in the Lateran Palace in Rome, institutionalized the sacrament of private confession. Canon twenty-­one includes this important provision: “priests [were] to make available to all adult Christians of both sexes the opportunity to confess personally all of their sins at least once a year, without fear of this confession being revealed by the priest, to perform the penance enjoined on them, and to receive the Eucharist at least once a year, at Easter.”15 Thus, Pope Innocent III and the council fathers provided for the salvation of souls through careful instruction of the parish priests. Although this sacrament was intended to be a private confession to a priest, in reality, people pressed around to complete the obligation during the designated days. W. David Myers, calculating the press of the crowds, estimates the conditions for a priest in Freising. Using visitation records, Myers calculates that in the Lenten season, if a priest worked twelve hours a day, he could give only two and a half minutes per penitent, a veritable assembly line in the sixteenth century.16 Penitents were expected to offer up a complete accounting of their sins, make satisfaction (often with spiritual exercises), and show contrition (a heartfelt sorrow concerning their sinful ways), however brief their time confessing.17 Only then could the confessor pronounce the words, “I absolve you.” Yet how were the penitents to remember all their sins, especially if there had been a year between the last confession? Occasionally, a general confession (Confiteor) was recited by the entire congregation, with a priest presiding. The particular sin was prefaced by the formula, “I have sinned in . . .” In this way the entire congregation was taught to identify sins, and absolution was dispensed in a general pronouncement.18 In an effort to jog the memory, Saint Augustine listed the seven or eight capital vices and a memory device for remembering them. The word “SALIGIA” is an acronym fashioned from the first letter of each sin: superbia (arrogance), avaritia (avarice), luxuria (lust), ira (anger), gula (gluttony), invidia (envy), and acedia (slothfulness).19 To further nudge parishioners into recounting all of their sins and to avoid these transgressions being blurted out in disorder, lists of interrogatories were

6  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

drawn up based on the capital sins listed by Augustine.20 According to John Bossy, this was the most common pattern for two centuries after the Fourth Lateran Council;21 however, Stephen Haliczer privileges the Ten Commandments as the organizing principle in most manuals.22 In fact, numerous systems existed to help the sinners remember their sins. Thomas Tentler offers an amalgam of the “usual ways of sinning” according to various written sources: Ten Commandments Seven Deadly Sins Twelve Articles of Faith Five Senses Eight Beatitudes Six or Seven Corporal Works of Mercy Six or Seven Spiritual Works of Mercy Four or Five Sins Crying to Heaven for Vengeance Six Sins Against the Holy Spirit Nine Sins Against One’s Neighbor Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit Four Cardinal Virtues Three Theological Virtues Twelve Fruits of the Holy Spirit.23

Confession was often tailored to the status and profession of the penitent, from the pope to the farmer, often with lengthy treatment in texts with a canonical bias.24 Great detail, similarly, was written regarding the determination of circumstances, as the penance was meted out according to degrees of gravity. An early conceptualization of the schema is seen in William de Montibus’ Peniteas cito: Order, place, knowledge, time aggravate sins, And age, condition, number, duration, abundance, reason, Manner of the fault, high status, slight affliction.25

This lengthy mnemonic gave way to a more condensed frame of who, what, where, when, why, how, and by what means in the twelfth century.26 Perplexing circumstances of sin contributed to the need for confession manuals, both for the clergy and for laymen. Mortal and venial sins posed a problem for the sinner and the confessor. Although these two classes of sins were discussed frequently in scripture

Introduction 7

(Saint John, Saint Paul, and Saint Thomas), much ambiguity surrounded the concepts. As Thomas Tentler notes: “clerical authorities themselves admit that it is not always easy to tell which sins are serious [mortal].”27 However, in matters of conscience, the distinction is important; only mortal sins need to be confessed in order to avoid eternal damnation.28 Thus, this clarification is necessary in the sessions of the Council of Trent, where mortal and venial sins are codified. Canons eleven and thirteen of session six admit the predominance of venial sins: “the most just and holy occasionally during this life fall into some slight and daily sins, known as venial.”29 Venial sins need no absolution, as they can be “remitted by prayer, contrition, fervent communion and other pious works.”30 Mortal sins are those that contain in themselves “some grave disorder in regard to God, our neighbor, ourselves, or society.”31 Confessors are warned to be cautious, as there existed a wide range of opinions, despite the prescriptive attempts written in the confession manuals. Martin Luther towers over other religious dissenters who expressed opinions regarding confession. Certainly, his throwing the Angelica (a summa for confessors) into the fire magnifies his objection to Catholic confession, as does his text On Confession: Whether the Pope Has the Power to Command It (1521).32 Yet even Luther did not object to the concept of confession, a reckoning with the self. He frequently confessed with his spiritual advisor, Johan von Staupitz, vicar-­general of the Augustinian order. “Luther made ample use of von Staupitz’s services, seeking him out for confession at least weekly, often daily, and on one occasion for as long as six hours.”33 However, he was tormented by the task of scrupulously remembering every sin of thought and deed. Luther spoke out angrily against the Catholic demand for annual confession and enunciation of detailed tallies of sins: “This I reckon as the greatest plague on earth, through which you have bewildered the consciences of all the world, brought so many souls to despair, and degraded and oppressed all mankind’s faith in Christ, for you have said nothing to us of the consolation of absolution, but have made a work out of it, extorted from unwilling hearts with commandments and force.”34 At issue was the relationship of humans to God, well outlined by Erasmus, who championed the right of an individual to confess directly to Christ “in a state of contrition.”35 Luther likewise denied the confessors’ authority to absolve the sinner in auricular confession. Forgiveness of sins occurred within the sacrament of baptism, he argued, and thus, because of his belief in God’s forgiveness, the sacrament of penance was unnecessary. With the Council of Trent, opened in December of 1545, the church began to address the sorely needed reforms and to reformulate dogma. The sacrament of penance was seen as integral to the concepts of Catholic devotion,

8  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

especially with Luther’s focus on the rite. The clergy, who administered the sacrament, were admonished to reform their behavior: absenteeism from the parish was curtailed to two months; secular garb must be replaced by clerical dress; no one was to be admitted to clerical orders without proof of a benefice to curb priestly vagrancy; and concubinage was prohibited. The council, attempting to raise the educational level of the parish clergy, created diocesan seminars where they could study. The church became the focal point of the community as the parish priest assumed responsibility for catechizing the local populace. Vernacular catechisms were written early in Spain in an attempt to convert the Jews and the Moors; in the sixteenth century, Juan de Ávila, Jerónimo de Ripalda, and Gaspar Estete wrote popular versions for use in Spain.36 Generally, the church attempted to implement uniform rituals to replace those of local origin. The reform of the Roman Catholic Church was well envisioned by the close of the Council of Trent in 1563. Luther’s objections were addressed with a concerted effort to emphasize the importance of the sacramental system, especially the individual private confession. Penitents were to give a scrupulous accounting of their sins, and then they were to be disciplined by the priest depending on their recounting of the circumstance. Consolation was the effective outcome of confession; people were encouraged to confess frequently, even daily, and then take Communion in an attempt to build up “grace” and shorten time in purgatory. Intent on increasing the privacy of the act, and to provide a comfortable space for the confessor, Charles Borromeo advocated the use of a confessional booth (1565). Made of fine wood and open on one side, the booth served to separate the penitent from curious church attendees who might overhear the sins, and, of course, a division in the middle served to separate the priest from women confessants. The specification regarding the middle grill made the purpose of the booth explicit: “a thin wooden grate full of tiny holes the size of a pea, . . . with nails driven in all places so that nothing can pass through.”37 However, even though sin increasingly was clarified and codified, not all sinners went to confession. There was some resistance to complying with the church’s precepts regarding confession, as Haliczer notes for the early sixteenth century.38 More important, the Spanish Inquisition, in its attention to heresy, also found out tangentially that the general populace was “largely ignorant of the basic tenets of the Catholic Church.”39 Furthermore, general distrust of the clergy was evident in the trials of the sixteenth century, as priests, friars, and nuns did not honor their vows of celibacy. Secular and regular clerical excess was duly criticized. The ignorance of the confessors as

Introduction 9

to the enactment of the sacrament, the scarcity of clerics to carry out confessional rites, and the lack of benefices to sustain the clergy were problems that later were addressed in the Reformation of the church. Myers’ study of the Counter-­Reformation similarly shows reluctance to enter confession booths on the part of the believers in France and notes that military force was employed to bring the penitents in to confess in German lands.40 Of course, there was an incentive to confess. Parish priests were ordered to keep records and to send names to the episcopal vicar for noncompliance. The Roman Catechism of 1566 specifically emphasizes the role of confession in disciplining lay subjects and preserving the social order: “Another advantage of confession, which should not be overlooked, is that it contributes powerfully to the preservation of social order. Abolish sacramental confession, and that moment you deluge society with all sorts of secret and heinous crimes— crimes, too, and others of still greater enormity, which men, once they have been depraved by vicious habits, will not dread to commit in open day. The salutary shame that attends confession restrains licentiousness, bridles desire and checks wickedness.”41 According to John Bossy, penitents often told priests about the sins of their neighbors; confession manuals, in fact, give evidence of this practice. More recent studies, however, cast doubt on the efficacy of the church to exact much social control: “For the most part, the sacrament was well administered for the cure of the souls, but it was not well administered as a means of social control.”42 However, in scrutinizing society, the church also embarked on the use of confession to control business transactions as part of the control of wealth. As Michael Haren observes: “The suspicion neatly expressed in the canonical warning that ‘in buying and selling it is difficult not to incur sin,’ coupled with a prohibition of usury, brought a whole range of commercial transactions within the purview of ecclesiastical authorities. . . . Such dealings could be subjected to minute examination by the confessor.”43 Formulated with respect to humane treatment of one another, Aristotelian ideals of buying and selling shaped ideology that appears repeatedly in the numerous versions of Spanish-­inspired religious doctrine in the sixteenth century. Acceptable Christian business practices were codified, and two of the thorniest questions of commerce (“price” and “profit”) were defined. According to Aristotle, and also determined in Roman law, commercial trade was governed by the following factors: exchange should be voluntary; price was determined by the common estimate of what a good was worth; price could be determined by administrative means in circumstances of famine, for instance.44 In practice, then, buyers were not to obtain a good at a lower price

10  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

than competitive bidding would produce; on the other hand, buyers could offer more than the good was actually worth if the seller needed money to survive.45 Non-­Christian cultures also had standards of ethics that traditionally governed trade. Emphasis was on fair trade and honesty. Jews appreciated the everyday necessities of the market but were aware of the exploitation that could occur in these transactions. The question of just price was a prominent piece of Talmudic law, concerned with the rights of sellers and the underpayment by buyers and with the need to curtail inequality of information regarding transactions. For example, in the Talmud, procedures were instituted to revoke fraudulent dealings: “The buyer or seller could be allowed a period of hours to ascertain that a just price was paid for a good after which the deal was binding.”46 Similarly, for Muslims, the Koran praised trading as a worthy occupation and emphasized the benefits of trade. Yet the Koran also cautioned against fraud in the marketplace: “Give full measure when ye measure, and weigh with a balance which is straight: that is the most fitting and the most advantageous in the final determination.”47 Mention of an increase in value, of course, brings up issues of usury. Like theft, usury is a mortal sin. As James Aho explains: “The standard Thomistic argument goes like this: People may rightfully profit on qualities ‘intrinsic’ to the goods being sold. Because the values of commodities such as animals, wheat, and slaves vary due to changes in the demand for them, or because of differences in their sizes, strengths, or yields, then prices for these may also rightfully vary. Money, however, is intrinsically a medium of exchange and nothing more. To charge varying prices for it therefore violates its essential nature.”48 However, there were some exceptional loopholes under which money could be lent for investment and fees could be charged. The church allowed fines to be levied on late payment, interest could compensate for potential financial losses, and charitable loans to the poor could charge a small amount of interest. Commercial partnerships of investor and agent where business risk was involved in transportation and time for delivery of merchandise were also allowed to collect some fees for interest, based on Roman law. The question of intention was important in determining sinfulness: “Catholic moral theology locates sin in the intention, it is the hope of gaining financially through lending.”49 As merchandise marts expanded and merchants multiplied in number, Christian theologians often were called on to evaluate circumstances of economic morality. Theological treatises established moral obligations within monetary systems and commerce; the newly encountered world of the Ameri-

Introduction 11

cas prompted the printing of many instructions for both merchants and creditors. In Seville (1542), Cristóbal de Villalón published his Provechoso tratado de cambios y contrataciones de mercaderes y reprobación de usura.50 In 1544 Luis Saravia de la Calle published Instrucción de mercaderes muy provechosa in Medina de Campo.51 The Tractado de los préstamos que pasan entre mercaderes y tractantes por consiguiente los logros, cambios, compras, adelantados, y ventas al fiado, etc. was published by Luis de Alcalá in Toledo (1546),52 and in 1569 Tomás de Mercado, a Dominican, printed his Suma de tratados y contratos in Salamanca.53 The Augustinian Martín de Azpilcueta’s confession manual of 1552 (printed in Spain in 1556) combines his knowledge of civic as well as canon law.54 Widely read, Azpilcueta’s manual went through many editions in Latin and Italian and provided answers to vexing questions of commerce. The publication of these manuals in the sixteenth century underlines the importance of the emergence of the marketplace and the greater acceptance of the role of merchants, yet these same manuals clearly outline answers to lingering questions that caused substantial unease about sinful conduct in the marketplace. As seen in the places of publication, the authors of the economically oriented confessional manuals often lived in cities with extensive economic transactions and observed the intricacies of the dealings in the streets and fairs. Scholastic theory may have curtailed their abilities to advise well, as Joel Kaye asserts: “Given the strict requirements for truth, universality, and necessity, in the highly formal discourse of scholastic natural philosophy, medieval thinkers never explicitly acknowledge the influence of any model drawn from the tainted sphere of the marketplace on their philosophical speculation.”55 However, scholastics, in the wake of the monetized economy around them, had to reckon with the patterns they saw in the marketplace. They observed that exchange values were relative, that money was made up of estimated value. In addition, they had to concede that exchange equality, formerly based on rational agreement, was now a matter of probability and approximation, often detrimental to the community.56 Confession in the Andes The practice of confession in the Andes was much influenced by European deliberations in the previous centuries regarding sin and penitence. Most notably, the reaffirmation and the reorganization of Catholic belief and ritual were carried over to the new lands. As Luis Resines emphasizes, the European influence was “conceptual, theological, and ideological”; the catechisms the priests carried in their baggage represented the enactment of a “common

12  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

project” to carry the word of God to the heathen.57 This is not the same project in the Americas as it was in Europe, however; there, Jews and Muslims could be expelled from the territory if they did not convert. The mission in faraway lands differed; the churchmen were faced with troublesome and deeply ingrained pagan beliefs and barbarous practices that had to be understood before they could be ferreted out. The reforms enacted by the work of the Council of Trent (1545–1563) were implemented in the three provincial councils held in Lima. All three Andean councils carefully studied the religiosity of the Spaniards, emphasizing reform as well as creating a program for the conversion of the native Andeans. The first two councils did significant work, and the third council incorporated this previous legislation in 119 acts or decrees. Many of these decrees highlighted the importance of indoctrinating and preaching to the native Andeans in their native languages and stipulated an examination to verify priests’ skills before sending them out to the provinces. As a result of this emphasis, these churchmen produced a significant corpus of doctrinal texts: catechisms; a confessional; and exemplary sermons in three languages (Spanish and two Andean languages, Quechua and Aymara). The confession manual differed greatly from those medieval models in Europe; a more lively style eliminated the ponderous biblical citations and better addressed the spiritual needs of the Andean populations.58 The dedicated efforts of so many of the religious in the writing of these texts were spurred on by the alarming instances of idolatry, particularly the most celebrated uprising, that of 1565, called Taki Oncoy. According to colonial sources, this was a movement of “organized apostasy” in which indigenous leaders preached against the wholesale adoption of the Christian religion.59 Instead, the indigenous Andeans were admonished to return to their native religions and disregard the cultural trappings of Castile: to eat only native foods; to dress only in Andean attire; to avoid entering churches; to refuse baptism; and to revert to their Andean (not Christian) names. The true believers were distinguished by their singing, trembling, and dancing; they were possessed by the huacas, those sacred beings that were credited with the sustenance of Andean existence. Often equated with Western conceptions of “idols,” these beings did have visible existence, as is seen in the lengthy definition by the Quechua speaker Inca Garcilaso: Quiere decir cosa sagrada, como eran todas aquellas en que el demonio les hablaba: esto es, los ídolos, las peñas, piedras grandes o árboles en que el enemigo entraba para hacerles creer que era Dios. . . . También dan el mismo nombre a todas aquellas cosas que en hermosura o excelencia se aventajan

Introduction 13

de las otras de su especia, como una rosa, manzana, o camuesa o cualquier fruta que sea mayor y más hermosa que todas las de su árbol. . . . Por el contrario, llaman huaca a las cosas muy feas y monstruosas, que causan horror y asombro. . . . También llaman huaca a las cosas que salen de su curso natural, como a la mujer que pare dos de un vientre; . . . asimismo dan este nombre a las fuentes muy caudalosas que salen hechas ríos. . . . Llaman huaca a la gran cordillera de la Sierra Nevada que corre por todo el Perú. . . . Dan el mismo nombre a los cerros muy altos, que se aventajan de los otros cerros, . . . y a las cuestas grandes que se hallan por los caminos. . . . A todas estas cosas y otras semejantes llamaron huaca, no por tenerlas por dioses ni adorarlas, sino por la particular ventaja que hacían a los comunes; por esta causa las miraban y trataban con veneración y respeto. It means a sacred thing, such as all those things in which the devil spoke to them: that is, all the idols, the cliffs, the large rocks or trees the devil entered in order to make them believe that he was God. . . . They also give the same name to all things that in beauty or in excellence stand out from others of the same species, such as a rose, an apple, a dessert apple, or any other fruit that is larger and more beautiful than all others from the tree. . . . On the other hand, they say a huaca is all things ugly and monstrous that cause horror and surprise. . . . They also say a huaca is a thing that differs from its natural properties, such as a woman that gives birth to two from one womb. . . . And so they give this name to forceful sources of water that emerge formed as rivers. . . . They name as huaca the great mountain chain of the Sierra Nevada that runs through all of Peru. . . . They give the same name to the very high hills, those that loom over the others, . . . and the steep, long inclines that are found on the roads. . . . All these things and some similar ones they call huaca, not because they believe them to be gods or adore them, but instead because of the good things they did out of the ordinary; for this reason they looked at them and treated them with veneration and respect.60

This elaborate, informative, and lengthy description is reduced and confined by the Spanish translators, as revealed in a dictionary definition of the same time period: “Huacca. Ydolos, figurillas de hombres y animales que trayan consigo” (Huacca. Idols, little figurines of humans and animals that they bring with them).61 The succinct description, written by a priest, diminishes the stature of the huacas, renders them powerless, and contradicts the Inca Garcilaso’s all-­inclusive exposition on the concept in Quechua. Yet, in other texts, chroniclers attest to the importance of the multiple sacred sites and revered objects for the Andean natives. Contradicting

14  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

González Holguín’s “little figurines,” huacas instead were recognized as pervasive throughout Incan territory, and their presence in mountain sites, caves, ravines, and stone objects was essential to the classification of sociopolitical units. Huaca shrines were cared for by designated ancestral units that offered ritual sacrifices; in Cuzco alone, 328 sites were known and cited by churchmen anxious to stamp out this diabolical idol worship.62 Although more recent studies cast doubt on the extent of Taki Oncoy as a widespread movement and now take into account its presence in the chronicles as a means to further an ecclesiastical career or to fuel rivalries among the orders,63 the persistence of idol worship among the Andean populations was cause for concern. Accordingly, the confession manuals often began with the first commandment, an interrogation about worship of hills, rivers, huacas, and the sun, indicative of the Spanish understanding of the plethora of sacred beings that populated the Andes. The Instrucion (instruction) of Juan Polo de Ondegardo was even more precise, more extensive, and must have overwhelmed the evangelists in their task. He cites huacas, idols, ravines, cliffs, large rocks, hills, mountaintops, waterfalls, springs, anything out of the ordinary, the sun, the moon, stars, lightning, the rainbow, rain, hail, heaps of stone markers, felines, and snakes as sacred entities.64 Whereas in Europe the office of the Holy Inquisition could be counted on to root out idolatry, in the New World the Spanish king prohibited interference in native Andean cases.65 Did this mean that indigenous idolaters went unpunished? No. Baptized native Andeans who had been taught the nature of the infractions against Christianity were subject to disciplinary actions of the bishops. To stamp out apostasy, the churchmen left the cities and ventured out to the countryside to see what could be observed among the communities. As early as 1545, priests were exhorted to seek out the idols and to plant crosses in their stead,66 yet the intensity of the forays out and about, combined with the confiscation of material goods, waxed and waned over the years. Most notable are the campaigns of Archbishop Bartolomé Lobo Guerrero (1609–1622), Gonzalo de Campo (1625–1626), and Archbishop Pedro de Villagómez (1636– 1671). In these official church “visits” (visitas), priests were asked to maintain meticulous records of the goods confiscated, the regional idols destroyed, and the testimonial confessions of the accused. These texts, along with the doctrinal material, document the Spanish understanding of the complex world of the huacas. Precisely in the preservation of these printed pages and in these handwritten notes, we are able to trace the extent of the lexical refashioning of both Christian and Andean native concepts. How were Quechua words crafted as instruments of conversion? Was the pagan referentiality obliterated when the native Andean converts uttered these words and phrases? Or, alter-

Introduction 15

nately, were non-­Christian concepts transmitted consciously or unconsciously in the speech act of confession?67 The struggles of the churchmen to accomplish a thorough indoctrination of the Andean heathen is seen in the choice of lexical items crucial to the program of prosyletization. The Spanish at first enthusiastically incorporated Quechua nomenclature into Christian discourse. Ychu- (to confess by means of straws), supai (an Andean energy force for good or evil), ranti- (to exchange commodities, to substitute), and hucha (failure to perform a ceremonial obligation) were all recodified and restricted to conform to Christian theology. Later, Quechua was discarded completely to refer to the sacrament of confession; only a loan word from Spanish would do for those circumstances. Quechua was maintained and reshaped in regard to other concepts: supai eventually referred to one being, the devil; ranti- turned into the verb for the economic transactions of buying and selling; and hucha was transformed to represent a new category of Christian transgression, sins. These changes in semantic categories were accompanied by significant parallel changes in the “universe of reference”68—Andean land plots, political structures, housing sites, and shrines. Similar to the “reduction” of forced resettlement imposed by Viceroy Francisco de Toledo, language, too, took on new referential attributes that narrowed meaning to conform to Spanish codification. This linguistic assault on Andean semantics which began in the colonial period was successful, for supai has lost its significance as “essence”; now this entity has horns and a long, skinny tail and is painted in Andean church murals as Satan. Now in open-­air markets the Quechua-­speaking sellers call out to their clients: “Rantihuay, rantihuay” (Buy from me, buy from me); indigenous vendors now expect coin in exchange for their surplus produce, whereas originally barter was the expected norm for ranti-­. Yet the semantic victory is not complete or one-­sided. Despite these outward manifestations of change, what residual semantic trace might linger in the rich repository of Andean texts? A conversation between a priest and an indigenous Andean in the mid-­seventeenth century is useful to illustrate the persistence of an Andean conceptually framed universe. Although by this time countless sacred Andean objects had been burned, smashed, and unearthed in the official visits by the priests, in the ashes, in woven cloth scraps, and in the landscape the remnants of indigenous ontology survived. Having his “little idols” taken away from him, a male elder in Guamanga angrily stated: “Padre, que te cansas en quitarnos los Idolos? llebaste este cerro si puedes, que esse es el Dios que adoro (Father, do you not tire of taking our idols from us? Carry away this mountain if you can because that one is the God that I worship.)”69 In this commentary the existence of multiple huacas

16  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

is acknowledged; they (phrased as “the idols”) loom large over the landscape, privileged in an Andean cosmology where gods animate, protect, prophesize, and make themselves manifest. The defiant words “carry away this mountain if you can” are followed by an even bolder assertion, “that one is the God that I worship.” This statement, relayed to us in Spanish in a letter written by the Jesuit Francisco Patiño, sharply delineates the “us” from the “you.” The phrasing would be even more stridently divisive in Quechua. “Our idols” certainly would be uttered with the exclusive conjugation in Quechua, highlighting “ours” and not “yours,” and thus marking a wholly separate religious domain (Andean native) from the deity belonging to the Spanish Christians. Clearly, there was resistance to Spanish indoctrination as native Andeans considered themselves untouched and without succor from a Christian God. Juan Polo de Ondegardo transmits the voice of the native Andeans in observations of 1585: 1. Dizen algunas vezes de Dios que no es buen Dios, y que no tiene cuydado de los pobres, y que de valde le sirven los indios. 2. Que no es piadoso ni tan misericordioso Dios como dizen los Christianos. Que no ay perdon de peccados para los que han peccado grauissimamente: o para otros peccados enormes. 3. Que Dios los crio para viuir en peccado, y especialmente para cosas deshonestas de luxuria y de embriaguez, y que ellos no puede[n] ser buenos. 4. Que las cosas se hazen o por la voluntad del Sol, y de la Luna, y de las Huacas, o por algun hado. Y que Dios no tiene prouidencia de las cosas de aca abaxo. 1. They say sometimes that God is not a good God, and that he does not care for the poor, and the Indians serve him in vain. 2. That God does not pity them nor is he merciful like the Christians say he is. There is no pardon of sins for those who have gravely sinned, or for other large sins. 3. God created them to live in sin, and especially [to commit] dishonest things like lust and drunkenness, and [they say] that they cannot be good. 4. That things come about by means of the wishes of the sun, the moon, and by the huacas, or by some kind of fate. And that God does not provide for the things here below.70

While these passages seemingly set forth a rigid dichotomy with a preference for Andean deities and Andean word choice to worship them, in other circumstances the expression is more nuanced and mixed. As Kenneth Mills so aptly writes, many people of the Andes were “neither in a state of resistance or opposition, nor were they consciously accommodating. The Andean

Introduction 17

natives were more eclectic, even experimental, tending to mix religious elements gradually rather than to substitute or replace.”71 The colonial writer Polo de Ondegardo observes the “hybrid” nature of the religious belief system; it well could serve native peoples plagued with harsh work conditions, resettlement, and the ravages of disease: “[Dizen que] bie[n] puede adorar a Jesu Christo nuestro Señor y al demonio juntamente porque se han concertado ya entrambos y estan hermanados” (They [the natives] say that they can adore Jesus Christ our Lord and the devil together because they have come to an agreement between themselves and they are brothers).72 This eclecticism also surfaces in a more explicit passage disseminated in 1585. The recourse to Christian wording and terminology is a conscious effort to expand the power base of the native hechicero (shaman-­priest). Thus, in this ritual both the huacas and the Christian God are beseeched to provide possibilities for better health and a longer life. The shamans pronounce the “saintly words” of Jesus and God in their traditional curing ceremonies, also using coca leaves and guinea pig sacrifices: Otros [hechizeros] ay q[ue] allende q[ue] visitan los lugares de los pueblos de Españoles e indios, vsan su officio de hechizeria co[n] especie de christia[n]dad. Y qua[n]do illega[n] al enfermo ech[an] sus bendiciones sobre el enfermo, sanctigua[n]se, dize[n] ay Dios, Jesus, o otras palabras buenas, hazen q[ue] haze[n] oracio[n] a Dios, y pone[n] las manos, y parados, o de rodillas, o sentados, menea[n] los labios, alçan los ojos al cielo, dize[n] palabras sanctas, y aconseja[n]le q[ue] se confiesse, y q[ue] haga otras obras de christiano, lloran y dizen mil caricias, haze[n] la cruz y dizen q[ue] tienen poder para esso de Dios, o de los Padres, o de los Apoés y abueltas desto secretamente sacrifican, y hazen otras ceremonias con cuyes, coca, sebo, y otras cosas, soban el vie[n]tre, y las piernas, o otras partes del cuerpo, y chupa[n] aq[ue]lla parte q[ue] duele del enfermo, y dizen q[ue] sacan sangre, o gusanos, o pedrezuelas y muestran las . . . y dizen q[ue] ya ha salido el mal, y q[ue] sanara el enfermo: y haze[n] otros mil embustes para esto. There are other [shaman-­priests], furthermore, that visit the towns of the Spanish and the Indians, who use their position of shaman in combination with a kind of Christianity. And when they are with the sick person, they let fall blessings on the sick person; making the sign of the cross, they say, “Oh God, Jesus,” or other good words; they make them pray to God, and they move their lips, glance up at the heavens, say blessed words, and they urge him or her to confess and to do other Christian acts; they cry and they say a thousand sweet things; they make the sign of the cross and [say] that

18  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

they are given the forceful power for this from God, from the priests, and from the Quechua apus, and besides this they sacrifice and conduct rituals, with guinea pigs, coca leaves, and animal fat; they rub the stomach, legs, and other parts of the body, and they suck on that aching part of the sick person, . . . and they say that the evil forces have gone out and that the sick one is cured.73

Reading the previous passage might lead to a preference for “stable” syncretic models and all-­encompassing explanations. However, the discourses of confession, of extirpation trials, and of ritual are varied, nuanced, and not easily categorized. Indigenous response to Christianity is not monolithic; communities responded differently to the barrage of information that was disseminated by the Catholic priests, picking and choosing what elements they would incorporate and which they would discard. This study of confessional practices plumbs the lived experience of the Quechua language in its colonial context and in its contemporary usage.74 While dictionary glosses can orient our understanding of word change—adoptions and substitutions—it is in the lived experience that the semantic dimensions of a word stabilize or instead exhibit multiple aspects of meaning. Wording the World The implementation of Catholic doctrine was aided by the consolidation of belief that resulted in tools of dissemination: there were catechisms (abbreviated and others more lengthy) for preparing the converts for baptism, confessional texts to aid in vocalizing all sins, and sermons to rephrase biblical admonitions of the commandments into comprehensible concepts. Explicit in the writing of the early Spanish-­Quechua texts is a desire to communicate Christian concepts to the Andean “heathen”; also present in these texts is abundant documentation of cultural conversion as well as cultural survival. The catechisms, sermons, manuals for the confessor, and grammars written by secular and regular clergy serve as a rich repository of semantic change as Quechua was pressed into service by the Spanish translators. However, these semantic “refashionings” often retained traces of ancient Andean modes of thought despite the repetitious didactic lessons in Quechua preached from the pulpits and in the plazas. In this book, I have chosen several of the Ten Commandments, the foundation of confession, for more lengthy analysis. Commandment one, on idolatry, commandment six, on sexuality, and commandment seven, on theft were

Introduction 19

selected because of the semantic importance of the Quechua lexemes chosen by the priests to talk about these newly imposed Christian life patterns. Some priests were content with the use of only the first commandment for confession. Thus, the introductory material to the 1585 confessional states: “Basta[n] las preguntas que en general se ponen en el primer manda‑ mie[n]to” (The questions written in the first commandment are sufficient).75 As we have seen, this first question asked in confession could be time consuming for the priest if he were to list all possible manifestations of huacas in the Andean belief system. Yet, here at the first instance of confession, in the crosscurrents of translation, the Quechua-­speaking convert might be confused as to what exactly was expressed in the translations of the native language by the churchmen. The straightforward Spanish declaration of commandment one—“Amaras a Dios sobre todas las cosas” (Love God above all other things)—is not mirrored in the Quechua construction: “Diosman sonco canqui, tucuy yma haycacta yallispa” (literally, Your heart is toward God, [God] more worthy than whatever thing).76 Ostensibly here, the center is God, yet the “other things” exist in a prominent positioning; they continue to exist, not banished, albeit subordinate to the superior Christian God. The directive here, then, in its Quechua wording allows for the Christian God to be loved the most, gathered in the company of other deities. This commandment, as written in Quechua, reinforces an old pattern of religious tolerance practiced by the Incas, which encourages the inclusion of regional gods within a panoply of Incan deities. The rejection of this Christian first commandment often could be seen in the cloth offerings and ground-­up mullu shells scattered about the shrine. Even if the Quechua speaker never appeared for confession, the churchmen could see physical evidence of idolatry. An account of 1619, among many others, reveals the widespread divergence from Christian teaching in “found” items: 1,769 principal shrines were detected; 7,288 family shrines were known, along with 1,365 mummies.77 The penitential questions regarding sexuality (commandment six) were oriented more to private sexual practices, although priests often also acknowledged the public rituals of drunken orgies. Indeed, this commandment was an effort to reshape behavior, to focus “attention on the individual’s desire as the substance that needed to be relentlessly disciplined to create the moral self.”78 The natives were taught to “war against themselves,” as J. Jorge Klor de Alva persuasively argues, to control their bodily desires in order to obtain a Christian “soul.” Thus, the confessionals were oriented toward individual practice, to best penetrate the excesses of desire in all possible circumstances. Some inquiry betrays European origins, such as, Have you given your word, sworn to marry a certain woman?, indicative of the primacy of questions of honor in

20  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

European codes. Other queries pertain to customs in the Andes, such as the use of huacanqui (Andean love potion) to obtain sexual possession of a woman or man. With each and every question, the penitent is coerced into shaping a conception of self, a self that “incorporated Christian categories of the person that were assumed to be universal.”79 The answers to these confessionary questions necessarily implied a rejection of the preconquest self. Like the extirpation of idols, this indoctrination program stamped out participation in the ancient Andean acts of ritual reciprocity and acts of celebratory sexuality. The posing of these questions on sexuality, prying into the innermost reaches of motivation, was linked to the process of self-­examination, inducing a developing sense of consciousness, provoking guilt, and ultimately exacting a deeply felt contrition that was expressed in words as well as gestures. To assist this discourse, hucha was pressed into service by the church to express “sin” (see chapter 3) and, once chosen, the new semantic field was reinforced by crafting a new verb for sexual sin, huchallicu-­, appending a lli and a cu (a “self-­transformational” addition to hucha indicating that the sinner was in a state of sin by his or her own volition).80 Thus, in word choice and verbal creativity the churchmen fashioned a world of sinfulness that, despite the importance of the other commandments, concentrated their efforts on erasing illicit sexual behavior. Idolatries and sexualities were targeted for examination in the sacrament of confession, and their usefulness for ferreting out sin is evident in the many pages of transcripts preserved in the Andean archives. Yet, in introducing the seventh commandment to the Andean populations, the catechists and missionaries were pressed to convey more than the blanket prohibition, “Thou shall not steal.” Native people of the Andes well understood the moral implications of theft, the topic of this commandment. Often quoted is the (supposed) creed of the Incas: “Ama llulla, Ama killa, Ama suwa” (Do not lie, do not be lazy, do not steal). The admonition “don’t steal” as written in the confessionals includes canonical deliberations consisting of a number of European concepts. The Andean Quechua confessionals reflect concerns common to Europe: “just” price in the market; rules about loans and usury; payment of the daily wage. In this series of questions, theology as well as economics required ample explanation for the converts. Prior to the conquest of the Andes, an Inca reciprocal system, well studied by numerous scholars, existed at the level of state, province, and intrafamilial circumstances that governed the exchange of goods. Under this all-­encompassing ideology, goods would be distributed by the state in cases of want or for ritual celebrations. In return, the most humble of households as well as the most high ranking administrators would be ex-

Introduction 21

pected to contribute labor and produce goods. The chronicles are filled with many “laws” regarding Inca behavior, but rarely mentioned is “theft” because of the “rarity of private property, which was reserved for the most elite.”81 Yet, with the coming of the Spanish a new order was introduced—a commercial system—that was, indeed, not based on reciprocity. The kurakas, as regional leaders, provided access to commodities that fed the newly imposed model of markets and fairs. The confessionals reflect the European economic system, yet the vocabulary chosen for this discussion was drawn from the previous Andean world of barter and reciprocity. Ranti(to exchange) was pressed into service to delineate “buyer,” “seller,” and “net gains.” Likewise, presented with this Andean precapitalist system of trade, the churchmen also had to look for words to translate “loan,” “to restitute,” and “debtor” (see chapters 5 and 6). The confessionals are witness to the inventories of economic terminology in Quechua; they also are vivid repositories of the numerous occupations held by the indigenous laboring classes. Most spectacular are the intricacies of commerce written up as fodder for confession by the priest Juan Pérez Bocanegra; however, all confession manuals reserved space for interrogation about economic activity under the rubric of the seventh commandment. Many excellent books and articles have been written about the efficacy of the evangelization of the Americas in the colonial period. The question of efficacy was central to the priests and friars who first gloried in the throngs of souls saved and then, confronted with the daily reality, had to reevaluate their claims of success. The number of souls who knelt and professed their Christianity is not tallied up in Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru. Nor do counts of cults and covens appear in these pages to assess the multiple variations of accommodation or resistance to an imposed economic and religious system. Instead, through the sacrament of confession, semantic configurations are traced both forward and back in an attempt to perceive the known world before the Hispanic invasion as well as to contemplate linguistic accommodation in the aftermath of conquest. Are there equivalencies between languages? Is cross-­cultural translation possible? How does the “Dios” of Spanish become the “Apodios” of Quechua and vice versa? In the case of “Dios” (God), the translation was impeded; only the Spanish word would do for representing the concept of the deity within the Christian tradition. No heathen word could represent it well, as Vicente Rafael states, because “native vernaculars . . . constrained the universalizing assumptions and totalizing impulses of a colonial-­Christian order.”82 In other circumstances, the totalizing impulses of the dominant language system were incorporated into the Quechua language. Thus, Manichaean categorization circumscribed

22  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

the more neutral Quechua supai (meaning only spirit essence), and then this word became limited to a singular usage, a reference to the European devil. Sometimes polysemic references coexist, denoting ancient practices in Quechua-­speaking cultures as well as a New Worldly order imposed by Christianity. For instance, maña-­, a verb formerly denoting the “borrowing of a nonconsumable item to be returned in kind and based on a relationship of trust,”83 is turned into the verb “to pray” or “to intercede” in Christian hymns and sermons. Or, just as determinedly, maña persists as a word denoting land worked by the community84 and carries a connotative referentiality to an annual redistribution of land plots mentioned in colonial sources.85 The process was not unidirectional. In tracing translinguistic semantic fields, we move beyond the discourse of the ecclesiastics who tell us what to conclude. Instead, when reading the ancient Quechua words written down with a firm clerical hand or printed with Gothic inflected type, we linger, detecting the essence of the original denotation in Quechua as, simultaneously, we confront the new usage. Thus, we allow ourselves to abandon our categories and our assumptions of universals and not focus so earnestly on the problem of equivalence in translation. Instead, in paging through dictionaries, confessionals, and sermons, we confront another way of being, the expression of another social reality, as conveyed in the lexicon of the Quechua language.

CHAPTER 1

Confession and Restitution in the Andes: Las Casas’ Avisos y reglas

Bartolomé de Las Casas, in the middle of the sixteenth century, entered a phase in his championing of indigenous rights in which he correctly perceived that although many laws had been legislated in behalf of the natives in the New World, these same laws were not enacted. He turned to a sacrament of the Catholic Church—confession—to empower the legislation. Confession would allow the perfection of a just social order, one in which the indigenous peoples were treated fairly and Spanish “wickedness” would be checked. In his hands, confession and restitution were a privileged force to be harnessed for bettering the plight of the native peoples of the Americas.1 Restitution is defined as “an act of commutative justice by which exact reparation as far as possible is made for an injury that has been done to another.”2 A stolen candle, the theft of a silver pitcher, or grabbing a handful of potatoes demands restitution in kind. But in the case of land, for example, things are more complicated: not only must land be returned to the owner, but also the fruits of the land, and any loss or damage that the landowner suffered during the time of the illegal possession must be paid for as well. Sometimes the stolen item is difficult to assess in terms of monetary value. In cases of sexual trespass, such as adultery or seduction, unlawful sexual intercourse with physical as well as spiritual injury occurs and must be restituted. In the case of seduction, for instance, if the woman was seduced and believed her lover would marry her, moralists might conclude that the seducer must make amends by contributing to her dowry or paying a sum to her parents, who had been defamed.3 Whether in the annual confession or in the last rites of death, making amends was essential for forgiveness from sin. Penitents were encouraged to search their consciences for any trespasses that must be accounted for in their

Figure 1.1. Title page of Las Casas’ guide for confessors. From Bartolomé de Las Casas,

Aqui se contienen vnos avisos y reglas para los confesores de los Españoles que son o han sido en cargo de los Indios de las Indias del mar Oceano (Seville: 1552). Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division of the Library of Congress.

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 25

lifetime. To be on the safe side, often funds were set aside to pay for future restitution, even after the death of the sinner. In the Middle Ages, for instance, wealthy merchants commonly designated certain monies in their wills to alleviate possible injustice to injured parties and ordered these funds to be administered by the priests.4 Las Casas observed that Spanish encomenderos, conquistadors, ranchers, merchants, work foremen, and mine owners did not obey the letter of the law regarding encomienda and that they also violated the teachings of the church.5 Las Casas was convinced that monetary gain obtained illegally from native Andeans fell within the seventh commandment of confession, as the Spanish had “stolen” from their indigenous charges. He argued for restitution as a means of allaying matters of conscience, to alleviate sins of theft that would impede absolution. As Juan Friede points out, this argument for restitution was not original to Las Casas: “Las Casas did not invent these countermeasures, nor was he the first to use them for the protection of the Indian, but he was the first to apply them on a broad scale to obtain that protection.”6 Las Casas, when he was himself an encomendero, personally experienced two instances when his sins were not pardoned; he was denied absolution in 1514 and in 1533. After joining the Dominican order in 1522, Las Casas—now an ordained priest—penned his own thoughts on confession in 1544–1546. He did not write a confession manual, which is based on categories of the Ten Commandments; instead, his Avisos y reglas para confesores (Rules for Confessors) was primarily a commentary on the topic of restitution. Originally in manuscript, the Avisos y reglas circulated among a select few of the religious, yet this text caused great turmoil. These rules were written in the era of the proclamation of the Spanish New Laws of 1542, which outlined provisions of governance in the colonies and which also provided for protection of the native Andeans. As Charles Gibson states, “we think of the New Laws principally in one connection—the attempted abolition of encomienda. . . . But in reality, the New Laws concerned many other matters as well.”7 These decrees charged the Council of the Indies to treat the native peoples well, provided for a viceroy and four members of an Audiencia in Peru, and ruled that indigenous Andeans were not to be enslaved for any reason and that excessively large encomiendas were to be reduced and reassigned to original conquistadors if they were without assignment. The encomienda, a source of great riches, did figure prominently as “a royal concession to exploit the tribute and labor from one or more Indian communities in return for promising to . . . care for the spiritual needs of the [designated] Indians.”8 The New Laws now forbade any person to “have the power to assign Indians in encomienda either in a new allotment

26  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

or through resignation, donation, sale, or in any other way, nor by vacancy nor by inheritance. Rather when the person who holds Indians dies they are to revert to the Crown.”9 The conquistadors, who believed that they had fought bravely for the right to inherit these benefits, hotly contested the Law of Inheritance, which limited the encomienda to two lifetimes (those of the encomendero and of his family). The Spanish Crown eventually yielded and in 1545 revoked the Law of Inheritance, the most controversial of the New Laws. Stirred to action by this “backslide” in legislation, Las Casas urged the religious to take a stronger stand with regard to confession: the priests must refuse absolution to conquistadors, encomenderos, and arms merchants who had obtained and retained wealth based on unjust wars with the Amerindian native peoples.10 In Avisos y reglas, Las Casas outlines the rules for priests to confess sinners in the New World. Although it was standard practice to enlist a notary to draw up a will, in the Avisos, the notary becomes even more important than the priest in the sacrament of confession. Las Casas is insistent that, before the priest begins to hear a confession from a penitent, a notary be called to attend, either a public notary or an official of the king. As Juan Friede so accurately notes, in this process, when the confessant signed a notarized document, penitence became a civic obligation, not merely a Christian obligation.11 First addressing the Spanish conquistador, Las Casas argues that the penitent conquistador, in a public act, must offer to declare in his will that (1) if through restitution he were to lose all his wealth, there would be no financial limits to the restitution, (2) he took part in the conquest, (3) he brought no wealth from Spain with him to America, (4) if he wrongfully had slaves that he would pay them monthly or yearly sums of restitution, (5) whatever other testament he had written previously was invalid, and (6) he would not hide any assets. He must likewise appoint a religious or a secular priest as his confessor, with complete power to decide on issues regarding his salvation. Thus, even if the conquistador were to die destitute and leave nothing to his heirs, the confessant was to abide by the powers conferred on the priest. Furthermore, the bishop, ecclesiastic court, and governmental officials were charged with enforcing the terms of the will.12 Only after these declarations were written could confession begin and absolution of sins be accomplished. Encomenderos, similarly, were to be evaluated regarding their compliance with the teaching of Catholic doctrine to “their” native Andeans, given the terms of the granting of encomienda. It was left for the priest to weigh the circumstances of compliance and establish claims of restitution, according to Las Casas.13 And at the close of the Avisos y reglas, he describes confession

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 27

for merchants of war, those who sold “arcabuces, pólvera, ballestas, lanzas y espadas, y lo peor de todo, caballos” (firearms, gunpowder, crossbows, lances, swords, and worst of all, horses).14 They also were guilty because money paid by Spanish customers for these articles of war was stolen from the natives. Las Casas similarly holds the numerous calpisques (foremen in New Spain) as well as the Spanish miners and ranchers to the same penitence and restitution as the encomenderos; in fact, he suggests they be more harshly judged, as they caused the deaths of so many native peoples. Guidance regarding the dispersal of the material goods of restitution appears in the remainder of Las Casas’ text as he addresses the priests regarding practical administration of distribution. Each circumstance is well thought out and clearly written: (a) a penitent’s sons may be left penniless or on a modest budget if the confessor so decides; (b) even if the confessant recovers and does not die, he is subject to payment for his sins; (c) if the confessant recovers, whether he is rich or poor, if the penitent is living off the labor of native peoples, he must be placed on a modest budget, even if it means little dowry for his daughters; (d) native slaves must be set free, no matter in what circumstances they were acquired, and they must be paid for every moment of their labor; if the penitent has no resources he must become a slave himself to free one that he had sold.15 Las Casas was intent on providing restitution to the specific indigenous villages that had suffered injustice at the hands of the Spanish. If this were not possible, he specified in particular what to do with the sums if the “owners” or their heirs or anyone from their village or adjacent villages could not be found. These funds should be used to free the native peoples from slavery. In other circumstances, these funds could be transferred to Seville to pay the necessary expenses of the three religious orders coming to the New World to indoctrinate the native Andeans (e.g., for food and books). Possibly, this money could pay for the travel of married workers who were sent to populate the new lands.16 Las Casas closes his Avisos with pronouncements that would strike fear in the heart of any priest who had misjudged the rules for confession and absolution: “Mire, pues, el confessor si ha de temblar de no ser compañero y partícipe del crimen y pecado del que roba y destruye a los prójimos, y de la obligación a la restitución de lo robado” (Look, then, whether the confessor must tremble about being a companion and a participant in the crime and the sin of those who rob and destroy their neighbors, and of the obligation to restitute what has been stolen).17 If these instructions were not followed, even the soul of the priest was at risk of mortal sin by absolving a conquistador:

28  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

Y el pobre del fraile que por salvarse dejó cuanto poseía en el mundo y no se harta de sopas, ¿que se vaya al infierno por el pecado o pecados mortalísimos que los hombres que no temen a Dios hacen, y sea obligado a restitución de los faustos, y pompas, y regalos que con la sangre de los que mataron y oprimieron sustentan y gozan?: no paresce que es buen consejo no tener y remirarse no yerre en tan arduo e peligroso negocio. And what about the poor friar who, to be saved, left behind all that he possessed in the world and who doesn’t tire of soups, should he go to hell for the sin or significant mortal sins of those nonbelievers, and should he be obligated to restitute the magnificent and lavish gifts that the blood of those they killed and oppressed sustains and they enjoy?: it does not seem good advice to have and reexamining oneself in such an arduous and dangerous matter is not wrong.18

The soul of the confessor was surely in peril. However, not all priests were in agreement with Las Casas. In the Viceroyalty of New Spain, Las Casas’ condemnation of ill-­gotten gains was countered by other religious who disagreed with his opinion regarding confession. Friar Toribio de Benavente (a Franciscan) was alarmed at the possible consequences of denying absolution to Christians. In a letter (1555), he writes that he had collected all the handwritten manuscripts of Avisos y reglas that circulated in the convents and saw them burned on the orders of the viceroy, Antonio de Mendoza. He is aghast that this same text has come back, now in print, on the ships bound for the Americas. He vehemently complained that Las Casas ordered that a notary be present at confession and that sins be painstakingly assessed before administration of absolution to conquistadors, encomenderos, and merchants.19 Motolinía was proud of what he had accomplished in converting the indigenous population. He therefore summarily dismissed the prospect of hellfire for granting absolution to conquistadors: “¿qué nos aprovecharia á algunos que hemos baptizado más de cada trescientas mil ánimas, y deposado y velado otras tantas, y confesado otra grandisima multitud, si por haber confesado diez ó doce conquistadores, ellos y nos hemos de ir al infierno?” (how do we benefit, those of us who have baptized more than 300,000 souls, questioned and watched out for others, and confessed another large number of souls, if through having confessed ten or twelve conquistadors, they and we must be sent to hell?).20 He angrily countered Las Casas’ heavily documented theological guide for confessors and died convinced that his conversion work would ensure his path to heaven.

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 29

The Andes: Adapting Las Casas’ Advice on Confession Las Casas, through his presence in Spain, through the circulation of his writings, and in his special friendships with Andean priests of the Dominican order, was relentless in outlining the consequences of deviation from moral law and reason. Regarding the plight of the native peoples in Peru, he depended on observations from the Quechua linguist Tomás de San Martín (Dominican provincial and later bishop of Charcas), the Quechua linguist Domingo de Santo Tomás (Dominican provincial and also later bishop of Charcas), and the Dominican archbishop, Jerónimo de Loayza. In the 1550s and 1560s, Christians were compelled to examine their consciences regarding their treatment of native peoples, claims on personal service from indigenous Andeans, payment for indigenous labor, and compliance with the New Laws. All these infractions were to be reported in confession. Even before the New Laws were decreed, Peru was the site of personal and fractious wars among the conquistadors, specifically, Francisco de Pizarro and Diego de Almagro, which ended with the latter’s execution in 1538. And this unrest continued throughout the next decade, when Gonzalo Pizarro (Francisco’s brother) rebelled in 1544 and was defeated in 1546 only because the president of the Audiencia (La Gasca) amassed a large army to end the rebellion. The turmoil caused by the civil wars among the original conquerors of Peru was complicated by the soldiers who enlisted in favor of one faction or another, often with the hope of obtaining an encomienda as a reward for their efforts. These new claimants for encomienda riches wanted their share of the plunder heretofore given to only five hundred men in the area of greater Peru.21 The Crown, having passed laws prohibiting the perpetuity of these assignments of encomienda, provoked the ire of the older conquistadors of Peru as well as those men aspiring to be encomenderos. An investigatory commission sent over from Spain and active in Peru in 1560–1561 eventually recommended a three-­part solution that satisfied most of the concerned parties. Some perpetual encomiendas would be set aside for the first conquistadors, some would be designated for one lifetime only, and some holdings would revert to the Crown.22 A letter written to the Council of the Indies and to the king in 1550 by the Dominican priest Domingo de Santo Tomás comments on confessional practice accorded to conquistadors, encomenderos, and other tradesmen in the Andes. He, audaciously, also suggests that the Council of the Indies and the king must examine their consciences regarding treatment of the indigenous Andeans.23 He insistently pricks consciences on the question of indigenous tribute.

30  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

Santo Tomás is a credible observer; he emphasizes all that he has seen with his own eyes during his ten years in Peru. He was appointed in 1549 by the president of the Audiencia, Pedro de La Gasca, to evaluate quantities of tribute—tasa—collected by the 363 encomenderos, and especially to compare the Spanish demands with those in the time of the Inca.24 Bishop Loayza, Tomás de San Martín, and Domingo de Santo Tomás (all Dominicans) made ecclesiastic visits (visitas) to Cuzco and Lima and were heard by a sympathetic La Gasca, who then legislated a one-­third cut in the tribute contributions, perhaps assuaging the conscience of some confessants.25 This letter, written in the mid-­sixteenth century, abundantly mentions abuse in the mines, the “attitude” displayed by Spaniards who enriched themselves and then fled to Spain, and the question of the false conquest of the native peoples. Santo Tomás concludes with a strong commentary regarding the need for restitution. He asks where the specific funds that were collected in restitution were. And he answers: these monies often were turned over to the royal accounts and not used for good works. For instance, Santo Tomás notes that in the case of the money collected from the “tyrants” (the rebellious Gonzalo Pizarro and his followers), Pedro de La Gasca claimed whatever funds collected were simply handed over to the king’s coffers. In that some of the money collected was from unjust tribute in the rebels’ encomiendas, Santo Tomás urges the king and council to use these funds for purposes of conversion and good works such as bridges, hospitals, and monasteries. An appeal to Christian conscience is emphasized as Santo Tomás maintains steadfastly that these funds were twice illegally gained, once as unjust tribute collected by the encomenderos and then as a transfer of illegal funds to the king of Spain. “Clear your conscience of this” he urges the king, for it was money ill gotten.26 An “Opinion” ( parecer) written by the Dominican provincial in Peru in 1553, Tomás San Martín, also pleads for timely guidance on the complex topic of confession, restitution, and absolution in the Andes. San Martín, on a trip to Spain, corresponded with Las Casas, who then was living in Valladolid. He wrote him asking for clarification of circumstances regarding absolution; he was worried specifically about the situation of an encomendero of the Carangas native peoples, Lope de Mendieta, in the Viceroyalty of Peru. San Martín was in need of advice: “el gran escrúpulo de conciencia” (the great doubt of conscience) regarding plunder of the Indies greatly bothered him in matters of confession. He sought “quietud de consciencia” (tranquillity of conscience) for himself, and in his parecer he appeals to Las Casas for guidance, “para que el confesor discreto tome pulso, quándo a de mandar restituir, dónde, y cómo, para poder absolver al penitente” (so that the discreet confessor speaks out

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 31

when he should demand restitution, where, and by what means, in order to absolve the penitent).27 This document, which some scholars claim is a draft of a confesionario that San Martín intended to use on his return to the Andes,28 pointedly condemns the actions of the conquistadors, who fought an unjust war. His twenty-­five years in the Americas and fifteen years in the Andes provide him with abundant critiques. He lists specific Spanish abuses: requiring greater tribute than necessary; demands that tribute be paid in a certain commodity or in specie; not paying wages to indigenous Andeans sent to the mines; forcing them to come into Spanish settlements to work; sending them as couriers and not paying them; forcing them to trade one commodity for another (forcibly taking baskets of coca and coercing them to give up livestock); and claiming more native peoples present than were actually residing on the encomienda to increase tribute.29 San Martín excuses certain encomenderos from restitution if they fulfilled their duty of Catholic indoctrination of their indigenous grantees: Los que agora poseen, guardando las leyes é condiciones que el rey les pone en la cédula de encomienda, paréceme que pueden llevar los tributos con buena conciencia tasados y moderados, tratando bien a los indios que ansí le fueron encomenderos, y doctrinándolos en policía, natural é xpiana; y en aquello que faltaren, serán obligados a restitución. Those who now possess [encomiendas], keeping the laws and the conditions that the king states in the document regarding encomienda, it seems that they can collect measured and moderate tribute in good conscience, treating their Indians well like encomenderos should, and instructing them in natural law and Christian ways; and whatever is lacking, they will be obligated to restitute.30

Las Casas, in reply, vehemently argues for subjecting the encomenderos to the same ethical scrutiny as the (condemned) conquistadors in their confessions, especially given that San Martín personally had witnessed so much abuse and had written to Las Casas: Lo que toca á los comenderos, cuasi claro V.S. cognocer podrá la obligacion general que á restituir tienen, por lo tocado quanto á las particularidades y exquisitas maneras de tiranizar y agraviar á aquellos indios que tan cruel y ynfernalmente an tenido, y que si añaden á la gravedad de su general pecado, muy bien me parece lo que V.S. notifica dellas; porque ninguno las podría divinar ni aun ymaginar, como V.S. que las á visto.

32  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

Regarding the encomenderos, it is a given that you will recognize their general obligation to restitute, from your comments about the particular and exquisite manner of tyrannizing and harming those Indians that they so cruelly and devilishly have enacted, and that if that adds to the seriousness of their usual sins, it seems good to me that you mention them; because no one can guess or imagine them, such as those you have seen.31

Las Casas reminds San Martín that priests are charged with hearing the confessions of the Spanish who enriched themselves in the Indies; the priests, too, bear the burden of sin if the penitent does not repent of his actions and restitute: “Y es bien que el confesor discreto ó nécio, que se pusiere á confesar hombre que trae dineros de las Indias las sepa; porque, no comiendo ni beviendo dellos, se vaya al ynfierno con él” (And it is good that a discreet or a stubborn confessor, who might confess a man who carries money from the Indies, knows about them; because, although he doesn’t eat or drink of those monies, he goes to hell with that man).32 Furthermore, he adds that even the bishops who appointed these lax confessors will go to hell with the encomenderos.33 Las Casas buttresses his argument for Spanish restitution to the Andean indigenous peoples by alluding to what was expected of the Turks, who were required to restitute for their invasion and occupation of Spain: Así como el turco quando nos usurpa alguna ciudad, ó tierra ó reino de la xpianidad, en la entrada es tirano, que tambien llama él conquista, y nos es obligado á restitucion de lo que nos roba y daños que nos hace, y tambien de los tributos que nos lleva despues de sojuzgados; y si así nos repartiese entre los turcos y encomendase á ellos, como hazemos y emos hecho á los indios, lo cual aún no lo hace tan mal, siempre serian poseedores de mala fe y tiranos, violentos y obligados á restitucion; así de la misma manera son los comenderos violentos, tiranos y poseedores de mala fe y obligados á los indios á restitucion. Just like the Turk, when he usurps a Christian city or land or a kingdom, is a tyrant in occupying it, yet calls it a conquest and is obligated to restitute what he steals from us and the damage that he does to us, and also for the tribute that he takes from us after subjugating us; and if we were divided up among the Turks and commended to them, just as we do and have done to the Indians, even if it is not as bad, they would always be possessors not in good faith and tyrants, violent and obligated to perform restitution; in the

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 33

same manner thus are the [Spanish] encomenderos violent, tyrants, and act not in good faith and are obliged to restitute to the Indians.34

Two early confessional advisories written in the Andes that reflect Andean circumstances in regard to sin, absolution, and restitution were influenced by Las Casas’ earlier Avisos y reglas. One undated document might have been penned by the knowledgeable Domingo de Santo Tomás or may simply be the result of a group effort to finalize a guide for confession in Peru, probably in the 1550s or 1560s.35 A brief handwritten manuscript of several pages, this “Instrucción para los confesores cómo han de haber con los señores de indios y otras personas” (An instruction for confessors regarding how to treat the encomenderos as well as other persons) begins directly with a statement that no encomendero should be absolved without restitution.36 Sprinkled with Quechua nomenclature—agricultural fields (chácaras), foremen (sayapayas), and personal servants (yanacunas; alternate spelling is yanaconas), the vocabulary locates the origins of the theological text in the Quechua-­speaking area.37 The text primarily concentrates on the encomendero, but, following Las Casas’ model, also includes charges against the conquistadors and merchants. What are the specific charges? The text spells out those actions that call for restitution. The encomendero might have required so much indigenous labor that there was little time left for them to learn the catechism, he perhaps expelled a priest for no cause from his doctrina, a proto-­parish administered by the regular orders that were charged with indoctrinating the native Andeans, or he chose a secular priest for the parish who did not carry out his duties. In addition, mention is made of collecting excess tribute payments or not undertaking a required new tribute assessment, demanding unpaid personal service, and not paying wages for labor.38 Toward the end of the document, the text departs from rigid Lascasian outlines regarding restitution. The wording differs greatly from Las Casas’ Avisos y reglas and thus opens up considerable leeway for salvation of the conquistadors in the conquest of Cajamarca. The perspective is local and reflects events in the Andes. The Lima guide states that if the conquistador participated in good faith (buena fe) in the conquest, he is not liable for all the damages of conquest, only the excesses, for he followed the orders of a military superior.39 Another Andean document, Preguntas para los confesores de encomenderos (Questions for Confessors of Encomenderos), attributed to the Quechua specialist Domingo de Santo Tomás, is a brief nineteen-­item guide for confessing encomenderos, with little mention of the conquistadors.40 Themes important to this Dominican priest, as seen in his letter of 1550, surface again in this docu-

34  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

ment from 1560, especially in regard to tribute collected by the encomenderos. This document proposes four introductory questions for confession, patterned on the legalities of the original grant of encomienda. For confession, the priest should ask if excess tribute had been collected, if personal service had been demanded of the native peoples, if they were indoctrinated well, and, last, if the oath to the Spanish king for support in times of peace and of war was respected.41 The last question undoubtedly refers to the more recent uprisings on the part of Gonzalo Pizarro and his followers, which concluded in 1548. In this document, nineteen additional comments pertain to Andean situations that demanded restitution. Specifically, the focus is on collection of tribute; the writer mentions President La Gasca’s expressed desire that native peoples not pay more than they can afford, that tribute be procured from nearby lands and not from afar, and that tribute be reduced in years of want. Issues concerning encomenderos’ use of former Inca lands or Spanish possession of the best lands are taken up in several items. Other clauses focus on payment for labor, such as having native Andeans shepherd, gather wood, deliver messages, or transport goods in times of war. Emphasis on the duty of the encomendero to provide for the teaching of doctrine is highlighted in several entries: Are the indigenous Andeans too overworked to have time to hear the doctrine? Is there a priest for every 400 married couples? Has salary been withheld from the priest, causing him therefore to neglect his duties?42 Although Las Casas’ Avisos y reglas para confesores was intended to cover circumstances in all the Spanish dominions in the New World, theologians in the Andes were attentive to their own circumstances and wrote their own versions of his document. Their preliminary efforts, seen in the Instruccion (Instruction) and the Preguntas (Questions), culminated in the writing of Avisos breves para todos los confesores destos Reynos del Pirú (Brief advisory for all the confessors in the Viceroyalty of Peru). Dated March 1560, Avisos breves was a concerted effort signed by Archbishop Jerónimo de Loayza as well as Franciscan, Dominican, Augustinian, and Mercedarian representatives and officials of the diocese.43 Determinedly, the churchmen again grappled with the legality of the conquest, a topic fraught with legal and moral issues. Declaring forthrightly that the conquistadors had not waged a just war, these learned churchmen required the conquistadors to account for and make restitution for the accumulation of material goods resulting from the conquest. Thus, the twenty-­three precepts drawn up in Lima were based on the “rules” (reglas) established by Las Casas, yet the Limeño version is tempered in its language and practical in its application. For instance, Las Casas’ customary boldness leaps out in his description of the conquistadors: “los conquistadores, los cuales todos han sido raptores y robadores y los más calificados en mal y

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 35

crueldad que nunca jamás fueron” (the conquistadors, who all have been abductors and robbers and the most learned in evil and cruelty ever in the history of time).44 In contrast, in the Lima document, gentler wording is in effect regarding the conquistadors, although, importantly, their guilt is affirmed: Se determino que todos los conquistadores son obligados a rrestituir todo el daño y rrobos y muertes que se hizieron en todas las conquistas y guerras, . . . si uvo algunos que pensaron hera justa y buena [la guerra]. lo qual no es de creer. que oviese alguno destos. It was determined that every conquistador was obligated to restitute all the damage and robbery and deaths that they carried out in the conquests and the wars, . . . even if there were some that thought that the war was just and a good war, which should not be believed, that there was even one of these.45

In most of the Lima document, Avisos breves, the ground rules for confession as formerly stated by Las Casas are consistently acknowledged and folded into the text. The conquistadors are not excused; they must restitute. The encomenderos, of course, are another matter. They do not figure in the category of the “just war”; however, they are held accountable for their lack of Christian indoctrination of the indigenous Andeans and for the unjust tribute that they impose. Their inattention to the conversion and the spiritual sustenance of their indigenous charges calls for restitution to “their” native peoples: Yten se determino que el que falto de tener doctrina todo el tiempo que no la tuvo por ningun ministro ni por su persona lo que avia el padre sacerdote o sacerdotes necesarios para el ensenamiento bastante de los yndios a de rrestituir a los yndios segun el tienpo que no tuvo la dicha doctrina. Item. It was determined that he who did not provide doctrinal instruction through any churchman or other person such as the priest or priests necessary for the rightful teaching of the Indians must restitute to the Indians for the time that a churchman was not in the proto-­parish.46

However, if the encomendero had carried out his duty of Christian evangelization and if he had not claimed unjust and heavy tribute burdens, there was some agreement among the churchmen that merely having been granted an encomienda was no reason to withhold absolution.47 Bishop Loayza, spearheading the writing of the Andean-­based Avisos breves, himself was an encomendero; he vowed that he scrupulously attended to the spiritual and

36  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

material needs of his allotted indigenous Andeans and felt no need for restitution.48 However, for less scrupulous encomenderos, restitution was mandatory. Notably absent in this Lima document is Las Casas’ wording condemning the confessor to hell for being too lenient with the sinners.49 The Lima document pointedly avoids a condemnation of the priest for absolution of the guilty Spaniard. The Avisos breves was written in the aftermath of a period of fractious infighting among encomenderos and would-­be aspirants to the royal grants that resulted in the death of the first viceroy, Blasco Núñez Vela, in 1546 and the subsequent execution of Gonzalo Pizarro in 1548. In the document there is acceptance of the encomienda as an institution by the churchmen of various religious orders and the secular clergy. Dominican Bartolomé de la Vega, a friar with many years in Peru, returned to Spain to present a “Memorial” to the Council of the Indies in the early 1560s, in his role as an advocate for the indigenous Andeans. In close contact with Las Casas, he pressed for the protection of the indigenous peoples with legislation similar to earlier laws that had been passed but not enforced in the colonies. As Marcel Bataillon suggests, this was a project that overshadowed Las Casas’ earlier movement: Lo que se perfila es una acción anticolonialista mediante el rechazo de los sacramentos, pero una acción más revolucionaria que la que Las Casas había emprendido en 1545 cuando tomó posesión de su obispado de Chiapas y quiso privar de la confesión a los poseedores de indios esclavos. Vega tiene más ambición. What is suggested is an anticolonial action by means of the sacraments, but a more revolutionary action than Las Casas had embarked on in 1545, when he became bishop of Chiapas and wanted to deny confession to the owners of Indian slaves. Vega is more ambitious.50

The closing remarks clearly state that Vega acknowledges the legitimacy of Guaynacapac (the last Incan ruler before the arrival of the Spaniards) as king of Andean territory and notes that the land claims of indigenous survivors in the region are legitimate. As part of his pro-­indigenista activity, Vega lists sixteen items that indigenous Andeans complained were unjust. Much of the list is indigenous complaints about the tribute owed to the encomenderos: the Spanish demands for nonlocal items for tribute and the need to carry tribute items long distances; indigenous payment of fees for the priest; the demands for personal service;

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 37

Spanish raids when they needed certain items from the indigenous Andean villages; the taking of land designated for the Inca nobility. Vega also appends a long list of unfair labor practices: native peoples are forced to serve in inns (tambos); to line up in Spanish plazas to hire themselves out; to work in mines; to construct churches; to do road and bridge work; to carry goods for waging war for the Spanish in periods of internal strife. Additionally, the Andean natives also complained of paying tribute to their caciques and to “mayordomo” foremen (sayapayas) employed by the Spanish, and also that some indigenous leaders were unfairly taxed.51 As a result of this “Memorial,” Vega was granted fourteen favorable decisions by the Council of the Indies, and these decisions were dispatched to Peru. Yet Vega doubted if the decrees would be implemented.52 Friar Vega had presented the Council of the Indies with the circumstances of everyday life in an effort to enact legislation that would better the lives of the indigenous Andeans. No explicit mention is made of restitution in his “Memorial”; however, restitution was definitely on his mind. Vega also wrote to Las Casas, asking for guidance on questions of confession, absolution, and restitution. Vega’s letter, written to Fray Pedro de Toro, confirms that Vega proposed the twelve questions that were later answered by Las Casas.53 Las Casas, in 1564, stating that he was informed by Vega’s letter, wrote Tratado de las doce dudas (Treatise of Twelve Doubts), drawing on Catholic doctrine regarding moral conscience. Las Casas’ perspective was driven by his conviction that the Spanish conquest of the Indies was immoral because all peoples had the right to sovereignty in their lands and that the Spanish had been given the right to evangelize and not the right to conquer in the Indies.54 The theme of restitution appears repeatedly in the Tratado de las doce dudas, and the particulars respond to political contexts in the Andes and clearly reference the Andes. Las Casas’ argument displays his complete faith in the power of the confessional. His solution to each query posed by Friar Vega firmly assigns guilt to each person who stole Inca treasure, collected tribute, was paid with ill-­gotten encomendero tribute (including merchants); to those who derived riches from the mines, plundered ancient tombs and sacred sites, or lived on Inca lands or in Inca houses. Every guilty person was to offer restitution, including the Spanish sovereigns, because the Incas possessed these rights, given the unjust war waged against them. Therefore, all gains obtained in the Indies should be restituted. In this grand plan for the Andes, Las Casas freely admitted that full restitution would be almost impossible, as so much gold and silver had been shipped out of the Americas. In his view, indigenous peoples must be persuaded by the men of the church to accept a partial payment to fulfill the obligations of restitution:

38  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

Pueden ser persuadidos por los religiosos que perdonen de su libre voluntad la hacienda que a los reyes de Castilla han traído y habido de las Indias, porque sería cosa dificultosa volver a restituir allá tantos navíos de oro y plata como han venido a España; y dándoles de entender cómo de aquí adelante será parte de la restitución lo poco que llevarán los dichos reyes de España, aunque lo que han de llevar ha de quedar señalado y concertado. The religious can persuade the Indians to voluntarily agree to pardon the kings of Castille for the property taken from the Indies to Castille and kept, because it would be difficult to restitute there the many boatloads of gold and silver that have come over to Spain; and have them understand that from now on the small amount [of property] that the Spanish kings will take out will be part of the restitution, for what they take will be recorded and agreed upon.55

This return of ill-­gotten gains ultimately would restore the authority of the Inca rulers over their lands and peoples; Las Casas did not shy away from that outcome. The last item of the Tratado de las doce dudas especially centers on the question of “good faith,” a handy phrase often used in confession to absolve Spanish actions in the viceroyalty. But Las Casas blasts through that excuse with comparisons added for emphasis: “Todos los españoles . . . no tienen buena fe ni jamás la tuvieron más que tuvieron los gentiles que mataban y despedazaban los mártires y que tienen hoy los turcos en perseguir la gente del pueblo cristiano” (All of the Spaniards . . . did not act in good faith, and they never did, any more than those nonbelievers did who killed and dismembered the martyrs and just like the Turks persecuting people in Christian lands these days).56 Consistently, according to Las Casas, there was no excuse for invasion and plunder. In personal matters of conscience, however, the plan for restitution was not clearly drawn up when it came to matters of the encomenderos’ indoctrination of the native Andeans designated on their lands. Friar Francisco de La Cruz, in 1566, wrote plaintively to the king regarding confusion in the Andes about the priests’ confession of the encomenderos. This remained a serious matter for all concerned. There was great confusion in the matter of the priests’ assessing the teaching of doctrine to the natives and about whether there was need for restitution: —Ytem en esta tierra ay mucha confusion sobre declarar quanta parte de los tributos de los yndios dan a vuestra magestad y a vuestros encomenderos se

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 39

debe emplear en la doctrina y ministerios eclesiasticos, y de aqui se sigue que los encomenderos andan desasosegados en sus conciencias y los confesores mas y quando uno a sido descuidado en poner la doctrina no ay resolucion de que restitucion han de hazer y una de las razones por que muchos buenos Religiosos se van de esta tierra es por la confusion que en este caso veen y por que no saben que hazer. Item. There is a lot of confusion in this land about how much of the trib‑ ute from the Indians should be given to Your Majesty and to how much time your encomenderos should spend in doctrinal instruction and ecclesi‑ astical duties, and from there it follows that the encomenderos are disturbed about their conscience and the confessors even more so. And when one has neglected doctrinal teaching, there is no solution for what type of restitu‑ tion has to take place. One of the reasons that very good religious church‑ men leave this [Andean] land is because of the confusion that they see in this matter and because they do not know what to do.57

A decade after Las Casas’ death, Francisco de Toledo, within his purview as viceroy, was confronted with the task of determining the evangelical success of the conversion of the indigenous Andeans. In a letter to the Council of the Indies (1574), he examines restitution and doctrinal instruction in the Andes. He firmly argues that if the indigenous communities are not provided with the doctrine to enable their conversion, then sums should be given in restitution to these same communities: “el arçobispo y otras personas de letras y conciencia en lima se determino y aclaro que esta restitucion de dotrinas tenia claro y averiguado dueño eran los yndios de quien eso se tomava” (the archbishop and other learned men of conscience in Lima decided and cleared up the matter that this restitution regarding proto-­parish indoctrination had a clear and verified owner. It was the Indians from whom this was taken).58 The pleas for ecclesiastic guidance on the matter of restitution and confession would continue well into the next century.59 Restitution Means Indigenous Rights in the Andes The complicated paper trail of confession and restitution in the late 1550s and early 1560s, argued by Las Casas and his followers, is intricately tied to earlier legislation attempting to specify rights of encomienda. The Andean area was the scene of many power struggles between the Crown and the original conquistadors, who had formerly been guaranteed encomiendas with lucra-

40  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

tive tribute. Although the New Laws of 1542 were intended to prohibit the granting of future encomienda concessions and compelled the return of the encomienda after the death of the named encomendero,60 in fact, in the Andes, President Pedro de la Gasca was compelled to assign encomiendas to those men who had fought for the Crown to defeat the rebellious followers of Gonzalo Pizarro. From the inception of the granting of encomiendas in 1509, the encomenderos had argued for grants in perpetuity, not limited to several years or two generations.61 In Peru, the encomiendas had been granted in perpetuity in 1533, as they had been granted also in New Spain.62 But the passage of the New Laws, limiting the power of the concessionaries as a consequence of Gonzalo Pizarro’s revolt, ensured that perpetuity was not granted. Nevertheless, Andean encomenderos, granted the privilege of indigenous tribute, were eager to negotiate with the Crown about perpetuity, and they proposed to send Tomás de San Martín and Captain Jerónimo de Aliaga to Spain in an effort to guarantee perpetuity by means of a hefty donation in 1549.63 Given a pressing need for funds, the Crown initially accepted the offer in exchange for granting perpetuity. However, when the matter came before the Council of the Indies in 1550, Las Casas, La Gasca, and San Martín (who had changed sides) argued against it. A final decision was postponed as the council awaited the return of the king from travel abroad. Apparently, no decisive action was taken, but the encomenderos’ strategy to purchase the encomiendas outright was effective in arousing the king’s interest in a venture of this sort.64 This strategy was implemented again in 1555, when the representative of the Andean encomenderos, Antonio de la Ribera, aware of the low levels of the Spanish coffers, made an offer on behalf of the encomenderos loyal to the Crown: 17,600,000 pesos in return for grants of perpetuity.65 In response, and consistent with their pro–native Andean activism, Las Casas and Domingo de Santo Tomás, along with Friar Alonso Méndez in Lima, who had been given power of attorney by indigenous Andean leaders to counteract this offer, legislated for the indigenous communities of the Andes. The power of attorney contains a long list of names written into the document of July 1559, reflecting the determination of twenty native Andean leaders to fight the designs of the encomenderos. The majority were those native peoples commended to various Spanish grantees, yet three were leaders of indigenous communities commended to the royal estates. One of the leaders, Diego Tauri, from Surco, commended to the Crown, could sign his name; the other signatures were witnessed by notaries.66 The follow-­up document, the “Memorial del Obispo Fray Bartolomé de Las Casas y Fray Domingo de Santo Tomás, en nombre de los Indios del Perú” (A memorandum on behalf of the Indians in Peru), written by the two

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 41

Dominicans (Las Casas and Santo Tomás) in 1560, addresses the attractive price offered by the encomenderos. In long enumerated lists Las Casas and Santo Tomás pen arguments discounting the monetary offer; that amount, they claim, could not possibly be gotten out of the ravaged lands of Peru. They argue against perpetuity, elaborating the king’s possible loss of faithful indigenous vassals, loss of revenue, loss of jurisdiction over the encomiendas. They claim that more uprisings are possible, given the small economic base, and that fewer indigenous conversions might result.67 Pointedly, they remind the Spanish king of his responsibility as a Christian to ensure the conversion of the native Andeans, a responsibility up to this time neglected by the encomenderos. The two Dominicans also mentioned excessive tribute required by the encomenderos and advocate for adjustment of tribute in times of hardship, a realignment of lands to conform to preconquest Incan distributions, consultation with native Andean delegates regarding matters of governance, restoration of privileges to principal rulers, and prohibitions against the taking of land and water rights from a community of indigenous peoples or from native Andean individuals.68 However, the most important message conveyed in the “Memorial” is the sum of money topping the encomenderos’ offer—the native Andeans pledged an additional 100,000 Castilian ducats: “En nombre de los indios del Perú, contra la perpetuidad; y ofrecen servir con lo mismo que los españoles y cien mil ducados más; y si no hobiere comparación de lo de los españoles, servirán con dos millones, pagados en cuatro años, con las condiciones que ponen” (In the name of the Indians of Peru, against perpetuity; and they offer to hand over as much as the Spaniards offer, and one thousand ducats more; and if this does not equal the Spanish [offer], they offer two million, paid in four years, according to the stipulated conditions).69 Las Casas’ project of restitution and confession persisted even as his health deteriorated, and his militancy continued to affect policy in the Andean colonies. Because of his unyielding stance, the encomienda system was reconceptualized in Peru. The assessment of the future of the encomienda, carried out by officials named by the Crown, allowed for opinions from indigenous leaders to be inserted into the archives of the Indies. Brilliant are the arguments enunciated by Las Casas in court or from the pulpit, but his pleas for legislation also opened space for an indigenous voice to enter into the proceedings. When Juan Polo de Ondegardo and Domingo de Santo Tomás were sent out to gather opinions regarding perpetuity, they heard the voices of the indigenous leaders. In a foray into the Guamanga region, Polo de Ondegardo attempted to convince the natives of the virtues of encomienda. Listening to the proposed increase in encomienda holders, the indigenous leaders (kurakas) sent a resounding message in Quechua: “Manan cancho” (We don’t want it).70 A

42  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

month later, in a letter from Andahuaylas, Santo Tomás again writes that in the environs of Cuzco, the kurakas stated in well-­reasoned arguments that they preferred to serve the king and not the encomenderos.71 A letter of 1563 summarizes their participation in these meetings. The native peoples would hang themselves, he writes, before they submitted to being placed under the jurisdiction of the encomenderos: “es tanto el aborrecimiento que tienen [los indios] a estar con sus encomenderos, que si creyesen auer de estar con ellos perpetuos se ahorcarian antes que sufrirlo” (There is so much hatred about being with their encomenderos that if they believed they would be with them perpetually, they would hang themselves rather than suffer it).72 Although the dream of full restitution did not come about in the Andes, Las Casas and Santo Tomás did manage to slow down the purchase rights to encomiendas. Certainly, Charles V and Philip II paused in their assessment of the process of granting the perpetuity of the encomienda. The Dominicans in Peru provided Las Casas with the evidence necessary to challenge a decision to dispose of Incan territory to conquistadors and those who came after them. When Charles V looked favorably on a buyout settlement in 1550, Las Casas and Tomás de San Martín opposed this decision in the special meeting and managed to hold off a decision until 1554. When the encomenderos again offered to buy the rights to encomienda, Las Casas’ counterstrategy enlisted the help of the royal confessor, Bartolomé Carranza de Miranda, to propose a solution: return the native Andeans to their original free state; restore native rulers; and require only an annual tribute payment. These suggestions gained force by appealing to the Christian conscience of the Spanish rulers and legislators. Phrases urging the monarch to “save his soul and clear his Christian conscience” were repeatedly inserted at the beginning and scattered throughout the reports, letters, and opinions, as Thomas Abercrombie has noted.73 Nothing less than a wholesale return of indigenous Andean realms to self-­ government and restitution of Incan riches to the lawful owners, the indigenous peoples, was prescribed by Las Casas.74 Every single guilty person was to offer restitution, including the Spanish sovereigns. Restitution could be accomplished gradually, but the inevitable result, to assuage Christian conscience, would be the restitution of native authority over lands and people, albeit with allegiance to the Spanish Crown. The reasoned opinions of Las Casas, which parallel his arguments against Sepúlveda regarding the justness of the war, leave no doubt that he believed that the Spanish, including the monarchs who had been entrusted with the care of these native peoples’ souls, should pay for their sins of conquest in the New World: “El Rey Católico de Castilla, nuestro señor, está obligado, de necesidad de salvarse, a restituir los reinos del Perú al Inga nieto de Guaina-

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 43

capac, digo al que fuere heredero de las dichos reinos” (The Catholic king of Castille, our lord, is obligated, in order to save his soul, to restitute the lands of Peru to the Inca nephew of Guainacapac, or to whoever is heir to the aforesaid lands).75 At the close of his life, Las Casas starkly prophesied the punishment that would rain down on a Spain that neglected to heed his words. Following his own “rules and advice,” in 1564 Las Casas wrote his last will and testament, which was opened at his death in 1566. Throughout the short text he reiterates the great sin of Spain’s involvement in the Indies and repeats his warnings of God’s fury: Creo que por estas impías y celerosas e ignominiosas obras, tan injusta, tiránica y barbáricamente hechos en ellas y contra ellas, Dios ha de derramar sobre España su furor e ira, porque toda ella ha comunicado y participado poco que mucho en las sangrientas riquezas robadas y tan usurpadas y mal habidas, y con tantos estragos e acabamientos de aquellas gentes, si gran penitencia no hiciere, y temo que tarde o nunca la hará. I believe that because of impious and swift and ignominious actions—so unjust, tyrannical, and barbarically carried out upon them [the Indians] and against them—that God will loose his fury and anger on Spain, because all of Spain has been connected with and participated to some extent in the matter of the bloody treasures, stolen and usurped and not caught for it, and for so much destruction and elimination of those peoples, if a great penance is not carried out, and I feel that it will never be.76

A year later, licentiate Francisco Falcón continued to press for restitution to native Andeans. Falcón, a witness to the “Memorial” when the indigenous leaders gave power of attorney to Las Casas, was an advocate of the return to an Andean/Incan form of self-­governance. He peppers his “Representación” of 1567 with the word “restitution” as he presents his case to the Second Lima Provincial Council and ultimately to the king. His opening remarks also bring up the necessity of conscience on the path to absolution. Casting aside a debate over a “just war,” Falcón instead establishes the legitimacy of the need to preach to and to convert the natives of the Andes. As this had not been accomplished, Falcón insists on restitution, claiming that this was the intent of Emperor Charles: “con tener intencion de se los mandar restituir, como soy informado que lo ofreció el Emperador, nuestro señor” (there is an intent to restitute to them [the native Andeans], since I am informed that the emperor [Charles V], our sovereign, offered it).77 Falcón goes on to advocate for a re-

44  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

turn of land rights to the indigenous owners and further laments how terrible it is that some clergy absolved those Spanish landholders who moved onto native peoples’ lands: “Pecan y son obligados á restituir los daños que dello han venido y vienen á los naturales, y que no deben ser absueltos sino lo restituyen y se vuelven, como S.M. lo tiene mandado” (They sin and they are obligated to restitute those damages that were owed and are owed to the native peoples, and they should not be absolved unless they restitute and return them, as Your Majesty has commanded).78 Tellingly, in 1567–1568, article 121 of the Second Lima Provincial Council specified restitution to indigenous Andeans, albeit with no finger-­pointing at the conquistadors or the encomenderos. Indigenous persons would receive restitution for their grievances. If the individual indigenous Andean were not known, funds were to be allocated to native peoples’ hospitals or churches: “que se ha de rrestituir a los indios lo que se les ha tomado haciéndoles agravios, y que las restituciones inciertas se harán bien dándose a los ospitales o iglesias de indios lo que se les deve y desto deven avissar los scrivanos quando hacen testimonios” (one has to restitute to the Indians what has been taken causing them harm, and for restitution that is unclear, it would be good if what was owed to the Indians be given to Indian hospitals or churches, and this should be noted by the notaries when the Spanish draw up their wills).79 Although records of restitution are “sporadic,” John Charles presents a case recorded in 1605 in which an ecclesiastical magistrate awarded the native peoples of San Pedro de Mama restitution on three of the nine charges presented. The priest was compelled to restitute the indigenous people for services: 2 reales for each day a tributary was sent by him to Lima; 2 reales per day for twelve months of domestic service; and 2 reales per day for those workers who cut timber.80 Historians help us assess Las Casas’ stature in Peru and the lasting effect of his writings on the topic of confession and restitution. Sabine MacCormack firmly states that “the wholesale restitution of Peru to the Incas was never seriously considered in official circles.”81 Helen Rand Parish critiques our need to believe that Las Casas “almost did persuade the king to give Peru back to the Inca.”82 However, she also gives Las Casas credit, claiming constant pressure “exerted through the confessional on veterans of the invasion to restore some part of their gains to the rightful owners was sometimes effective.”83 In retrospect, Las Casas’ solution for restoring Inca governance was colored by his acceptance of the ultimate authority of his king. More recent critics, such as Daniel Castro, have noted his compliance with a plan that indeed served to consolidate Spanish imperialism.84

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 45

Absolution through Restitution: Andean Wills His conscience examined and his beliefs professed, Las Casas died in 1566, leaving a legacy for reform that still serves to influence our modern campaigns for human rights. Arming himself with the authority of canon law, and coupling this legislation with civil law, he envisioned the power of confession not only to prevail on individual examination of conscience but also to extend this Christian introspection to questioning the moral obligations of an entire nation in governing the indigenous communities that populated the Americas. Las Casas’ fervor, seen in his early advice on confession and continued in his later writing, responded to the decades in which the conquistadors and the encomenderos were approaching the end of their lives. Thus, in the mid-­ sixteenth century, they were seeking absolution for their sins by means of restitution. What records are found in the archives regarding Spanish restitution to Andean natives? As Guillermo Lohmann Villena mentions in his careful study of wills, few conquistadors dying in 1537, 1539, 1542, 1544, and as late as 1553 wrote in funds to restitute indigenous Andeans for Spanish sins of conquest. For instance, Francisco Pizarro in 1537 left funds for freeing Christians captured by the Turks, funds for doctrinal teaching of “his” native Andeans, and more funds for masses in memory of the native peoples who died in the act of conquest.85 Alonso Ruiz, Francisco de Ampuero, Alonso de Mesa, Andrés Jiménez, and Diego de Agüero also designated funds for chaplaincies and the distribution of alms based on the riches gained at Cajamarca, but no one restituted directly to individual native peoples or their communities.86 It is in the 1550s that the archives reveal an accounting of riches obtained in the New World linked to confession and absolution. Lope de Mendieta, back in Spain and living in Seville, drew up his will on the fifteenth of July in 1553. His wording is precise: one clause specifies that his case should be examined by six learned theologians to see if the earnings and fruits of his repartimientos (land grant districts) were just.87 He will abide by their decision, and he leaves them the authority to distribute money according to his examination of conscience. The executors turned to Tomás San Martín, a Dominican, who then encouraged Las Casas to take a look at the case. The answer was definitive: Las Casas reiterated his advice regarding the necessity of restitution in his reply to San Martín in 1553. Differing from his Avisos y reglas, in which he agreed that restitution funds could be sent to Spain, Las Casas, now attuned to the local, stipulated that goods and monies for restitution should remain in the Andes: “La restitucion se ha de hacer en el Perú á los mismos despojados, que son todos ó muchos vivos, ó á sus herederos, ó á los pueblos dellos, ó á los más

46  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

cercanos, ó cuando todo esto faltase, en la mesma tierra en obras públicas, de que muchos de los indios, que por allí hubiese, se aprovechasen” (Restitution in Peru should be made to those who were dispossessed, all of those still living or to their heirs, or to indigenous communities, or to their relatives, and if this were not possible, then applied to public works so that many of the Indians from there can benefit from it).88 In Charcas, Mendieta’s estate was liable for 70,000 pesos in restitution, and these sums were paid out in 1564.89 Similarly, Pedro Cieza de León, dying in Seville in 1554, relieved his conscience of misdeeds during the conquest. He charged his executors to assess restitution for his conduct in the New World and designated the purchase of indulgences, the Bulls of Crusade; however, by this stipulation, his generous sums were donated to and retained by the church.90 In another case, it fell to the son of a conqueror to estimate and specify restitution for the excessive tribute collected by his father, Diego de Agüero. The will had been written in 1544, the year his father died. Thus, the heir, in March of 1560, after consultation with Bishop Jerónimo de Loayza, the archbishop of Lima, and with a Franciscan friar, Villacarillo, offered to pay 400 gold pesos a year as restitution for the total of 4,000 pesos that his father owed. Attention to his father’s case also caused the son to determine his own sins of requiring personal service and tribute from native peoples as well as his neglecting to provide Catholic indoctrination. The heir concluded, with the help of Bishop Loayza, that he himself owed 3,000 gold pesos. Furthermore, his own estate administrator, Jerónimo de Silva, drawn into the case to assess the elder Agüero, also ended up declaring that, to clear his own conscience, he owed retribution of 800 pesos of gold to natives for his time on the hacienda of Lunaguaná (Agüero’s encomienda) and another 1,500 pesos to the indigenous Andeans of his own encomienda in Mama.91 Laden with phrases such as “to clear my conscience,” some of these wills assigned goods as well as funds directly to the native Andeans. For instance, Cristóbal de Burgos gave clothing valued at 50 pesos to “his” commended indigenous population, Diego del Pino left funds for hospital care for “his” indigenous Andeans, and Lorenzo de Aldana gave out both clothing and coins to the kuraka in “his” encomienda.92 Nicolás de Ribera first drew up a will with very little mention of restitution. As one of the original conquistadors, he searched his conscience—with the guidance of theologians—and declared himself free from sin as far as the conquest: “Entendí con bueno fee, creyendo ser permitidos por la dha. conquista, e que justa e lícitamente se podía hacer guerra a los naturales deste reyno por ser ynfieles” (I understood in good faith, believing it to be permitted by dint of said conquest, that with justness and law one could wage

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 47

war against the natives of this territory because they were infidels).93 He was not as certain, he stated, about whether he had failed in his duty of Catholic indoctrination or in the collection of tribute, so he did not specify sums for restitution. In 1563, however, Ribera wrote a codicil calculating that he had benefited from some 6,000 pesos as spoils of war. Recognizing that, he now was leaving money to be given to the native peoples of Peru. As to his own encomienda native peoples, after “consultando con theólogos y letrados de letras y conçiençia que dello tienen yspiriencia” (consulting with theologians and educated men of law and conscience with much experience),94 he designated an additional 8,000 pesos to be dispersed directly to the indigenous Andeans in Ica. Even if he recovered from his illness, he vowed to fulfill his debts of restitution while he still lived. Lucas Martínez Vegaso specified the terms of his will in 1565, after first stating that he fought wars in the Americas in “good faith.” In strong language, he compares the wars in the New World with the wars against the infidel: “Era justa porque la hazia GoUernador xpno. Y Embiado por Rey xpno. como si se hiziera contra ynfieles turcos o moros, y no dudé en esto, ni oí después lo contrario a ombre lego ni sacerdote” (It was a just war because a Christian governor waged it, sent by a Christian king as if it were war against the Turks or the Moors, and I did not doubt it, nor did I hear anything to the contrary from any layman or priest.)95 But now, enlightened, he calculated exactly what he owed: 8,181 pesos he had obtained from the riches of the land; however, for pious works he had paid out 5,200 pesos. Thus, subtracting, he owed 2,981 pesos to the native Andeans.96 In a prolonged instance of testamentary restitution, as studied by Thomas A. Abercrombie, we turn to the intertwined nature of “fiscal and moral concerns” in the case brought against Hernán Vela, an encomendero in Charcas. Witnesses were called; native Andean leaders were brought to testify, as were khipu accounting specialists who used their knots to count deliveries of corn, cloth, and animals to Vela’s houses, as well as to render “a running account of the labor time and animal energy invested in building [his] houses and making the deliveries, and the market prices of all goods on the dates delivered. . . . Anywhere from 170 to 200 Indians delivered a weekly quota of one mark of silver each, totally over [in almost three years] some 23,000 marks (one mark equaling four pesos) from mining operations alone.”97 Although Vela tried to disqualify the khipu recorders as drunks and argued that Spanish witnesses held a grudge against him, the Audiencia of Lima found him guilty of extorting some 63,000 pesos of excess tribute. Significantly, Judge Lorenzo de Estopiñan claimed Vela was risking the king’s Christian conscience, not merely his own salvation, by collecting excessive tribute. Vela, however, ap-

48  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

pealed his case in Spain to the Council of the Indies and moved to Spain after liquidating his Andean assets. At his death in 1559, his will favored his two small children—a boy three years old and a girl of eight months—who were under the tutelage of his widow.98 As the Council of the Indies had ruled in favor of the indigenous Andeans and ordered full restitution, this burdened his heirs to comply with the decision. Abercrombie shows the intricacies of Vela’s attempts to withhold monies from the native peoples and pass his fortune along to his family.99 Similarly, Juan Polo de Ondegardo’s will was entered into the records in 1575, with the usual commentary about the need for all good Christians to look carefully at their material goods and “discharge their consciences” in confession in order to speed their souls to salvation. The early pages of his will are filled with debts owed on goods or bills for goods, or family debts, and debts to workers on the Ondegardo estates. Eventually, he includes testimony about his encomienda in Cochabamba, awarded to him twenty-­six years earlier. Due to noncollection of tribute for five years and the adjustment in tribute ordered by La Gasca, he concludes that he owes nothing in restitution. In fact, he notes that indigenous people owe him more than 21,000 pesos from livestock, corn, and gold. However, he declares that he does not want them brought to court over this. Instead, anything he might owe them (and he was quite sure he owed them nothing) he demands be taken out of the sum that they owe him.100 On the other hand, he righteously leaves clothing and freedom from three years of tribute to various indigenous workers (yanacona). For Alonso Yupanqui, son of his longtime yanacona don Yupanqui, he left 400 pesos of silver, “por descargo de mi conciencia” (to relieve my conscience).101 Thus he cleared his conscience according to Las Casas’ rules for confession and according to his (Polo de Ondegardo’s) calculations. Felipe Guaman Poma, the indigenous author of El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno (First New Chronicle and Good Government) followed Las Casas’ lead and vehemently called for restitution on the grand scale envisioned by the Dominican priest. In a handwritten text addressed to the king of Spain, he asserts native Andean rights of ownership and demands restitution of Incan lands: “Es muy justo que se buelba y rrestituya las dichas tierras y corrales y pastos que se bendieran en nombre de su Magestad porque debajo de consciencia no se le puede quitársela a los naturales, lexítimos propetarios de las dichas tierras” (It is very just that they return and restitute those lands and corrals and pastures that were sold in the name of Your Majesty because, for reasons of conscience, one cannot take them from the native peoples, the legitimate owners of the aforesaid lands).102 Knowledgeable regarding legal and ecclesiastic discourse as a result of his functions as a witness, an inter-

Confession and Restitution in the Andes 49

preter, and a litigant himself, he insistently repeats the phrase to emphasize his belief in restitution from a native Andean’s point of view: “Y ancí deuen bolbérselo las dichas tierras, corrales y pastos y sementeras los dichos españoles a los dichos yndios” (And thus the aforementioned Spaniards ought to give back the aforementioned lands, corrals, grazing lands, and agricultural fields to the aforementioned Indians).103 Observant of postconquest loss of lands to the Spanish, he is well grounded in the concept of restitution and, like Las Casas, urges that the Christian tenet be enforced in the Andes. Because he was versed in the teachings of the Catholic Church and literate, his pages extol the virtues of the good Christian life. A product of extensive religious indoctrination, interestingly, Guaman Poma’s dedication in the Corónica singles out one sacrament in particular to right all the sinful errors of the populace of the Andes, confession. Indeed, his first words in the chronicle proclaim the power of confession to set the world right: La dicha corónica es muy útil y prouechoso y es bueno para emienda de uida para los cristianos y enfieles y para confesarse los dichos yndios y emienda de sus uidas y herronía, ydúlatras y para sauer confesarlos a los dichos yndios los dichos saserdotes. This chronicle is useful and very beneficial and good for Christians and infidels to correct their lives, and for the confessions of the Indians and the correction of their lives and errors and idolatries, and beneficial for the priests to know how to confess the Indians.104

In the following chapters, we will begin to understand why Guaman Poma privileges the sacrament of confession above all others. We will trace the processes of indoctrination in the Andes, the arduous tasks of translation, and the resultant application of the principal tenets of the ritual of penitence in the daily lives of the conquered Andean indigenous peoples.

CHAPTER 2

Converts to Confession: From Ychu(with Straws) to Confessacu- (as a Christian)

The mountainous terrain in an engraving by Théodore de Bry could be the jagged peaks of the Andes,1 and the demons wearing feather headdresses might deceive us into erroneously placing the site of this engraving in South America. In fact, the illustration depicts a curious rite of confession in Japan and is inspired by a sixteenth-­century letter that Father José de Acosta received from the Jesuit missionaries living there. The Jesuits described Japanese confessions in this manner: the craggy precipice was frightful, and it was said that when a man passed by this spot, his flesh began to tremble and his hair fell out. No one could survive this fall; the descent was some two hundred yards into the abyss. Even more fearful was the strange device used in the confession: two baskets large enough for a person to sit in. This human balance weighed the measure of sin confessed by a penitent; in a bad confession the sinner fell to his death. With a truthful accounting of sins, the empty basket came up level with the human one, and the sinner was allowed to step out onto the solid ground. And, according to the Jesuits, the confession was not carried out in private. The demons crowded around, insisting that the penitent confess in a loud voice, and sometimes they laughed and sometimes they moaned at what they heard. José de Acosta marveled that a ceremony taking account of one’s sins existed among the heathens in such a faraway land.2 When he learned that confession also was practiced by native Andeans, even before they experienced the religious indoctrination of the Spanish, he reached the conclusion that Lucifer had been very active in spreading deception. Acosta, who relayed the information about the confession in Japan, was appalled that Lucifer had such a large following in the Andes. The devil was devious; he had persuaded the native peoples to perform confession and communion in his honor. This perversion of the Spanish sacrament had one benefit, however, for, in Acosta’s

Converts to Confession 51

Figure 2.1. Confession in Japan. From Johann Ludwig Gottfried, Newe Welt und americanische Historien (Frankfurt: 1655). Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Division of the Library of Congress.

words, “Y en parte ha sido providencia del Señor, permitir el uso pasado para que la confesión no se les haga dificultosa” (And it has been divine providence to permit the past use so that [Christian] confession would not be difficult for them).3 When Columbus sailed out of the harbor of Palos in the early morning of 1492, in essence the world began anew. The Old World already knew of camels and hippopotamuses, lions and elephants, but what of the snake that had a rattle in its tail or the bat that drank blood? These beasts were not mentioned in biblical texts, nor were the multitudes of human populations dressed in furs or ragged cloth scraps. Yet soon these new exotic items found in the new lands—flora and fauna—were boiled or toasted and incorporated into a cuisine or spurned for their diabolical properties. The human exotics, likewise, were accommodated into an elaborate Western grid of world order that demanded that they yield to European military prowess, migrate to villages

52  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

assigned to them by European officials, and adopt Christianity to the exclusion of their other gods. The conversion of New World inhabitants, by papal decree, was assigned to the regular clergy, which meant that the religious orders now could administer the sacraments instead of being confined to the tasks of preaching.4 Reflecting the higher prestige that the religious orders enjoyed in Spain in the Middle Ages and the sixteenth century, the mendicants, along with the Mercedarians, were sent out from Europe to spiritually “conquer” the heathens.5 Their emphasis on education made these orders more attractive for the religious project abroad.6 Also, the vows of poverty sworn by the Dominicans, Franciscans, and Augustinians perhaps made them more suited to the task of conversion of the indigenous peoples. Most religious orders often chose land close to the central plaza for their convents or began construction of religious edifices on the stone foundations of the Inca. Construction of convents and cathedrals was undertaken immediately. The arrival of the Jesuits in the Andes profoundly influenced patterns of conversion of the natives. Ignacio de Loyola, seeing the necessity of reform in Europe, founded the Society of Jesus and entered Brazil in 1549 but arrived much later, in 1568, in the Andes. From the outset, the Jesuits were intent on educating the newly converted indigenous peoples. Dedicated teachers, the Jesuits at first resisted accepting doctrinas. This decision caused problems for the Jesuits with Viceroy Toledo. However, in the end, they were made responsible for four doctrina parishes: El Cercado in Lima (refused at first offer, but accepted in 1567); Huarochirí from 1568 to 1570; Julí in the province of Chucuito from 1576 to 1585; and Chavín de Pariacas in the seventeenth century. The friars who chose to serve in the New World were recruited by the various orders. Their selection was approved by the religious houses, and then permits were obtained either from the Council of the Indies (Seville) or the Casa de Contratación (Cádiz), which sponsored the priests. Not all recruits were equally dedicated to the task of conversion, and often much energy was expended in bitter rivalry among or within the orders. Civil authorities occasionally augmented the discord. For instance, scandalous conduct by the Mercedarians caused President La Gasca to request replacement of all of them with Dominicans and Franciscans in 1548; yet by 1552, the order was again in good standing.7 Similarly, the Dominicans were forced to give up their parishes in Chucuito and were replaced by secular clergy in 1572; Julí was later assigned to the Jesuits.8 The extraordinary activity in the construction of churches and convents was paralleled by accounts of numerous conversions of indigenous Andeans. The figures found in the chronicles of the orders often are exaggerated: a

Converts to Confession 53

Mercedarian attests to baptism of 70,000 native Andeans,9 and it also is recorded that 118,833 native peoples (10 percent of the native population in Peru) received baptism rites in the fifty-­nine Franciscan parishes.10 Religious documents tally up precise counts of idols destroyed and confiscated by the religious orders: in Lari-­Collaguas, Franciscans loaded up 50 or 60 indigenous Andeans to transport a large quantity of pagan objects slated for destruction by the church in the 1540s,11 while in Huamachuco the Augustinians claimed to have destroyed 3,000 idols from 1551 to 1555.12 In the early period of evangelization, the piling up of idols and the records of the numbers receiving the sacraments gave evidence of a project of conversion that was proceeding very nicely. Church Structure, Church Stricture: Teaching Christian Doctrine Ideally, each religious order was governed by a structural hierarchy of local superiors with authority over a convent, regional superiors with authority over a province, and general superiors with authority over the entire order, although some groups were directly under Iberian authority. Formation of a native Andean indigenous clergy was not possible because of the prohibition passed by the Second Lima Provincial Council (1567–1568), nor were mestizos allowed to be ordained, and their roles were restricted to minor supporting roles in the local churches.13 The religious orders were subject to governance by their own superiors or provincials as well as by the ecclesiastic structure of the secular church, primarily the bishop. The Ordenanza de Patronazgo (the Order of Patronage) (1574) reiterated papal concessions that permitted the Spanish Crown to control the appointment of bishops and the licensing of churchmen. In the colonial Spanish Empire, however, superiors of the religious orders often occupied the same level of authority as the bishops who controlled dioceses, and there were constant struggles regarding the rights of the bishops to govern the friars.14 From 1511 to 1620, two-­thirds of the bishops in the Andes were members of regular orders and thus mitigated the struggles over the parishes, but secular priests from then on steadily gained appointments as bishops.15 Religious documents often record the struggles within the church; the regular-­ secular struggle to claim souls for the parish or the diocese was also fueled by an equally motivated interest in capturing free wage-­labor monies available for commerce, construction, and agriculture. Viceroys and other royal officials, who were appointed by the Crown, also were empowered to influence ecclesiastic administration. Particularly in the

54  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

sixteenth century, Viceroy Toledo was charged by the Crown with investigating and reforming pastoral practices. He insisted on approval of the appointment of parish priests, enforced their living in their indigenous parishes, and established obligatory vernacular-­language instruction for priests named to indigenous parishes.16 Although civil magistrates were entrusted with carrying out civic legislation decreed by the Spanish councils or by the viceroy, it often was the regular clergy who were in charge of the daily administration of colonial justice.17 For this reason, Viceroy Toledo, on his arrival in the Andes, attempted a reordering of power and admonished the religious orders for whipping or jailing native peoples (a task to be carried out by civil authorities). In general, however, Toledo favored the religious over the seculars for purposes of converting the New World peoples.18 Although the word of God and words about God were proclaimed at the moment of Spanish entry in the Andes, there were doubts among the clergy as to the extent of conversion of the native Andeans. Pedro de Quiroga, who spent some thirty years in the Andes as a missionary, was eyewitness to common misunderstandings of Christianity among the natives: Como ya esta dicho, estan estos hombres baptiçados pero no catequiçados. Y si quieres ver que es assi verdad, visita estos christianos indios y preguntales algo de la fe y del baptismo que rescibieron, y oyraseles decia cosas que te dé lastima de lo poco que saben por vuestra imprudencia. And as I have said, these men are baptized but not catechized. If you want to see if this is true, go visit these Christian Indians, ask them something about Christianity and about the baptism they received, and you will be ashamed of the little they know thanks to your negligence.19

Writing his Coloquios de la verdad in 1555, Quiroga drew up a plan for better catechization of the native peoples, contained in the last pages of his manuscript. Owing to “la baxeça y cortedad de los entendimientos de los indios” (the little capacity for understanding on the part of the Indians—his phrase),20 he suggested that the most important themes to emphasize were (1) the belief in one God, (2) that this God was the creator of all things both seen and unseen, (3) that there was a means of salvation, as God did not discriminate against any peoples, including native peoples, who were capable of understanding and believing, and (4) that one should teach them by example so that they might better themselves. Quiroga convincingly favored teaching about the sacraments that Christ had given the church to administer, but he also cautioned the clergy about conversion practices: take care not to threaten the native

Converts to Confession 55

peoples or sell them religious trappings, as they were ready to believe there was a price for everything.21 Preaching the gospel to the native Andeans required great skill; Christian sermons had led to disbelief and mockery. However, at the same time, he encouraged the missionaries not to give up hope: “Ni os espantais que se burlen de lo que les decis y que les pareçca locura” (Do not be surprised that they mock what you tell them and that they think it is crazy).22 While many indigenous Andeans already had been baptized by the time Quiroga sat down to write his Coloquios, it was apparent that much more catechization was necessary. Far removed were the exuberant years when hundreds were baptized in a few days or when a general confession would suffice for forgiveness. Instruction in the catechism was fundamental to the missionary project because the administration of sacraments, the only means of redemption, was dependent on the penitent’s understanding (or at least memorizing) the articles of faith. Baptism, regarded as a “spiritual birth,” was the first step to becoming a Christian, and often a year of instruction was not superfluous in order to receive the sacrament. Confirmation, confession, and communion were only obtained through a profound understanding of Christianity imparted by Christian doctrine. It was apparent to the men of the church that spiritual guides for instruction would enlighten and educate doctrina priests. Given the mysteries and complex symbols of Catholic teachings, the missionaries in both the New World and the Old were obligated to write catechisms for the numerous village priests who lived among the believers. The immediacy of the problems of conversion in the Andes united the clergy from very distant sites throughout the coast and highlands. Friar Jerónimo de Loayza called for two Lima Provincial Councils in 1551 and again in 1566; a newly installed archbishop, Toribio Alfonso de Mogrovejo, called a third in 1582. In all three convocations, missionary activity among the native Andeans was discussed in addition to ecclesiastic decisions regarding sacraments, administration of church property, and the selection of clergy. In the First Lima Council, council decrees 38 and 39 were wholly dedicated to stating the doctrine, in an abbreviated form, to guide the priests in teaching the Andean native populations.23 Decree 65 addressed the minimal demonstration of faith permissible for baptism: the ability to make the sign of the cross, recite the Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, the Hail Mary, to be able to converse about the articles of faith and a knowledge of the Ten Commandments, all in the Spanish language.24 Loayza, the first archbishop of Lima, shaped the discussion of two provincial councils through the writing of his “Instrucción para curas de indios” (Instruction for priests of the Indians), begun in 1545 and finished in 1549. In this document, hailed by Pierre Duviols as the first legislative text

56  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

in Peru concerning the teaching of indigenous Andeans,25 Loayza advocates the use of cartillas (religious primers) printed in Spain for religious instruction; no texts written in native Andean languages are approved. Furthermore, based on successful Mesoamerican missionary strategies, he encourages the education of children of native Andean leaders (kurakas) so as to lead others to the Christian faith. The “Instrucción” also encourages the total or partial destruction of indigenous sacred ceremonial sites and burials and prohibits traditional indigenous customs. At the same time, Loayza insists, in accordance with his Dominican ideals, that force not be used to compel the heathens to accept Christianity. The Second Lima Provincial Council directed each bishop to compile a brief summary of Christian doctrine, yet it was not until the Third Lima Provincial Council that the teaching of the catechism was solidified. With Spanish, Aymara (a native Andean language), and Quechua versions of the Doctrina christiana available and approved by the Third Lima Council (1582–1583), those priests in charge of indigenous proto-­parishes were notified that they were to rigorously adhere to its teaching and wording. Therefore, previously written catechisms were prohibited. Viceroy Toledo, in a letter of 1583, mentions his vigorous efforts to curtail use of the earlier writings and his confiscation of numerous copies of unapproved catechisms that were available in the Andes.26 Confession: European Models, Andean Practices The swinging basket of the Japanese sinners, depicted in de Bry’s engraving, artistically records the circumstances of penance in a far-­off land. José de Acosta read the letter from a fellow Jesuit who described the diabolical confessions in Osaka. A Japanese convert told the story of the fearsome cliff and of the devils holding the scale of two baskets in which the sinner sat; this site in Osaka was named sangenotocoro (place of confession). In the Viceroyalty of Peru, the practice of confession among the native Andeans before the arrival of the Spanish at first was of great comfort to the priests. Acosta at first was convinced that it was God’s plan to prepare the na‑ tives for the Christian confessionary ritual. However, in other pages of the Historia natural, Acosta is less sanguine. Perhaps Satan taught the natives a confession that falsely imitated the Christian sacraments: “Lo que más admira de la invidia y competencia de satanás es, que no sólo en idolatrías y sacrificios, sino también en cierto modo de ceremonias, haya remedado nuestros sacramentos, que Jesucristo nuestro Señor instituyó y usa su santa Iglesia” (Most

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notable regarding Satan’s envy and competitiveness is not only his idolatries and sacrifices, but his imitation of certain sacraments, which Our Lord Jesus Christ instituted and are used by the Holy Church).27 Ultimately, the clergy should vehemently condemn these diabolical pagan practices and instead substitute the Catholic sacrament. European writers described confession ceremonies among Andean natives. The Augustinians were among the first to assert that the rite of confession was practiced by the natives long before the arrival of the Spanish.28 However, the most informative source regarding confession is the “Instrucion” written by Juan Polo de Ondegardo in 1561–1571 and included with the Confessionario (Confessional ) in 1585. He warns that the Andean natives, both in the sierra and on the coast, practiced a ceremony of confession in which they bathed in rivers or another source of water, believing that their sins were carried off in this manner.29 Like the Moors, who called their ceremony guadoi, this cleansing was believed to effectively wash sins away. He also writes that some Andeans burned the clothes in which they had sinned, and thus they believed they were cleansed by fire.30 Polo de Ondegardo’s “Instrucion” also provides details regarding the formalities of penance among the Andean heathens. Confession was spoken to a male or female confessor: “confessauan vocalmente” (they confessed orally).31 The ritual was most common in the Collasuyo region, the countryside around Lake Titicaca, although it was also a rite observed in the provinces. The confessor, called ychuri in Collasuyo, discovered all the sins of the penitent through the use of magic devices (suertes) and examination of animal entrails. The penitents were encouraged to declare all their sins by the use of a certain stone, which, rubbed on their backs, allowed for a complete confession. As in Christian rites, the confessor respected the privacy of the confessional—“tenian obligacion al secreto” (they kept the confession a secret)32—and administered penance for transgressions, “algunas vezes asperas” (sometimes harsh penance).33 The Inca ruler was never obliged to confess to anyone other than the Sun God, who, in turn, relayed the message to the all-­powerful god Viracocha.34 Acosta drew on Polo’s observations and included the “Instrucion” in his own chapter on confession and confessors. Similarly, Martín de Murúa repeated the observations recorded by Polo.35 These writers uniformly approved of an indigenous belief system that ascribed illness, misfortune, and persecution to sinful behavior; however, they critiqued the native belief that sins could be forgiven by confessing to native shaman priests. A full description of Andean confession as performed in the Inca sanctuary on the Island of the Sun in Lake Titicaca was handed down by the Augustinian Alonso Ramos Gavilán. Although penitents from all the provinces

58  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

converged to confess, not all confessants had access to the inner sanctum. There were three doorways through which each penitent must pass, and at each stage, depending on his rank and ethnic origin, he confessed and then stopped there or entered. If sins were not thoroughly confessed, if all ceremonial obligations had not been met, the sinner could expect to be swallowed up by an earthquake or suffer other punishment from the gods. By means of shells, straws, and a type of dice, shaman priests would know if the confession were complete; if incomplete, force was used to insist that sins be acknowledged and stated.36 Evidence of confessionary rites also was recorded by the priest Bartolomé Álvarez, who lived in the Andean region of Charcas in the second half of the sixteenth century. In his De las costumbres y conversión de los indios del Perú (Customs and the Conversion of Peru’s Indians) of 1588, he describes a less elaborate ritual. He complains bitterly that the elders are training the youth in these practices of pagan confession; he describes a simpler ceremony done in the fields, usually far from the prying eyes of the Catholic priest. Timed for the season of planting, this rite is carried out in each parcel, and elder shamans insist on absolute truthfulness: Juntos el día que eligen, se levantan todos de mañana y, juntos en el campo en donde pueden ver la uaca—o el lugar donde está: cerro, llano, sepultura—, sentándose un viejo—y a veces dos o tres—en un lugar, comienzan a llegar uno a uno a confesarse. Hacen su confesión cada uno, como quieren, unos mentiendo y otros diciendo verdad; . . . En acabando cada uno de decir [la confesión], le preguntan si tiene más que decir; y diciendo que no, le exhorta uno de los tres viejos a que mire lo que hace, . . . que si no se confiesa fielmente que les castigaría la uaca a todos dándoles enfermedades, quitándoles el agua a las chácaras, no lloviendo, y que el sol secará las chácaras y que la uaca helará o granizará y que la madre tierra no quiera producir; que no sea él causa de tanto daño al pueblo por sus mentiras, que diga verdad. [Emphasis in original] On the chosen day, all of them get up at the same time in the morning and, together in the field where they can see the huaca—or the place where it is: a hill, a flat plain, a burial space—, an old man seated—and sometimes two or three of them, at one site—they begin to arrive one by one to confess. Each one makes a confession, as they wish, some lying and others telling the truth; . . . as each one finishes the confession, they ask him if there is more to say; and if he says “no,” one of the three elders exhorts the sinner to be careful what he does, . . . that if one does not truly confess, the huaca will punish

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them, sending sickness, depriving the fields of water, with no rain, having the sun dry up the fields, and the huaca will [cause] a freeze or hail, and mother earth will not want to yield produce; that he should not be that cause of so much adversity to the village, to speak the truth.37

To confirm the veracity of the confession, the second shaman priest took a whole and unblemished coca leaf, one that had a light-­colored side and a darker-­colored side, and threw it in the air. If the light-­colored side landed face up on the ground, it was a sign the huaca would be generous with the crops.38 Although most penitents were male, Álvarez occasionally saw indigenous women bought before their shaman priests. He claimed they often ran away, or if they showed up for confession, they were angry or grumbled and complained. They were subject to rough treatment if they were obstinate. He tells of an elderly confessor who commanded two youths to hit a woman on the back, drawing blood, until eventually blood flowed from her mouth.39 Stones and lengths of straw were important devices used by shaman priests to extract a confession or to verify a good confession. Testimony from the region of Cajatambo recounts the particulars of indigenous confession as late as the mid-­seventeenth century. In San Francisco de Otuco, both males and females confessed in front of the caves housing the remains of the ancestors. The shaman confessors grasped straws; if the confession was good, an even number of straws came up; if it was not complete, the number of straws was uneven. The confessor spat on the straws and placed a mixture of ground-­up shells (curi callanta), particles of a white stone (pasca), and saliva on the straws and tossed them. Later, he mixed the shells and the stone particles with white flour and spread it on the penitents’ heads, faces, and hands to absolve them.40 Another native informant testifies that the shaman priest used a heavy cord with knots on it and hit the sinner five times, demanding a good confession as the straws had come up uneven and revealed deceit.41 The same witness, Andrés Chaupis Yauri, also tells of another ceremony in which straws were used initially to determine the quality of the confession (good or bad), and then small clumps of corn were used to determine what the exact sin was: Esta enfermedad que tiene este enfermo es acaso por fornicar y luego hasen las suertes del maiz y si queda nones dize que la enfermedad o trabajo que tiene no es por aquel pecado que tiene y lo buelbe a juntar todo y buelbe a decir las palabras diziendo se dio otro pecado sera este de hurto y si salen pares dize el dicho echizero que la dicha enfermedad es por aquel pecado y

60  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

hasta que saque pares ba diciendo y preguntando sobre el dicho montoncillo de maiz. This illness that this sick man has is probably from fornication, and so they divine by use of corn, and if it is uneven, they say that the illness or the work that he has is not because of that sin, and thus they gather all up again, say the [ritual] words, commenting that it must be another sin, and it is theft, and if it comes out even, the aforementioned shaman says the illness is due to that sin, and until it comes out even, he keeps on commenting and asking that little pile of corn.42

For Juan Carlos Estenssoro Fuchs, the reports of indigenous confession are more likely a product of the clergy’s desire to prefigure the arrival of Christianity in the New World or the result of the close participation of indigenous interpreters in the sacraments of the church. However, he admits that there indeed was a ritual ceremony to resolve issues of misfortune or to mend the displeasure of the deities: “Si confesión prehispánica existía, se trataba en realidad de un complejo de rituales para contrarrestar males y enfermedades, y la ‘confesión’ propiamente dicha era el rito adivinatorio (vinculado frecuentemente con animales) que permitía identificar la transgresión de las normas o la ruptura de los pactos con los huaca causante de la desgracia” (If pre-­Hispanic confession existed, really it consisted of a complex of rituals to halt evil and illness, and what was called the ‘confession’ was a divinatory ritual (frequently linked with animals) that allowed for the identification of transgressions of norms or a breaking off of a pact with the huacas that caused the disaster).43 The colonial texts describing confession often alluded to times of drought, or when hail destroyed the crops, or to disharmony in the community. During these dire occurrences, members of the community were suspected of having committed grievous sin and were brought before the religious shamans who heard confessions; the prescribed acts of penance or the means to forgiveness of sin differed in regional contexts before and after the arrival of the Spanish missionaries. Andean Catechism and Confession Manuals Previous to the 1584 version of the Doctrina christiana, native Andeans learned about Catholicism from hand-­printed cartillas created in the Andes or imported from Spain and written in Latin and Spanish. Before the sacrament of baptism was administered, the converts had to be instructed in the faith,

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but many clergy observed that native Andeans (and some Spaniards!) recited by rote, with little understanding of what they were saying. Instead, they believed, it would be better if each convert learned according to his or her capacity, even if the more subtle points of dogma and morals were not explicated fully. Ideally, the Catholic doctrine written in the Andes would be inspired by the Catecismo romano (Roman catechism), a product of the Council of Trent, yet writers were aware that a different version—a concise, understandable version for those with little formal education—was necessary.44 Catechisms already in existence in the Andes were consulted for the writing of the religious texts of 1584. A Doctrina christiana, perhaps written in the years 1536–1542 by Juan de Betanzos, is alluded to in his Suma y narración de los Incas (Summary and Narration Regarding the Incas, 1551) but the doctrinal manuscript has never been recovered.45 There is evidence that Tomás de San Martín, a Dominican, wrote a catecismo doctrinal para los indios (doctrinal catechism) between 1530 and 1540 that has never been found.46 Domingo de Santo Tomás provides an early model sermon in his Grammatica, a long “Plática para todos los indios” (Conversation for the Indians) in Spanish prose on the left side of the page and a gloss in Quechua on the right.47 The earliest example of a confession written in Quechua is found in Santo Tomas’ Lexicon, o vocabulario de la lengua general del Peru (Lexicon, or Vocabulary of the General Language of Peru, 1560). This brief paragraph emphasizes the social sins of verbal offense (laughing, making fun of others, swearing) in addition to the corporeal sins of gluttony and laziness. In a period of intense missionary activity, when the Catholics were attempting to stamp out traditional Andean beliefs, there was no mention of idol worship in the text. Instead, the Quechua-­speaking sinner was asked to call out to the Christian God, the Virgin Mary, and all the saints for forgiveness. From these simple beginnings, theological concepts later were standardized and translated into both Andean languages—Quechua and Aymara—for the Doctrina christiana, the Confessionario, and the Sermones by a committee of translators. Those responsible for writing the Quechua translation were Juan de Balboa (canon), Alonso Martínez (canon), Bartolomé de Santiago (Jesuit), and a secular priest, Francisco Carrasco.48 The clergy chosen to evaluate the Quechua version were Juan de Almaraz (Augustinian), Alonso Díaz (Mercedarian), Pedro Bedón (Dominican), Lorenzo González, Blas Valera (Jesuit), and Martín de Soto.49 The Aymara translations of the Doctrina christiana, the Catecismo breve (Brief catechism), and the Catecismo mayor (Major catechism) probably were written by Blas Valera,50 although some scholars attribute them to Alonso Barzana.51 The Catecismo romano served as a liturgical source for the Doctrina chris-

62  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

tiana of 1584. In a comparison between the Catecismo romano (published in Europe in 1566) and the Doctrina of the Third Lima Council, José Guillermo Durán notes that in substance and theme the Lima variant is constructed similarly to its Roman predecessor. The first part, the Lima introduction, is new; however, the following sections are the same as the European model: the Sacraments, the Commandments, and the Lord’s Prayer. Succinctly, with little exposition, the tenets of Christianity are expressed in prose prayers and lists and accompanied by some references to the decrees of the Second and Third Lima Provincial Councils. The Andean catechism was creative in developing a question-­and-­answer format to best assure that the indigenous converts could memorize the contents and thus achieve a reasoned acceptance of Christianity. The Catecismo breve was succinct as compared with the Catecismo mayor as seen in the following passages: P. Quantos Dioses ay? R. Vno solo, no mas. P. Donde esta este Dios? R. En el cielo, en la tierra, y en todo lugar. P. How many gods are there? R. Only one, no more. P. Where is this one God? R. In heaven, on earth, everywhere.52

The more lengthy Catecismo mayor delves into theological subtleties, which implies a more extensive indoctrination regarding the one Christian God: P. Quantos Dioses ay? R. No más de vno solo, q[ue] siempre fue y siempre será, sin principio, sin fin; y está en el cielo, y en la tierra, y en todo lugar, y sabe quanto hay y puede ser, y con sola su voluntad puede hacer quanto quiere, y todo esso confessamos diziendo: Creo en vn solo Dios poderoso. P. How many gods are there? R. No more than one, which was and always will be without beginning or end; and God is in heaven and on earth and everywhere and knows all that there is and can be, and only God’s will can be carried out; and all this we confess, saying: I believe in one God, all powerful.53

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The thirty-­one sermons which were published in 1585 in the Tercero cathecismo y exposicion de la doctrina christiana por sermones (The Third Catechism and an Exposition of Christian Doctrine through Sermons) cover the following topics: (1) Mysteries of the Faith; (2) Penance; (3) the Sacraments; and (4) Novísimos (the art of dying, hellfire, final judgment). In composing sermons, a four-­part outline was to be followed consisting of an exposition, demands, moral teachings, and answers. Here, as in other sections written at the behest of the Third Lima Provincial Council, a few statements caution against using obscure wording or embellished theatrical phrases. Furthermore, as an adaptation to Andean circumstances, priests are encouraged to incorporate real-­life anecdotes and powerful visual images in their sermons to the congregation, to repeat often, and to appeal to emotion (by their tone and by exclamations) instead of using rational argumentation. The Confessionario begins with the preparatory topics, in which the priest is assured of adequate preparation on the part of the penitent and his or her identity in the indigenous parish. Then specific questions are asked based on the Ten Commandments; a final section provides questions for particular indigenous leaders (kurakas), fiscales (lay assistants to the parish priest), and hechiceros (shaman-­priests). For those priests not as fluent in Andean languages, shorter “conversations” ( pláticas) are included for speaking with sinners, such as idolaters, drunkards, those unmarried and living in sin, and those who have not made restitution for their sins. Finally, there are sections on Christian preparations for death and advice on proper marriage between native peoples. The priests are advised to be cautious and to ask only about those sins that seem pertinent, and thus not expose the native Andeans to sins of which they might otherwise be ignorant. The dichotomy between the Christians and the idolaters—as far as confession terminology is concerned—is boldly stated in the Confessionario. The Spanish vocabulary conveys Christian belief; the use of Quechua vocabulary serves to scold or to pinpoint practices prohibited by the church. In the first commandment, “Love God above all things,” the inclusion of regional Quechua vocabulary helps elicit a more accurate examination of the penitent: Has adorado huacas? Haste ofrecido ropa, coca, cuy? Haste curado con algun hechizero? Have you worshipped sacred spaces [huacas]? Have you offered up clothes, coca leaves, or cuy [guinea pigs]? Have you healed yourself with a shaman-­ priest?54

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To eradicate these practices, traditional Quechua vocabulary had to be used. Although the church allowed for some variation in the rite of confession, subsequent versions of confessionals translated to Quechua derived much of their content from this early publication. Luis Jerónimo de Oré’s Symbolo catholico indiano (Catholic Symbol [Creeds] of the Indies) includes a “Confessionario breve para las ordinarias confessiones de los Indios” (A brief confessional for daily confessions of the Indians, Lima, 1598). Oré, born in Huamanga, served as a Franciscan priest in Cuzco, Jauja, and the province of Lima. Fluent in indigenous languages, he was best known for his composition of canticles (chants) to aid choirmasters in the teaching of biblical history and precepts.55 He edited the confessional text written by the Third Lima Provincial Council, keeping those questions and exhortations that were most useful for the conversion of the indigenous Andeans. While the writers of the 1585 version attempted to be brief in their questions, Oré condensed the Quechua and Aymara even more, to essential queries. Trimming the interrogations, he edited most heavily the first commandment, on idolatry (from thirteen questions to five), and the sixth commandment, on fornication (from twenty-­two to nine). He cautions priests to look for evidence of attrition and contrition and to delay confession if the penitent lacks instruction. In a directive to the indigenous confessant, he curtails the amount of information requested for a complete confession: No me declares en tu confession el nombre o los nombres de las personas con quien vuieres hecho algun peccado, solamente diras si es casado o no, guardate no descubras su nombre que peccaras en ello, porque no se ha de descubrir el nombre sino solo el estado de la persona. In your confession, do not tell me the name or names of the persons with whom you have sinned, only say if the sinner is married or not, take care to not reveal the name of who sins in that manner, because one does not reveal the name but only the state of the person.56

Diego de Torres Rubio was born in Spain. He joined the Jesuit order and learned Aymara when he was assigned to Potosí (now Bolivia). He was an excellent grammarian, and his Arte de la lengua aymara (Grammar of Aymara) appeared in print in 1616; his Arte de la lengua quichua (Grammar of Quichua) followed in 1619. He appends a general “Act of Contrition” before the vocabulary lists of his dictionary.57 The Arte de la lengua quichua also includes a “Confessionario breve en quichua” (A brief confessional in Quichua). Torres Rubio’s Quechua is not strained, is very colloquial and to the point in this

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text. Emphasizing confession via the Ten Commandments, he promotes kindly persuasion to elicit the best confession. His commentaries are intercalated throughout the text and always disrupt his ordered lists of numbered questions. For instance, after writing the question to test whether the penitent has enmity toward any person, and before moving on to the questions about drunkenness, Torres Rubio, in an aside, directs the sinner to dissolve this hostility: “Bueluele a hablar y de aqui adelante no le tengas mala boluntad. Por[que] si se la tienes tu co[n]fesion no valdra nada” (Start speaking to him again and from now on bear him no ill will because if you keep up this enmity your confession is not worth anything).58 These asides are marked off from the numbered questions with a Greek cross and appear in every category for the priest to use to cajole the penitent or penetratingly explore the answer given to a previous question. With Torres Rubio, the sacrament of confession markedly changed from the ur-­text of 1585. The first commandment translation to Quechua in 1585 was a straightforward interrogation, listing specific items of worship: “Has adorado huacas, villcas, cerros, rios, al sol, o otras cosas? / Huacacta, villcacta, orcocta, mayucta, inticta, huaquinin ymaymanacunactahuampas muchacchu ca[n]qui?” (Do you worship sacred huacas, almost-­human demigods, mountains, rivers, the sun, or whatever else possible?).59 An abbreviated inquiry from Torres Rubio indicates his knowledge of the Andean belief system: “Has adorado como a Dios las guacas, o cerros, o otras criaturas / Huacacta, vrcucta yma Diospa rurasca[n]tapas Dios hinacta mucharcanquichu?” (Sacred huacas, mountains, whatever God made, did you worship it as if it were God?).60 Gone is mention of the Sun (a supreme deity), perhaps in a move to wrest power from that Andean being. Instead, this priest now turns his attention to the regional huacas, the sacred mountains, and all that had been created by the Christian God. Now also he tries to ferret out subtle acts of worship and inserts mention of the Christian God in the passage above: “Did you worship it as if it were God?” No mention is now made of the burial of relatives, which occupies space in the earlier text. Torres Rubio persists, though, in including all of the 1585 queries regarding the shaman curers, such as “Vmacta.l.layccacta mincacchucanqui? Chay laycari.l.vmuri ymacta, rurayñisurca[n]qui?” (Do you call for a curer? Did you do what he told you to do?).61 In commandment five (on homicide), the accusation of being an accomplice to abortion or of taking herbs to cause an abortion, prominent in the text of 1585, has been omitted. But a more ominous question looms there instead: the priest now questions whether the penitent has desired death: “Cam qui quipac huañuyñiquicta munacchu ca[n]qui?” (Do you yourself desire to die?).62 The extensive confessional found in Juan Pérez Bocanegra’s Ritual formu-

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lario (Ritual Formula, 1631) is a rich source of Quechua vocabulary and Inca customs and beliefs, as well as an extensive assessment of the Catholic project of conversion.63 A renowned master of the Quechua language, Pérez Bocanegra served as the general examiner of Quechua and Aymara in the diocese of Cuzco, as a parish priest in the Belén district of Cuzco, and as a priest in the parish of Andahualillas, province of Quispicanchi.64 The Ritual formulario was completed in 1622 but not published until 1631. As Diane Hopkins has noted, the date of his writing of the manual was a time of turmoil: the king of Spain had decreed that the Jesuits be given charge of Andahualillas (1621), but the ecclesiastic chapter protested this decision, charging that the Jesuits had economic motives for wanting to be in that parish. Nevertheless, in 1628, the Jesuits did take control, relieving Pérez Bocanegra of his duties. It was only in 1636 that he was returned to the parish.65 Even in years of dispute regarding the parish (1621–1628), Pérez Bocanegra managed to secure support for the printing of his manual. Proper authorities from the secular and regular orders issued the licensing approvals.66 A description of Pérez Bocanegra’s first commandment entries provides a glimpse at the extensiveness of his interrogatories and shows how he differed from the 1585 model. His preamble to the priests in this section affirms his belief that there is little idol worship in the environs of Cuzco, despite what some say to the contrary. Yet after that statement, he proceeds to write 128 interrogations regarding belief in dreams and auguries, the practices of traditional ceremonies, burial patterns, and rituals in the planting fields. Notably, he begins with attention to the elders, the means by which traditional beliefs are propagated: “Crees las cosas que dizen los Indios viejos, supersticiosos? Hazes lo que antiguamente solian hazer?” (Do you believe what the superstitious elders say? Do you do what they are accustomed to doing [the old rites])?67 Thus, Pérez Bocanegra does not begin with queries about huacas, hills, and rivers as sites of worship; he deals directly with his adversary, the shaman priest. The specificity of his guidebook attests to his in-­depth knowledge of the language and the culture. For instance, his question about worship of the land includes ritual chant: “Sueles adorar esta tierra donde estas, diziendo: ‘O madre tierra, o madre tierra larga, y estendida, traeme acuestas, o entre tus braços con bien?’ ” (Are you accustomed to worshipping the land where you live, saying: “O Mother Earth, great and widespread Mother Earth, carry me on your shoulders, or in your arms, for my good?”).68 A “Confessionario breue” (Abbreviated confession) is found in Pablo de Prado’s Directorio espiritual en la lengua espanola, y quichua general de Inga (Spiritual Directory in Spanish and in the Quichua Language of the Inka, Lima,

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1650). Three copies of this small bound book (13 × 6.5 cm) have survived. It was printed to be used tending to the faithful in the missions and countryside: El intento que tuue en componer este Directorio, fue el que otros Autores an tenido en semejantes obras, q[ue] es en volumen manual, y portatil ofrece a los cuidadosos de la saluacion algunos exercicios con que traer concertada la vida. . . . Quise q[ue] fuesse en Español, y en la lengua quichua, para q[ue] aprovechasse a todo genero de gente. The intent that I had in composing this directory was the same as other authors have had in similar publications, that a handy portable volume offer to all those attentive to the salvation of souls some exercises to bring together harmony in life. . . . I wanted it to be in Spanish and in the Quichua language, so that all kinds of people could benefit from it.69

The manual was so well received that it was reprinted in 1650 and 1705; one copy of the 1650 manual survives.70 Pablo de Prado, born in the Andes, joined the Jesuit order and lived in the mission area of Julí, where he became fluent in Quechua. His Directorio espiritual contains texts from other sources, notably, the Lima catechism of 1584 and some devotional passages from Oré’s Symbolo.71 The confessional (pages 99v–109v) follows the standard pattern of earlier texts. For instance, in 1585 the Confessionario asked about belief in auguries, in the power of animal entrails to foretell the future, or in the meanings of the cries of birds; this passage is repeated in Prado’s version. Both texts also emphasize a phrase for doubt, particularly indigenous doubt regarding Catholic teachings, “tunqui sonco”; this “doubting heart or perplexed heart” appears in context, when the priest questions the penitent’s belief in Christianity. One additional query stands out in commandment one, concerning great doubt about and mocking of the Christians or their saints: “Sueles dudar, o no creer, o hazer burla de las cosas que creen los Christianos, i de los Santos sueles pensar cosas malas?” (Are you accustomed to doubt or not believe or do you make fun of the things that Christians believe in, and do you think bad things about the Saints?).72 In Quechua, the doubt is more stressed: “Tunqui soncohuanchu, iscai soncohuanchu ñic canqui? Caici llullam, saucam ñicchu canqui?” (Do you worship with a perplexed heart, a traitorous heart? Do you intend to lie, to mock?).73 The questions and answers included in the doctrinal and the confessional texts convey a scene of individual instruction by the priest and prompt replies uttered by a potential indigenous Andean convert. However, in practice, the doctrine was learned in a group setting to facilitate memorization and was

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often recited in performance in the streets or church atrium. Luis Jerónimo Oré describes a Franciscan approach to indoctrination in his Symbolo in which every Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday the faithful were gathered while the church bells rang. Repeating the words sung and the melodies, the townsfolk joined the children who had been summoned. On other days, only the children would be schooled in doctrine.74 Jesuit methods of disseminating the teachings of Christianity are summarized with reference to the parish of Julí.75 Sunday activities in 1577 began with catechistic instruction to groups of twelve to fourteen persons who recited by rote. An outdoor sermon, then a mass with songs and music completed the morning. A procession at two o’clock in the afternoon marked the next phase of singing and recitation. Later, the native peoples listened to two Jesuits ask and answer questions about matters of faith or they observed schoolchildren improvise plays built on dialogs of the faith.76 The Semantics of Confession The first Quechua confession text, appended to Domingo de Santo Tomas’ Lexicon (1560), provides an example of translation practices common in the early missionary decades. Whether drawn up by the Dominican himself or the product of a committee, as Estenssoro Fuchs suggests, the wording reveals the difficulties encountered in producing a “generic” text for the native Andeans. In reciting this Quechua confession, the individual penitent wholly repents of his deviant behavior and is compelled to list the sinful offenses. One might suspect that theft, murder, or idol worship would head up the list, but these sins are not emphasized as egregious violations of Christian conduct. The prioritizing here serves to emphasize a European perspective. First on the list is the Catholic sin of thought, rather than deeds. The sins that follow read more like a breach of good manners in attention to eating, drinking, laughing, and carrying on. Principally addressed to God and the Virgin Mother, the text omits specific reference to Christ or the Holy Ghost, later so prominent in Andean ecclesiastic texts and illustrations. Not surprisingly, the sinner appeals to Saint Dominic, signaling the Dominican order of the translators; the rest of the saints are lumped together. Significantly, the priest is given the power to communicate these sins to the Catholic entities and to absolve the penitent: Ñoca ancha hochallicucmi, appodiósta, Sancta Maríacta, Sancto Domingocta, llapa Diospa yananta, hochayata villani. Ca[m]padrectapas hochallicuscayta villayqui. Nanac hochallicuicani, mana allicta yuyaspa, mana allicta

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rimaspa, cacimanta rimaspapas yallispa micuspa, yallispa vpiaspapas, mana allicta ruraspa, accispa, accipayaspa, yanga porispa, yanga pucllaspa allicacta rurangaypac quccllactispa. Chayrayco, cay llapa hochallicucayma[n]ta llaquipuni, guanassacmi nispa. Mana ñatac hochallicussacchu, Señorasancta Maria tazquidiospa mamanta llapadiospa yanancguantac mochani, pay appodios ruraquencchicta ñoca hochallicocpac mochapuanganpac, cam padrepas appodisospa randincac, hochallicuscaymanta quispichiuay. Amen. Great sinner that I am, I confess all my sins to God, to the Virgin Mary, to Saint Dominic, and to all the saints (God’s helpers) I state my sins. To you the priest, I state my sins. Great sins, sins of thought, of speaking in vain, of eating too much, drinking too much, not working hard, being foolish and smiling, making fun of others, just hanging around, having a good time and not working hard. For this reason, my sins cause me sadness. I will mend my ways, I say. I will not sin again. Virgin Mary, Mother of God, and all God’s helpers, I worship you all, and to God, I make good all my sins to worship better, and you, Reverend Father, God’s representative on earth, from my sins free me [absolve me].77

The use of Quechua lexemes in the confession reveals a respect for Quechua semantic fields as well as an imposition of European concepts. For instance, Santo Tomás, or the translators, have chosen a hybrid noun, appodios, to indicate the supreme being. Although the 1560 dictionary uses only Dios to designate the Christian God,78 the clergy saw fit to pair it here with the Quechua appo (also spelled apu) to further embellish the religious importance. The Lexicon entry defines appo as “gran señor” (great lord),79 yet limits the “greatness” of the appo/apu to prowess in this world, not the heavens. However, in contemporary usage, apu has a wider semantic range and refers to the sacred mountain peaks. Is it possible that the word was restricted to “powerful lord” with no religious resonance? Perhaps so, as González Holguín later defines apo only in a nonreligious gloss. This manner of naming God differs from another 1560 text of Santo Tomás’ where the more common wording is used: “Dios ruraquinchik” (our creator), as noted by Gerald Taylor in the “Plática.”80 The name of God would have been a contentious topic among the translators; many versions would have been used to convey the Catholic denotation. In addressing the Virgin, “Señorasancta Maria tazquidiospa mamanta” (my emphasis), the translator(s) drew on their knowledge of Quechua age grades to denote her state of purity, to designate her as sexually untouched. The Quechua word tazqui denotes children from six to thirteen years old, according to González Holguín.81 How-

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ever, this emphasis may have caused some confusion among the converts. It is indeed miraculous that Mary, a mere child, gave birth to a baby, even if this interpretation was not the intent of the devout churchmen who composed this translation.82 This formalized confession of sins records an early attempt by Dominicans to translate the Confiteor, evident from the insertion of Saint Dominic in the text. While the “mea culpa” wording of this rite was stabilized after Pius V,83 in this Andean version we see the struggle for equivalence in translation and supremacy in Christian theological concepts. Other saints, deemed “God’s helpers” (Diospa yana), also are given status to intercede for the sinner. The phrase “hochayata villani” (I state my sins) is syntactically connected to God, the Virgin, Saint Dominic, and the other saints. However, immediately following and separated is a more complex Quechua statement that allows for the overriding importance of the priest: cam (the pronoun “you”) addresses the Catholic priest and is reinforced by the use of the Spanish padre. The closing of the confession is also marked by the assertion of the hierarchical ranking of the priest as “God’s stand-­in” (appodiospa randincac), his representative on earth with power to absolve sins. In contrast to the simple “hochayata villani” used in the first sentence, a more complex actor-­object combination of “I to you” ( yki in modern spelling) common to Quechua verbs is foremost in the second sentence, perhaps indicating the human-­to-­human communication as opposed to the celestial and human interaction noted immediately before: “Ca[m]padrectapas hochallicuscayta villayqui” (I state to you, Father, my sins; my emphasis). Notably here, the Spanish loan confessa- (to confess) is not used; instead, the Quechua verb villa- (to state, to tell) provides the means of expressing this sacrament. Villa-­, however, is a problematic verb, revealing in context “pagan” communication between a worshipper and an oracle/priest.84 Particularly in 1585, the verb villa- was paired with a reference to disclosure of sins to a shaman (umu) and the Catholic translators recognized that it signified “pagan” confessions, as seen in the pages of the Confessionario: Haste confessado con algun hechizero? Huchayquita vmuman villacucchu canqui? Have you confessed with a shaman-­priest? Do you tell your sin to the shaman-­priest?85

There are many, many Quechua verbs for “to tell/to say,”86 yet this verb of the speech act often was reduced to the context of heresy. The indigenous confes-

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sor, here called “umu,” is specifically defined as an elder often blamed for keeping the old traditions alive. In another page of the manual, only the Christian ritual is named by means of the verb confessani, as seen in “Pimanmi confessacurcanqui?” (With whom did you confess?).87 The only permissible answer to this prompt is “the Catholic priest,” never the shaman-­priest. In order to diminish Satan’s influence among the indigenous converts, Spanish theologians constantly attempted to differentiate pagan confession from its Christian counterpart. Yet, their objective was not so easily accomplished. Translation of confessional texts was urgent, for the Second Lima Provincial Council prohibited interpreters from participating in the sacrament of confession. But translation skills alone were not enough for the successful writing of a standardized text for the purposes of converting the natives. Knowledge of a native language, in this case, Quechua or Aymara, had to be wedded to excellence in theological training: “Y aunque ay algunos expertos en la lengua: ay empero pocos que lo sean juntamente en letras sagradas” (Although there are some experts in the native languages, there are few who also are experts in sacred scripture).88 The texts were to be simple and direct to attract the greatest number of converts. At first, the churchmen insisted on discussing Catholic confession using the very lexemes denoting indigenous confession with their own native shaman-­priests. For example, one of the early Quechua dictionaries glosses “to confess” as hichuni (also ichuni/ychucuni ) (confesar por voluntad, or to confess willingly).89 While the gloss appears harmless enough as written by Santo Tomás, this verb is related to the noun ichu /ychu, the straw grass that was used to evaluate confessions in ceremonies with the indigenous priests.90 As noted by chroniclers, an even number of straws, drawn up and examined by the shaman-­priests, acknowledged a good and true confession. Santo Tomás’ definition of “straw” seems to remove the item from the context of a pagan rite; it is glossed simply as “herbs for the beasts” in the dictionary.91 The anonymous dictionary of 1586, however, recognizes the pagan origins of the straw and specifically brands ychucuni as “confessarse con los hechizeros con pajas” (to confess with the shamans by use of straws).92 No verb is listed for confessar (the Catholic confession) in 1586; if we look among the Spanish entries in the dictionary, the space is blank.93 On the other hand, Diego González Holguín’s 1608 dictionary clearly demarcates Catholic confession with the Spanish loan word to Quechua: confessarse/confessacuni (to confess) and confessar a otro/confessachini o confessani (to confess another person or I confess; my emphasis).94 Separately, in his pages of Quechua lexical entries, the verb ychhuchini is given as “confessar con los hechizeros, o otros” (to confess with the shamans).95 The decision to use the Spanish root confessa- for the

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Christian action of penitence now separated the “good” confession from that of the devil in league with the shaman-­confessors. Diego de Torres Rubio’s dictionary of 1619 followed suit. Within the Spanish entries, confessacuni is decisively used for “to confess.” The scene of this sacrament is fleshed out by the definition: confessar el padre/confessachini (the priest confesses/the priest causes confession), where the causative chi is added on to the newly coined Christian Quechua verb.96 Similarly, mochacuni, “to worship,” is another lexemic choice sprinkled throughout early texts that definitely references a pagan action.97 Acosta gives a good description of the Incan context for this gesture: “el modo de hacerle oración a Viracocha, y al sol y a las estrellas, y a las demás guacas o ídolos, era abrir las manos, y hacer cierto sonido con los labios, como quien besa, y pedir lo que cada uno quería” (their manner of praying to Viracocha and to the sun and to the stars, and to the rest of the guacas or idols, was to open their hands and make a certain sound with their lips, such as one makes kissing, and to ask for whatever each one wanted).98 However, in the boldly titled explanations of the holiness of the Sabbath, we see this idolatrous verb now linked to the Christian God: “Domingocunapi fiestacunapipas çamacu[n]qui Diosta muchancapac” (Rest on the holy days of Sunday and on feast days in order to worship God; my emphasis).99 Here, mocha- (alternate spelling, mucha-­) crosses over and is incorporated as a Christian gesture of reverence or outward manifestation of belief. As Sabine Dedenbach-­Salazar observes, the use of these traditional Quechua words might have led to the first step in the making of a modern religion in which the two worlds did not contradict each other. Dependent on a successful education in catechism, the indigenous converts gradually would accept the new beliefs and wording, even if the adapted words had their own particular non-­ Christian contexts.100 César Itier, in a similar vein, argues for the use of these problematic Quechua terms in an effort to present a familiar concept and then move toward a gradual acceptance of the newer terminology.101 Alan Durston notes that the translators must have had “theological qualms” about the use of this verb and others; however, he states, “the term mucha- was one of the underpinnings of the whole pastoral terminology—as in the case of hucha, a recognizable term was needed to obtain certain kinds of action.”102 Xavier Albó, referencing Aymara, suggests “ritual diglossia” as an explanation for the use of Spanish and Quechua terminology, dependent on the social situation. Spanish lexemes would predominate in the prayers uttered in Catholic settings, while Quechua (and Aymara) might predominate in familial settings.103

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Forceful Persuasion The ample vocabulary lists of the colonial period demonstrate that Quechua was well equipped to serve the purposes of conversion. However, the colonizers were aware that their knowledge of the words alone would not suffice; words had to be strung together in such a way as to persuade the indigenous Andeans to abandon their traditional beliefs. In the early days of conquest, if the indigenous peoples simply submitted to the sacrament of baptism, the clergy were certain that the Christian God would assert his powers among the newly converted. The missionaries euphorically described the mass conversions in America (1,000 baptisms in one day). Domingo de Santo Tomás’ Grammatica exhibits a confidence in the indigenous Andeans’ ability to incorporate the Spanish verb confesar, “to confess,” into their vocabulary and to conjugate it using the rules of Quechua syntax. Writing for his fellow clergymen, he explains the use of the introduced verb, confessacuni, among the Quechua speakers, who now knew its Christian meaning: (Ñachu padrehua[n] confessacurcangui?) que es, en nuestra le[n]gua, Has te confessado con el padre? Responde le el otro. (Mana padrecta tarinichu, chaypac manaracmi confessacchu cani, conallarac xamuspa, padreguan confessacussac) que es dezir. No he hallado al padre, por esso aun no me he confessado, agora en viniendo me confessare con el. Veys aqui como usan del verbo, confessar, que es nuestro, conjugandolo a su modo, por los modos y tiempos que conjugan los suyos. De la misma manera generalmente usan de todos los demas no[m]bres y verbos, que significan nuestras cosas, que antes no tenian y al presente tienen. “Ñachu padrehua(n) confessacurcangui?” which is, in our language, “Have you confessed with the priest?” The other answers, “Mana padrecta tarinichu, chaypac manaracmi confessacchu cani, conallarac xamuspa, padreguan confessacussac,” that is to say, “I have not found the priest, for that reason, I have not confessed, but when he appears here I will confess to him.” You see here how they use the verb confessar, our verb, conjugating it in their own way, in the modes and tenses in which theirs are conjugated. In the same way they use other nouns and verbs that signify our things that formerly they did not have and now do have.104

Equally important in this initial phase of conversion was a willingness to believe that indigenous rituals could be adapted to fervently worship the Christian God. To that end, the Dominicans encouraged the introduction of

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indigenous songs and dances into the liturgy of the Andean church; this tactic had worked well in the conversion of the Moors in Seville.105 Yet this was not an effortless syncretism. It was significantly different, an “inverse of syncretism in which a disjunction is created: the ancient forms are preserved, or slightly modified, to alter their meaning. If the ancient haylli [an Inca song form] was allowed to continue, it was not to preserve its ancient meaning but to reveal its ‘true significance,’ formerly hidden, which was to herald the coming of Catholicism.”106 Later, however, there was increasing pessimism about the true extent of the acceptance and understanding of Catholic doctrine by the natives. Increasingly, the clergy was aware of the need to reaffirm, with precision, teachings of the church that had not been properly disseminated by the catechists. The “Proemio” (foreword) as an introduction to the Confessionario of 1585 acknowledges the superficiality of the faith among the native Andean converts: Vna de las causas de auerse imprimido tampoco la fe en muchos destos Indios, ha sido el poco orde[n] y modo de doctrinalles, que muchos Sacerdotes han tenido. Porque como si estos fueran muchachos de escuela, o vnos papagayos, se han contentado con hazer les rezar la doctrina christiana: y quando muchos les dizen las cosas de nuestra fe sin persuadilles la verdad que han de creer, ni manifestarles las mentiras y engaños que el Demonio les tiene enseñado. One of the reasons that the [Christian] belief has not taken hold is many priests [have a] scattered and unorganized way of teaching the doctrine. As if these people were schoolboys, or parrots, they happily have them recite Christian doctrine: and many times they tell them things about our beliefs without persuading them that they should believe it, or making clear to them lies and tricks that the devil has taught them.107

Bartolomé Álvarez, himself a priest, objected to the accusations that the clergy had done a poor job of teaching doctrine. He outlined the difficulty of distinguishing between the native deities and the Christian God: [Los hechiceros en sus ceremonias] dicen: “juntemos esto para servir a Dios, ofrezcamos esto para servir a Dios.” Antes que los españoles viniesen, no sabían este nombre ni tenían conocimiento ni noticia de Dios, ni de que hubiese habitadores encima de los cielos. . . . Hablando con algún hechicero se lo pudo enseñar, . . . la diferencia que les damos a entender que hay de Dios a sus uacas.

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[The shaman-­priests in their ceremonies] say: “let us bring this item to serve God, let us offer this to serve God.” Before the Spanish arrived, they did not know this name or have any knowledge of God or any information about God, or that beings inhabited the heavens above. . . . Speaking with any one of the shamans can show this to you, the difference between God and their huacas that we can teach them.108

In the mid-­sixteenth century, Álvarez believed that not enough was known about the Andean pagan rites and that it was up to the clergy to live among the native peoples to best uncover their beliefs. He advocated total immersion; one should become an indigenous Andean if possible, to further the project of conversion: “Y es necesario que trabajen de manera que con los indios se vuelvan indios para que puedan alcanzar las cosas de los indios, y entender las intelligencias dellos para contrastar todas sus obras” (And it is necessary that they work in such a way with the Indians that they become Indians so that they can learn the Indian ways, and understand the arguments so that they can contrast with their ways).109 As the years of missionary campaigns lengthened into the seventeenth century, the belief in conversion through persuasion was increasingly replaced by an ideology condoning the use of force. Although the natives were supposed to be drawn to the truth of Christianity by loving words, it is often stated that they were physically brought into the church: “The natives are forcibly brought to hear Christian preaching.”110 Mid-­sixteenth-­century ecclesiastic decrees regimented the act of annual confession and mandated consequences for not confessing to the Christian priests: Constitution 22, written by the First Lima Provincial Council, decrees that each town with a native population be sent a priest so that native peoples can confess once a year, from the Sunday of septuagesima to the eighth day of Corpus Christi.111 If these newly converted Christians did not show up for confession, they were to be punished, according to the Lima Council. The priest was ordered to lock up the cacique (indigenous leader), or his wife, in their place of residence for three or four days, until confession was carried out.112 Andean natives of lesser rank were to receive fifty lashes or be shorn of their hair; they also were to be required to confess. Each priest was required to keep a record ( padrón) of those who had confessed, so that punishment could be meted out. Indigenous peoples confessing to a priest not assigned to their own parish were to be required to obtain proof of their confession with a cédula, a written document.113 Fear of inciting the wrath of the Christian God may have caused the indigenous converts to avoid the yearly confession altogether; the Confessionario

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and the sermons mention the use of force to bring penitents before the priests. Reluctance to participate in confession arose from a multitude of assumptions on the part of the native peoples: fear of the priest’s harsh words; the shame in telling a priest certain heinous offenses; the fear that the priest might reveal the content of the confession to others. These fears were laid to rest, supposedly, in the explanations of the twelfth sermon in the Tercero cathecismo (Third Catechism): Sabed hijos, que el Confessor no puede dezir nada dela confession, aunque le maten y que si algo dixesse, viuo le enterrarian, que Dios y la Sancta Yglesia lo tienen assi mandado. Antes se huelga mucho el Padre, y quiere como a hijo al que le dize toda verdad. Tambien somos peccadores y flacos los Padres, y nos co[m]padecemos d[e] los peccados q[ue] oymos. You know, my children, that the father confessor cannot reveal anything about the confession, even though they kill him, and, if he might say something, they would bury him alive, as God and the Holy Church have thus ordained. The priest takes great pleasure in this, and he loves the one who tells the truth as his own child. We priests are sinners and we are weak willed, and we commiserate with the sins that we hear.114

Another requirement of confession which may have discouraged participation was the reporting of any non-­Christian behavior in one’s community: Sabes que alguno sea hechizero, o enseñe contra la ley de los Christianos, o viva mal? Y sabiendolo has dexado de manifestarlo al Padre, o al Visitador, o a quie[n] puede remediarlo? Mira hijo que tienes obligacion de hazerlo assi y que de otra suerte te yras al infierno. Do you know anyone who is a curer, or who teaches against Christian law, or who lives sinfully? And knowing of someone, have you not mentioned it to the priest or the visitador [appointed official charged with extirpation], or to whoever could correct this? My child, you have an obligation to act thus, and if you do not, you will go to hell.115

The text of the Quechua translation of this passage is particularly pointed toward discovery of the curers and shamans: “Umucta, huaca muchac runacta, ymahina huchallicuctapas” (sorcerers, idol worshippers, whoever sins in any way).116 We remember that Cristóbal Choquesaca supposedly revealed the secrets of the huacas in a confession to Father Ávila, and thus began the

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campaign to extirpate idolatry in the Andes.117 Also, for good measure, the confessant was urged to report heresy committed by Moors and by those who “arrived by sea to steal gold”—the English.118 But, on the other hand, sermons cautioned penitents to keep their mouths shut; there would be no testifying in confession against their local priests.119 Whereas, previously, missionaries had acknowledged the Inca past and the existence of the ancient deities and their cults, with an eye to accommodating these rites and beliefs within the Catholic system, in the mid-­sixteenth century the doctrinal message was crafted to combat idol worship and to prevent the Christian God’s being added to the panoply of the many other gods. With a plethora of deities worshipped in the Andes (the sun, the creator, the regional gods, the origin gods, the ancestor spirits), the message had to be blunt and prohibitive. This tactic marked a new stage in conversion, and Judge Juan de Matienzo, among others, was most direct in his condemnation of previous catechistic efforts: Es gran lástima que el mismo Licenciado Polo, este año pasado, . . . habló a los indios y les hizo confesar que tenían las huacas que les dixo . . . y les dixo cuán malo era y que no lo hiciesen [las ceremonias] más, y ellos respondieron que nunca naide les había avisado que aquello era malo, y que agora que se lo decían, que no lo harían de allí adelante. It is such a pity that Licenciado Polo, last year, . . . spoke to the Indians and made them confess that they had huacas that he mentioned . . . and he told them how evil this was and from then on to desist in their ceremonies, and they replied that no one had told them that this was a bad thing to do, and that now that they were told about it, from here on out they would not do this.120

By the time the Third Lima Provincial Council was convened in 1582, the clergy attending were convinced of the need to visit indigenous communities, to personally witness the state of faith, to hear testimony of those accused of pagan practices, and to mete out punishment. This message was stated forcefully in the record of the council. Excommunication was not a useful recourse with persons such as the native Andeans. Instead, corporal punishment was permitted: “También el apóstol amenazaba a veces con la vara” (Sometimes the apostle threatened with a stick).121 To deter certain ecclesiastic crimes, it was especially necessary to correct people who did not submit to Christian teachings:

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Crímenes tan terribles de idolatría, apostasía, superstición pagana y los sacrilegios cometidos en el bautismo, matrimonio y otros sacramentos, los jueces eclesiásticos pueden y deben castigar a los indios. Además, hay que corregir aquellos pecados menores como son la omisión voluntaria de la misa o de la catequisis y también los vicios que les son tan familiares como la ebriedad y el concubinato. For terrible crimes of idolatry, apostasy, pagan superstition, and sacrilege committed in baptism, marriage, and other sacraments, the ecclesiastic judges can and should punish the Indians. In addition, the lesser sins such as choosing to skip mass or not go to catechism, as well as vices such as drunkenness and maintaining concubines, have to be punished.122

Thus, in the introductory material to the newly minted Confessional of 1585, we find language strong in the condemnation of the superstitions and pagan rites of the natives, still present despite years of indoctrination. In condemning these practices, the churchmen believed the Andeans would see the error of their ways and renounce the devil’s teachings. Well aware, however, that the clergy were scant in number, this same introduction stated that the first commandment would suffice for confession.123 Heavy reliance on the first commandment came about because Christians believed that the devil himself inspired this false worship. If this pagan worship ceased, in all of its manifestations, the native Andeans would be led to God: El diablo se esta riendo y haziendo burla de vosotros, como a ninos sin seso, os tiene engañados con tales niñerias y embustes? Quien pensays que invento todo esto? El diablo para que se condenen los hombres. The devil is laughing and making fools of you, like children without reason, does he have you deceived with such childish things and lies? Who do you think invented all this? The devil, so that all humankind is condemned.124

Without the devil’s machinations, other pagan practices that offended and angered the Christian God would not occur. Of course, it was practical to single out the devil as the vehicle of evil. He was one combinatory entity; unfortunately, the Incaic deities were legion, as indicated in the eighteenth sermon of the Tercero cathecismo: Por este [primer] mandamiento se os manda que no adoreys al sol, ni ala luna, ni al luzero, ni a las cabrillas, ni alas estrellas, ni ala mañana, ni al

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trueno, o rayo, ni al arco del cielo, ni alos cerros ni montes, ni alas fuentes, ni alos rios, ni ala mar, ni alas quebradas, ni alos arboles, ni alas piedras, ni alas sepulturas de vuestros antepassados, ni alas culebras, ni alos leones, ni alos ossos, ni a otros animales, ni ala tierra fertil: ni tengays villcas, ni guacas, ni figura de hombre o ouejas hechas de piedra, o Chaquira. This first commandment orders you to not worship the sun, or the moon, or the evening star, or the Pleiades, or the stars, or the day, or the thunderclap, or the thunderbolt, or the rainbow, or the low hills, or the mountains, or the springs, or the rivers, or the ocean, or the cliffs, or the trees, or stones, or the burial places of your ancestors, or snakes, or felines, or bears, or any other animal, or the fertile earth: and that you not have sacred villcas [Andean holy sites], or huacas, or images of men or camelids [lit., sheep] made out of stone, or chaquira [spiny oyster shells].125

The devil had his way when the indigenous natives were in a state of drunkenness, according to the Catholics. In the confession manuals, a set of questions was directed against the sin of drunkenness, under the rubric of the fifth commandment (“Thou shall not kill”). This commandment lends itself to comment because it was commonly held that excessive alcohol intake killed off the good health of the body: “Yallintahuan micuspa, vpiaspa, oncocchu canqui?” (Eating a lot and drinking a lot, do you get sick?).126 Drunkenness had to be confessed; it was a mortal sin, for God created drink to give strength for work and not for the purpose of destroying the body. The excessive drinking of sora (corn chicha) led to illness and the inability to engender children; it encouraged stubborn behavior on the part of the native peoples in their dealings with the Spanish; it increased family violence and sexual perversion and led to devil worship in the traditional ceremonies.127 The Incas were praised for their control of this vice, despite an error-­prone religious system based on idolatry. In one sermon, drunkenness is linked to the excessive decline in population that occurred in the colonial period. Without the Inca control, according to the sermon of 1585, the native people drank as much as they wanted.128 Legislation, both secular and religious, was enacted to temper this vice. Viceroy Toledo, in orders issued in 1572, forbade the selling of fermented manioc, with the punishment of a fine of two hundred pesos, or one hundred lashes.129 Toledo also observed the drunkenness caused by the consumption of sora (corn chicha) and prohibited the sale of ground corn in the city of Potosí.130 By the mid-­seventeenth century, the Franciscan Bernardino de Cárdenas had forbidden religious as well as secular members of the colony to sell wine or chicha beer to the indigenous Andeans, under penalty of excom-

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munication.131 However, despite this legislation, fortunes were made in drink, and both civil officials and members of the clergy benefited from the sales. Although the colonial descriptions have revealed the similarities of the indigenous and the Catholic confessions, there were many differences, such as the Catholic examination of conscience. Preliminary self-­examination was prescribed by the Council of Trent, and the Ten Commandments served to guide the sinner in self-­reflection. The confessions enacted by the Spanish priests in the Andes always included the phrase, “Now, before you confess, have you examined your sins?” The examination, the extensive soul searching, began with the mortal sins of fornication, false testimony, stealing, doing evil to others in word or deed, worshipping idols, and obeying false priests. However, the penitent also was required to review sins of thought. A new category of sin, mana allicta yuyaspa (lit., not thinking well), appears in the 1560 Confessionario but without any sense of what it entails as a sin. One description from a 1585 sermon demonstrates how the priests explained the search for intention within sinful thoughts, using concrete examples to instruct their converts: Si desseaste peccar con fulana, y la miraste para esso: si quisieras hurtar la manta, o el carnero de otro, y lo dexaste porque no te castigasse el Corregidor, si te enojaste con el Padre, o con el Curaca, y no te atreviste a herille, pero en tu coraçon quisieras hazello. If you thought about sinning with some woman, and you looked at her with that in mind: if you thought about stealing a blanket, or somebody’s sheep, and if you gave it up so the corregidor [Spanish official] would not punish you, if you got angry with the priest or with the indigenous leader [curaca/ kuraka] and you didn’t dare to inflict harm, but in your heart you really wanted to.132

Thus, even these sins of thought, not acted on, must be confessed. The indigenous penitents were instructed that many sins of thought were lurking on the inside. The metaphor of the stinking body in the grave was used to illustrate the idea of total confession: “Aya huacica, hahuampi ancha yurac yuracllam, ancha çumacllam cac, vucumpica ancham asnac, curullam chaypica vnyan” (The tomb [lit. the house of the soul], on the outside is very white, very beautiful, on the inside it reeks, the worms are maturing there).133 A rhetorical question in sermon twenty-­six, published in the sixteenth century, raises a practical consideration that reveals indigenous incomprehension of this category of sin:

Converts to Confession 81

Ñihuanquichicmancha padre, hinaspaca viñayllachari, huchaman vrmanchic, huarmicta asçumacta allin ricchayniocta ricuspaca, payman camam soncochic ric, huarmicta ricuspalla huchallicuna captinca, pitac quispinman? Perhaps you would say to me, Father, if we always are like that, we fall into sin, if we remember a beautiful woman who makes us desire to get together with her and our heart goes to her, if we look at her like that, if we sin, who can save [us]?134

Repeatedly, the indigenous converts were warned that in not confessing all of their sins they angered the Christian God. Grave illness could befall them if they avoided confessing their sins; however, the sacrament of confession was like a medicine, and the cure was in the word of God. If the medical metaphor were not sufficient, an example was drawn from everyday experience: “Llamayquictaca manachu hauispa ha[n]pinqui caracha tucuptin?” (If your llama has mange, don’t you use a salve to cure it?).135 A gruesome anecdote, embedded in sermon thirteen, describes a sinner who saw his sins, as he confessed them, assume the shape of toads as they left his body. The selection of the toad was not arbitrary. This amphibian in the hands of a curer or shaman effected a good or bad outcome; it was a standard item in the repertoire of Andean curing and spell-­casting ceremonies.136 Because the penitent hid some of his sins from God, the toads all returned to him, jumping one by one back into his mouth: Sabe que quantos peccados dizes, tantos demonios y sapos feos vomitas, y si callas alguno, todos se bueluen luego a ti. Un Christiano se confessaua una vez, y vio otro Christiano, que como se yua confessando sus peccados, assi le yuan saliendo por su boca otros tantos sapos muy suzios: y vio mas que de ay a un rato (porque aquel Christiano callo un peccado por verguença del Confessor) que luego boluiero[n] todos los sapos a entrarse uno a uno por la boca. Veys hermanos q[ue] haze el callar algu[n] peccado. You know that for as many sins as you confess, you vomit up demons and ugly toads, and if you keep any sins quiet, all of the toads come right back to you. A Christian was confessing one time, and another Christian who was confessing his sins saw that some really dirty toads were coming out of his mouth: and he saw, more (because that Christian had kept one sin quiet because he was ashamed to tell it to the priest), that all the toads came back to him, entering one by one into his mouth. You see, brothers, what happens when you hide one sin?137

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How, then, to precisely account for all the sins and enact a complete confession? In the sixteenth century, priests urged penitents to use khipus to remember each offense. An accounting device constructed of colored knots and cords of string, this was a familiar Andean instrument. However, Juan de Pérez Bocanegra complained in 1631 that the indigenous peoples kept track of their sins with the khipus and often passed them along to the next person waiting to confess: Y é hallado, que guardan semejantes ñudos, para otra confession, aunque la hagan dentro de breue tiempo, o para otro año. Y que los presta[n], y dan a los que se an de confessar de nueuo, ora sean moços, o moças, viejos, o viejas: aduirtiendoles, que pecados an de dezir en cada color, o ñudo: y mudan vno, y otro Confessor, porque no los çonozcan. I have found out that they store up those knotted cords for other confessions, for right away or for the next year. And they lend them out, and again they give them to those who have to confess, young boys or young girls, old men or old women: guiding them as to what sins to say for each color, or knot, and they go around to one confessor or another, who does not know them.138

In addition, he complained that the native Andeans did not confess the precise number of times they had sinned: Ni tampoco declara el numero de los pecados (poco mas, ò menos) que a cometido, que es necessario para la integridad de la confession. Antes si dize juró diez veces, otras diez se emborrachò, fornicò, hurtò: sin añidir ni quitar en quantos pecados confiessan este numero. Nor do they declare the precise number of sins (more or less) that they have committed, which is necessary for the integrity of the confession. If they say they swore ten times, they got drunk another ten, screwed ten times, stole ten times: not adding or subtracting, they confess this number when they confess their sins.139

By the mid-­seventeenth century, Bishop Antonio de la Peña Montenegro was lamenting that confession was still imperfect as enacted by the indigenous penitents, despite the efforts of the priests to teach the categories of sins: Se acusan de haver pecado en tomar agua bendita, sin haverse lavado las manos, de que salieron de sus casas sin haverlas barrido primero, de que

Converts to Confession 83

escupieron en la Iglesia, o que entraron á ella, estando con su costumbre las mugeres; y otras veces no hacen escrupulo de pecados porque juzgan que no lo son, como es el mentir por socorrer el progimo necesitado, o por librarse de molestias. They accuse themselves of having sinned by drinking holy water, in having washed their hands, of leaving their homes without having first swept the floors, of having spit in church, or of entering the church, in the case of women, when they had their period; and other times they do not care about confessing sins because they do not think these sins are sins, like the act of lying to help out a fellow man in need, or to get out of duties.140

So the Ten Commandments, the usual guide to confession, were cast aside to conform to the indigenous categories of transgression: drinking holy water, not sweeping their houses, and spitting in church. My analysis of the Spanish evangelical enterprise in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries reveals the enactment of the colonialist intention in the Andes: to transfer the value system of the colonizer to the vanquished peoples.141 By being taught European patterns, these conquered peoples were to be incorporated into the ranks of the “civilized.” The colonizers’ confession books and sermons demonstrate how this “second conquest” was accomplished. As Irene Silverblatt states in her reading of the colonial texts, all manner of values were transmitted in the sermons and instruction manuals: “Missionaries, believing it their duty to explain all of human history, including political hierarchy, took on the globe—and in the process dealt with the slippery field of nation-­states, color, religion, peoplehood, racial capacities, political rights, and what they saw as the ‘natural order’ of things.”142 We see in selected passages the intrusive strategy of the Spanish, promoting a scrupulous consciousness to analyze well one’s behavior in thought and deed. Confession had the power to civilize—albeit instilling acculturation to the customs and beliefs of the conquistador. Thus, mocha- was transfigured, demoted from the time-­honored custom of a smacking of the lips to praise an Andean deity or human ruler, to denote instead the newly acquired phrases praising the figure on the crucifix or to be chanted in Christian hymns. Quechua was refashioned to convey the restricted cosmological perspective of the invaders.

CHAPTER 3

Dictionary Definitions: Sin (Hucha) and Flesh (Aycha)

A typical scene of confession in the Andes is illustrated and transcribed for us by the colonial indigenous author Felipe Guaman Poma. The dialog is dominated by the priest, who asks a Quechua-­speaking native Andean eight pointed questions about sinful behavior. Written from his indigenous point of view and with his intent to perfect the errors of the native Andeans, Guaman Poma’s categories of sin are instructive. Apparently, the sin of theft is most egregious; in fact, it appears twice in the inquiries. Sexual sin follows, and, finally, idol worship is brought up: Suwachu kanki? wach’uqchu kanki? Waqata, willqata much’aqchu kanki? Ima hayk’ata munapayaqchu kanki? Padre siphsikaqchu kanki? Kay tukuywan ancha Diosta phiñachinki. Chawa aychata mikhuqchu kanki? Suwachu kanki? Machaqchu kanki? Kay tukuywan Diosta anchata phiñachinki. Wananki, thuqanki. Kay tukuyta phaskasqayki Diospa siminwan. Diospa churin kanaykipaq huchaykimanta llakikuy. Wanasaqni. Are you a thief? Do you fornicate? Do you worship the wakas [variant spelling of huaca] and the willqas [demigods; variant spelling of villca]? What things do you covet? Do you gossip [about untrue things] with the priest? All of this has angered God very much. Do you eat raw meat? Are you a thief? Are you a drunkard? With all of this you anger God very much. Repent; end this. With God’s word I will cleanse you of all [sins]. In order to be a child of God you must lament your sin. I shall repent.1

Figure 3.1. “Confess me, Father, of all of my sins, but do not ask me about the huacas and the idols.” From Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, Nueva corónica y buen gobierno (codex péruvien ilustré) (Paris: 1936). The Institut d’Ethnologie 1936 edition is based on the original manuscript El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno GkS 2232, 4to, Royal Library of Denmark, Copenhagen.

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The Ten Commandment structure of confession would require a specific ordering of sins—beginning with idol worship (commandment one) and proceeding to sexual transgressions (commandment six) and theft (commandment seven)—as a standardized format was implemented by the missionaries in the Andes. Here, these specific transgressions are named and apparently understood by the penitent, who says he will repent. However, hucha/hocha, appearing at the end of the transcription, had a traditional Andean meaning that was not necessarily equivalent to the Christian conception of sin. Choosing a Quechua word for sin (hucha) was as difficult as determining a Quechua word to represent “confession” (see chapter 2). While first selecting ychu- (to confess with straws), the clergy soon were persuaded to promote a Spanish loan word, confessacu-­. In this manner, the memory of pre-­Hispanic rites of straw-­based confession could be abolished among the newly converted. The choice of Quechua lexemes for “sin” and other crucial terminology, such as words for “soul” and “spirit,” similarly was complex; it involved subtleties of meaning that often challenged the linguistic expertise of the clergy entrusted with translation. Semantic domains and syntactic regularity were examined closely by these clergymen of European heritage and, later, by the bilingual mestizos. This chapter examines the semantic “conversions” of selected Quechua nouns and verbs in a context of language policy in the Andes. Language often served as an indicator of one’s place in the heavenly and the earthly hierarchies, and it was the Europeans who determined the nature of these classifications and criteria. In Europe, there were debates regarding theories of language. Interest soared in resolving the question of the first language. Humanist intellectuals yearned for a perfect language that allowed truths to reveal themselves with no obscurities. However, confrontation with the numerous languages of the Americas cast doubt on the widely recognized seventy-­two languages noted in the Bible and cited by late medieval and Renaissance scholars. Europeans had to reanalyze their assumptions about language. One of the first to write about the “encounter” with language in the Americas was Columbus. He concluded that he did not understand the indigenous inhabitants of the islands. His Hebrew-­Chaldee-­Arabic-­speaking interpreter, Luis de Torres, along on the first voyage, also confronted a failure to communicate.2 Similar language barriers were depicted by the widely diffused scene of encounter with Atahuallpa, the Incan ruler in Peru. A Spanish priest, Father Valverde, attempted to hand Atahuallpa a Catholic book in 1532, claiming that therein the word of God was contained. Atahuallpa held the book to his ear, then threw it to the ground, complaining that “it did not speak to him.”

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Atahuallpa’s disrespect for the Word in the pages of a Christian text became the ostensible motive for the war waged by the Spanish in the lands of the Incas.3 Embedded within linguistic philosophy was a European awareness of language not merely as a matter of understanding between nations, but as the means by which cultural hegemony was established. Through language, an ideology was created by the victors to impose their own interests on the colonized. Language theories also embodied formal assumptions about superiority and inferiority, which meant that indigenous populations were denigrated for having a “primitive” mode of communication. Judged on the basis of the European classificatory system, a human being without an ordered and proper language appeared to be “irrational” and, therefore, a beast. Without the reasoning capacity often established through language, a soul, however human in appearance, could not receive the grace of Christianity. As Anthony Pagden has noted, “Reason, and from reason the ability to create and use language; these were two things which had raised man from barbarism to civility.”4 Lacking a written tradition, native Andeans were automatically denied high status in the hierarchy of tongues. The Jesuit priest José de Acosta evaluated languages from his global perspective, finding the writing systems of the Chinese and the Mexicans inferior to European script.5 Missionary priests, linguists, and adventurers, however, often strongly argued that these Amerindian languages were of value nonetheless. They were orderly, with the essential properties found in other languages, implying that they were rational constructs. Thus, Domingo de Santo Tomás, author of the oldest Quechua grammar and a good friend of Bartolomé de Las Casas, praised the properties of Quechua: Lengua pues, S.M., tan polida y abunda[n]te, regulada y encerrada debaxo de las reglas y preceptos dela latina como es esta (como consta por este Arte) no barbara, que quiere dezir (segun Quintiliano, y los demas latinos) llena de barbarismos y de defectos, sin modos, tiempos, ni casos, ni orden, ni regla, ni concierto, sino muy polida y delicada se puede llamar. Y si la le[n]gua lo es, la gente que usa della, no entre barbara, sino co[n] la de mucha policia la podemos contar: pues segun el Philosopho en muchos lugares, no ay cosa en q[ue] mas se conozca el ingenio del ho[m]bre, q[ue] en la palabra y lenguaje q[ue] usa, que es el parto delos co[n]ceptos del entendimiento. A language, then, Your Majesty, so refined and plentiful, ordered and confined within the rules and precepts of Latin as this one is (as is seen in this Grammar), not barbarous, which (according to Quintilian and other schol-

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ars of Latin) means that it is full of uncivilized terms and defects, without modes, tenses, cases, order, rules, without internal coherence, but instead one could call it very refined and delicate. And if the language is like that, the people who make use of it [are] not savages, but people we can include among those with principles of governance: thus according to the great Philosopher, there is no manner more appropriate to discern the genius of humankind in whatever region [of the world] than in their words and their language, which gives birth to the concepts of understanding.6

Santo Tomás wisely included an entry in his 1560 vocabulary that attributed to Quechua this privileged, linked concept of “reasoned discourse,” namely, in the verb “to speak”: Razonar rimacuni (to reason, speak).7 The sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries constituted the period of greatest interest in the indigenous languages, a period which one Peruvian scholar calls “un indigenismo catequético” (an indigenist catechism period).8 In the Andes, however, Quechua, the language of the Incas, was certainly not the only language spoken in the region. José de Acosta reminds us of this fact, based on his travels in Peru: “Se siguen muy graves inconvenientes para predicar la palabra de Dios y para oír confesiones, por existir tan espesa selva de idiomas, que en estos lugares, que yo mismo he recorrido, creo que pueden contarse más de treinta lenguas muy diferentes entre sí y difíciles de aprender” (There are serious obstacles to preaching the word of God and hearing confession because of the existence of a thick jungle of languages in these regions, which I myself have traveled in; I think one can count thirty languages, very different from each other and difficult to learn).9 Nevertheless, Quechua was a language spoken in many Andean regions, and thus the Crown established university chairs in Lima (1580) and in Quito (1581) so that language experts could examine the linguistic competence of priests chosen for Quechua-­speaking parishes. Numerous royal decrees insisted that the religious learn and speak the languages traditionally found in their parishes.10 Yet, alternatively, there was also legislation enacted (1586, 1590) that contradicted the enthusiasm for Quechua and compelled the teaching of Spanish for purposes of conversion.11 Furthermore, at the close of the sixteenth century, even with the creation of university chairs in Quechua, the tide turned against the promotion of indigenous languages in Peru, with the Spanish-­speaking elites clamoring that the natives be taught Spanish. In 1579, Antonio de Zúñiga opposed the use of Quechua by the clergy, strongly emphasizing that proselytization in the native languages impeded conversion.12 The entire matter was revisited in 1596, when the Council of the Indies promoted Spanish and suggested that the native peoples “forget” their lan-

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guages. The council noted that conversion could be better implemented with the unifying use of Spanish. This decision by the council members might be influenced by the fact that peninsular priests were losing appointments because of their lack of prowess in Quechua, whereas those with a knowledge of indigenous languages profited from the situation and gained the stipends. However, Philip II stood firm in 1596 and would not make Spanish compulsory for the indigenous peoples; neither would he support the use of force in teaching Spanish or the overturning of Spain’s bilingual policy.13 Another example of the back and forth of legislation to promote Spanish is seen in a decree by Philip IV in 1624. He insisted that indigenous Andeans be taught Spanish and forbade them to speak their own languages; yet, in a reversal, the order was reissued in 1627, and indigenous language teaching again was promoted.14 The intricacies of Hispanic language policy were brought about by politics at the levels of the civil authorities, the ecclesiastic hierarchy, and the attitudes of the friars in the parishes. In the years that language training was deemed necessary for priests who were sent out to proselytize, the examination mechanisms were contentious. The regular clergy (the mendicants and, later, the Jesuits) sought the teaching appointments, as did those clergy in the secular (diocesan) religious hierarchy. For example, when a university chair in Quechua was assigned to Juan de Balboa, a secular priest, in Lima (1580), the appointment was met with opposition. The religious lobbied to hold language examinations in dioceses other than Lima, which would mean that control over parish appointments would fall again into their hands. They were successful. A new decree was written by Viceroy Conde de Villar in 1588 that allowed for examinations outside of Lima because he had been persuaded that the priests were not learning Quechua well enough in Balboa’s classes.15 Later, when the university chair in Quechua was given to an Augustinian, Juan Martínez, there was a move to discredit him by Archbishop Bartolomé Lobo Guerrero, who wrote that Martínez admitted that he had licensed priests who did not know sufficient Quechua. Significantly, the archbishop’s successor, Alonso de Huerta, was a secular cleric, and thus ensued archdiocesan control over Quechua language teaching and licensing in Lima for twenty years.16 Dictionary Definitions in the Andes Antonio de Nebrija’s proclamation that “always language was the companion of empire” is often cited by scholars of the colonial period. Nebrija was not original in this statement, however; as a Latin humanist and biblical scholar

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of the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries he was well aware of Valla’s Elegantiae, which celebrates Latin language and Roman imperial power.17 Nebrija was best known for his Grammática de la lengua castellana (Grammar of the Castilian Language), published in 1492, a significant date in Spanish exploration.18 In addition, his compilation of a Latin-­Spanish dictionary, the Dictionarium latino-­hispanicum, in 1492, and a Spanish-­Latin version in 1494 or 1495,19 influenced the manner in which the Spanish recorded the alien tongues surrounding them in Spain as well as in the Americas.20 In fact, the oldest surviving Quechua-­Spanish dictionary, from 1560, compiled by friar Domingo de Santo Tomás, clearly imitates Nebrija’s lexical organization. The vocabulary is divided in two parts, ordered alphabetically, so that Spaniards could begin with their native tongue, patterned exactly as was Nebrija’s work.21 Other Quechua dictionaries similarly followed Santo Tomás’ model: the anonymous dictionary of 1586, Torres Rubio’s slim volume of 1603, and a dictionary by González Holguín in 1608.22 The entries of the earliest colonial lexicographers (Santo Tomás and the anonymous 1586 lexicographer) abound with Spanish lexemes in translation. By 1608, however, González Holguín’s dictionary had shifted the focus, and the Quechua entries outnumbered the Spanish. Sabine Dedenbach-­Salazar Sáenz’ study is useful for historical perspective and a count of the lexical items of the dictionaries;23 her 2008 contribution is a more detailed comparison of the dictionaries.24 These dictionaries are useful for documenting traditional cultural dimensions of Quechua; yet in these texts it also is evident that Spanish theological concepts are folded into the definitions. Our contemporary analysis of these dictionary entries recognizes the cultural bias present in the colonial elicitation lists: the early lexicographers adhered to preconceived models of original languages and divinely inspired semantic fields; thus, their conceptual frames often reflected their search for universal truths along with practical necessities to convey the mysteries of the Catholic faith. Raymond Williams reminds us that these historical dictionaries reveal ideological perspectives as well as a “complexity of meanings”: Then when we go . . . to the historical dictionaries, and to essays in historical and contemporary semantics, we are quite beyond the range of the “proper meaning.” We find a history and complexity of meanings; conscious changes, or consciously different uses; innovation, obsolescence, specialization, extension, overlap, transfer; or changes which are masked by a nominal continuity so that words which seem to have been there for centuries, with continuous general meanings, have come in fact to express radically different or radi-

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cally variable, yet sometimes hardly noticed, meanings and implications of meaning.25

According to the lexicographers working in the Andes, Quechua lacked words for some universal concepts and material objects that the Europeans considered necessary elements of existence. The early Quechua dictionaries are similar in their elicitation lists, yet there are also major differences between them. The Lexicon, published in 1560 by the Dominican priest Santo Tomás, was the result of ten years of study. According to Sabine Dedenbach-­Salazar Sáenz, the Lexicon was definitely oriented to the Spanish speaker learning the Quechua language: the Spanish-­Quechua section is made up of 6,200 entries, while the second part (Quechua-­Spanish) contains only half that number.26 Santo Tomás warns his Christian readers that Quechua is not monolithic; his dictionary includes many regional terms—“terminos de provincias particulares” (terminology from particular provinces)—with different regional pronunciations: “No todos pronuncian los mismos terminos de vna manera” (Not everyone pronounces words the same way).27 From his simple, often one-­word entries, it is evident that Santo Tomás worked with two major branches of Quechua: the dialects of the central and peripheral regions.28 Santo Tomás’ 1560 dictionary follows the alphabetical order original to Nebrija and thus contains some 207 blank spaces to indicate that no Quechua word representing the meaning of the Spanish vocabulary item was found.29 Most of these blank spaces occur with Spanish terms that reflect an exclusively European frame of reference: terms for foods (apio/celery, pulpo/octopus, frutal/fruit-­bearing tree), an herb associated with magic (verbena/vervain), as well as metals (azogue/mercury) and items of war (malla/chain mail). Words for Spanish governance were useful in dictionaries during the centuries of the Spanish Empire, but these concepts apparently were not found for Quechua: reyno (kingdom), audiencia (a high court or a jurisdiction), reduzir (to govern well, as in bringing order), and eredar por testamento (to inherit legally). The priests were unable to discover behavioral attributes common to the Spanish; blanks were left for abaxar lo soberbio (to bring down an arrogant person), competitivo (competitive), desconfiar (to distrust), and someter (to subdue). Alfredo Torrero accounts for some of the blank spaces by suggesting that the Quechua-­Spanish section of the dictionary was hastily written, perhaps drawn up from field notes, as the number of entries is curtailed and the order is disrupted when items for “Q” are placed between “S” and “T.”30 There are some relevant cultural entries that provide comparisons of an Andean context and the European sphere in this 1560 dictionary. Commerce

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could not be defined from a European perspective; Quechua lacked vocabulary for concepts such as estimar tassar (to set the price of and to tax) or sueldo ganar (to earn a salary). Mercadería (merchandise or trade goods) is missing in Quechua equivalents, as is arrendar (to lease). Yet trocar (to barter or exchange) is given in Quechua as randini, and almoneda (auction) is catocona. Reflective of incipient European-­based economic systems, fiar (to buy on credit) has no gloss while pagar deuda (to pay a debt) is glossed as payllani. Similarly, many Christian concepts could not be glossed, such as sacrificio de hombre (human sacrifice), asolver de pecado (the rite of forgiveness of sin), and penitencia (penance). Yet, surprisingly, the words for sin are clearly defined: peccado/hocha/sin, peccador/hochayoc hochallicoc/sinner, and peccar generalmente/ hochallicuni/to sin in general. And, in particular, much attention is given to specific carnal sins, even though carnal, cosa de carne (a generic thing of the flesh) remains blank. The biological processes of women’s bodies are described in this dictionary: to abort, to menstruate, to cause an abortion, an infertile woman. While cornudo (cuckold) remains blank, many Quechua words denote adultery, loss of virginity, a virginal state, female genitalia, and solicitation of sex, and there are several terms for prostitute. Three Quechua dictionaries that followed Santo Tomás’ pioneering lexicography were based on the southern Peruvian dialects of Quechua, not on the dialects of the coast. The grammar and dictionary of 1586, called “anonymous” in the literature, clearly identifies the printer but neglects to name the author.31 Whoever the lexicographer may have been, the dictionary was a most popular one, reprinted several times. This dictionary is the most useful for studying the Quechua of the Catholic texts of 1584 and 1585 (the doctrines, the confessional, and the sermons). There are some 7,000 entries in the Spanish-­Quechua division, and 5,600 in the Quechua-­Spanish.32 The Quechua dictionary of 1586, Vocabulario y phrasis en la lengua general de los indios del Perú, llamada Quichua, differs significantly from the text written by Santo Tomás.33 Published in the Andes in an era when the clergy were intent on conversion and standardizing methods of indoctrination, as seen in the Third Lima Provincial Council of 1582–1583, this dictionary goes into considerable depth for entries that Santo Tomás left blank. Reduzir, left undefined in 1560, is now well fleshed out: alli cauzaymanmi pussampuni (lit., to lead to a good life), as the pace of “civilizing” the native Andeans was increasing.34 “Inheritance,” also formerly blank, is now defined simply as chacra; normally denoting a “field for planting,” this definition reveals in connotation that the Spanish had begun to understand indigenous patterns of inheritance. While the 1560 dictionary included some vocabulary of commerce (to barter, to auction), this one includes evidence that markets are specialized

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and given space in colonial daily life: aycha catu (meat market) and zara catu (corn market).35 A glance at selected vocabulary also reveals the extent to which the cultural context was understood by the priest-lexicographers. For instance, in the Quechua section, añay is delimited as “women’s speech” and is defined as an interjection used to praise an insignificant object or comment on a tasty morsel.36 Similarly, vocabulary of ritual is included, such as the “white camelid without any spots that is used in sacrifices by Indians,” or huacarpaña.37 Some entries allude to pagan religious practices such as “to make a blood sacrifice” (arpani) and “to sacrifice drawing lines of blood” ( pirani), despite attempts to stamp out such practices.38 Surprisingly, “confession” is blank on the Spanish-­ Quechua pages, yet the verb for indigenous confession, alluding to sinful acts told to shaman-­priests by use of straw, is included in the Quechua-­Spanish vocabulary.39 However, “contrition,” puticuy, llaquicuy, yuyaycucuy,40 shows a nuanced understanding of the Quechua semantic fields (to be sad, to be sad and contrite, to be sad and thoughtful) in the dictionary. Much more reduced in size, the Jesuit priest Diego Torres Rubio’s dictionary (originally printed in 1603) was embedded in his Arte de la lengua quichua, and its vocabulary lists were consequently limited, with some 3,300 total entries, in both Spanish and Quechua.41 Despite its restricted scope, however, Torres Rubio’s dictionary was useful and was reprinted in Seville (1613) and in Lima (1619). The 1619 version allows us to see his formulation of cultural contrasts.42 In the Spanish entries there is considerable effort to name articles of daily life that belong to the native Andeans. For instance, he pointedly specifies indigenous items, camiseta de yndio uncu (Indian shirt) as opposed to Spanish clothing; he specifically lists “drinking container” as vupiana (presumably for Spaniards) and also cites the indigenous “wooden drinking vessel” as quero. Other lexemes draw a distinction in cultural categories designating natives who can carry out tasks for the Spanish. Notably, tasqui (also spelled tazqui) denotes a young girl (muchacha) whereas china denotes a young servant girl.43 Sexual vocabulary also is prominent. There is heightened interest in insemination (engendrar, yumani ), as well as in a male couple having intercourse (huauça).44 There are no blank spaces for Christian concepts such as “to create out of nothing,” “the devil,” and God. The equivalents are listed prominently in the Quechua section: camani, cupay, and çapac Dios.45 Quechua lexemes now are included to present economic terminology: manu (debt); chani (price); and rantini (to buy and to sell), with no explanation of the semantic field of the concept in this very attenuated dictionary of the seven‑ teenth century.46 Diego González Holguín’s seventeenth-­century Quechua dictionary bene-

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fited from collaboration with native speakers and draws on lexemes used in the Cuzco area. In this 1608 dictionary, we see greater interest in providing a complete listing of Quechua lexemes, which outnumber those in Spanish. Particularly useful are the numerous entries based on derivations and compounds of the roots, which differ from the sparse glosses of earlier dictionaries. Attentive to conversion of the natives, González Holguín often notes which Christian concepts are lacking in Quechua, and we see clearly the selection of Quechua lexicons compressed to fit those European configurations: Aduiertese que los indios no tenian vocablos de todo lo espiritual ni vicios, ni virtudes, ni de la otra vida y estados de ella, y este Vocabulario da copia desto, que es muy necessario para predicar y catechizar. Be advised that the Indians do not have words for spiritual matters or vices, or virtues, or for the afterlife and the stages within it, and this Vocabulary reflects that, for it is necessary to preach and to catechize.47

González Holguín, writing from the immediacy of the need to catechize the indigenous peoples of the Andes, produced a commentary that reflected root forms as well as fully inflected and derived Quechua words. But, as Bruce Mannheim cautions, “even though González Holguín was an exceptionally careful observer, he based his entries on unsystematic elicitations in both languages, essentially a ‘card file.’ The entries sometimes make sense in terms of a Quechua cultural logic and sometimes make sense in Spanish.”48 For instance, the entries for the Trinity and God and the angels in González Holguín’s Spanish-­Quechua section convey the difficulty of instructing native converts. The question of bodily substance is an obstacle for the lexicographer, as seen from the entry for “Persona Divina” (Divine Being) as well as other entries on the same page: Persona Diuina, no es, ni ay Diospa sayaynin, que no ay en Dios sayay, que es estatura, sino en Christo solo por ser hombre, y en el angel no ay sayaynin, sino es quando aparece en cuerpo visible. Divine Being is not [corporeal], there is no God’s fleshly presence, because there is no fleshly presence, or stature, but only in Christ, who is a man, and in an angel there is no fleshly presence, except when the angel becomes visible.49

This explanation is intricately interwoven with the Quechua concept of “presence,” expressed by saya-­. When turning to the Quechua-­Spanish pages,

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though, we see little of the theological explanation but instead find a more common reference to size, to stand in front of one, or physical presence. In fact, the Quechua entry Diospa sayaynimpi (to be in the presence of God) avoids any discussion of invisible deities as opposed to carnal beings.50 Pecado = Hucha: Sinful Equivalents? A good illustration of the implications of meaning equivalents in the colonial Quechua-­Spanish dictionaries is the distinction between cama and hucha, synonyms for sin. Santo Tomás’ dictionary is singular in that only one word, hucha/hochan, is glossed for “sin.”51 Hochallicuni.gui is not only “to sin” but also “to do bad in general” (hazer mal generalmente). Fused with the concept of sin is the act of finding out faults (culpas) as well as pardoning these faults.52 Decades later, however, two words—not one—are given as equivalents of “to sin” in the anonymous dictionary of 1586 (hucha cama and huchallicuni camallicuni).53 While cama was given equal weight in the original entry, to designate “venial sin,” “mortal sin,” “original sin,” and “carnal sin,” hucha later became the preferred lexeme for conveying Christian theology. Torres Rubio’s dictionary lists only one verb for “to sin” (hochallicuni ).54 Cama is glossed as “sin” ( pecado) and paired with hucha ( pecado, culpa) in González Holguín’s seventeenth-­century dictionary. Frequently, the two nouns and their verbal forms are presented in comparable simultaneity in many entries for sinning and negotiating deals: Camallicuni, huchallicuni. Pecar [to sin]. Camallicuk o huchallicuk. El pecador [sinner]. Camaymi huchaymi chay. Yo tengo la culpa [That’s my fault, my sin]. Camachanihuchachani. Importunar, o impedir importunamente [to press someone for something, persistently, or to obstruct in a pressing manner].55 Hucha, o cama. Peccado o negocio o pleyto [sin or business or lawsuit]. Huchachani camachani . . . Pedir importunamente instar insistir demasiado [to ask for something insistently, to urge, to insist too much].56

There is some consistency with the Aymara language. This same lexical insistence on cama as equivalent to hucha is also apparent in Ludovico Bertonio’s 1603 Aymara dictionary, where both again are glossed as “sin.”57 Despite the semantic similarities set forth in the dictionary entries where the two words are referred to as “sin” ( pecado) and “solicitation of business or favors” ( pedir), in other contexts, the two words possess different semantic referentials. If we disregard the obvious Christian assimilation expressed in

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the definition of hucha as “sin,” a more accurate sense of the original meaning is discerned. Hucha, as found in context, is often associated with what is owed but has not yet been settled up, sort of a debt to society kept track of on a large balance sheet. This is the meaning that would emerge from this seventeenth-­ century phrase describing the quipucamayocs, the account keepers: “Tawantin Suyo huchó tasa yma hayca uata quillatauan quipococ yupacoc,” which, translated literally, means “Twantinsuyo [the entire Inca territory] debt/obligation, for however many years or moon phases, [there is] the ‘quipo’ specialist, the counting specialist.”58 In this phrase, taken from Guaman Poma’s manuscript, there is less of the negative, guilt-­ridden nature of hucha as sin in the Christian tradition. Here, hucha involves a linking of law and transactions with an all-­encompassing concern for morality. As Gerald Taylor and R. T. Zuidema have noted, principal among Andean societal transactions was the carrying out of ritual responsibilities.59 Many rituals, where sacrifice was made of beautiful and unblemished human subjects, were important and splendid ceremonies that acknowledged the primacy of agriculture and harvests. Nonperformance of ritual duties could place the entire community in peril.60 In his analysis of the myths of Huarochirí, Gerald Taylor asserts that in the less acculturated passages in the Quechua text a person often dies or falls ill as a result of the lack of observation of ritual obligations, hence a “lack.”61 Most often, hucha implies a transgression or blunder on the part of the offender. Carmen Bernand has linked hucha with a physical deficiency that must be atoned for, for the sake of society.62 Santo Tomás’ 1560 dictionary attributes entirely negative qualities to hucha, as in the reference to “doing bad things in general.”63 By 1608, González Holguín is informed of similar connotations for hucha, hazer falla, o falta, o tener culpa (to make a mistake, to be guilty), and hazer torpemente las cosas, o tropeçar y dañarlo (to halfheartedly do something or to stumble or to damage something).64 Emphasized here is an impediment to harmonious relations implied in torpemente, where the agent-­doer does not exhibit goodwill in the activity or a person stumbles and creates damage. This latter meaning is given more potential when hucha is combined with the verb hacllik to mean “el que estorua impide . . . el que no obra por el bien de todos sino por el suyo” (he who obstructs, impedes, he who does not labor for the good of all).65 In this definition, it is emphasized that individual actions subvert the common good and that one labors for one’s own benefit (“por el suyo”). That selfishness of heightened ego involvement is conveyed in González Holguín’s concrete image of a horse that eats the crops that have been sown: “huchaçapallana caballo es lo que come en los sembrados.”66 The horse is depriving many others of the food that could be used to sustain them and there-

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fore is a “big transgressor.” Margot Beyersdorff describes the many definitions of hucha as sinful, as listed in González Holguín: “sinful actions,” “committers of sins,” “names for sins and sinful actions,” “terms for officials,” and verbs for “insisting and soliciting.” While originally the term might have been used for accounts drawn up by Incan officials, with the ecclesiastic influence, hucha was appropriated to “designate an accounting and just retribution for infringements of the norms of Christian behavior.”67 In fact, Gary Urton has linked the functions of sins, confession, and accounting books in a masterly way.68 How does cama differ from hucha? The “Annotaciones” of the sixteenth-­ century Doctrina christiana warn translators of the ample semantic pitfalls of cama: Este nombre cama, tiene varios significados, quando es substantiuo, significa merito de merito, dignidad, pecado &c. y quando es adjectiuo, digno merecedor, y doneo, apto, capaz como ingenio, o lugar, quando es verbo significa criar de la nada o señala a alguno para officio o dignidad inde camac criador que es equivalente de rurac, camasca criado. This word cama has many meanings, when it is a noun, the most meritorious, dignity, and sin, etc., and when it is an adjective, worthy and dignified and gifted, competent, very capable like a genius, or a place, when it is a verb, it means to create out of nothing or indicates someone for a position, or respect inde camac creator is equivalent to rurac, camasca created.69

Cama has received a lot of study and generally refers to an animating force originating from a regional deity or ancestor, as Gerald Taylor suggests.70 Noted in the sixteenth-­century text cited above, the word cama denotes the presence of a force that transfers energy enabling a thing to come into existence. However, Frank Salomon, following Taylor, reminds us that this concept of animation differs from the Christian version of the creation in Genesis. In the Quechua belief system, matter already exists; the animator (the cama) infuses spirit and existence into the matter: “Camac . . . seems to suggest a being abounding in energy as physical as electricity or body warmth, not an abstraction or mental archetype.”71 Cama can imply debt and obligation to the community, for the originating force emanates from the deities. As we know from studies of reciprocity in the Andes, these gods and ancestors required ceremonial functions and worship to bestow this animating cama on earthly substances and human beings. There were all-­powerful deities and also local deities; both were endowed with cama: “The great coastal deity Pacha Camac bears in his very name . . . an all-­embracing function as the vitalizer

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of worldwide realities, while local huacas animate smaller entities,” according to Salomon.72 Moreover, Taylor cautions how this root, cama-­, increasingly is associated with witchcraft, infused with a spirit by a shaman, revealing its pre-­Hispanic origins.73 In general, cama is linked with the sense of obligation, as seen in one entry, “camaymi: Mi merecido es, o lo que me cabe, o me pertenece de premio, o castigo, o mi oficio, o obligacion” (My esteemed [person], or what is owed to me, or what belongs to me as a reward, or a punishment, or my position or my obligation).74 Here, although the context varies, all clauses lead to a sense of justice, of merit or demerit being parceled out. Other dictionary entries convey the meaning of putting things in place for cama as opposed to the disharmony denoted in the use of hucha. The dictionary of 1586 emphasizes a sense of order in cama with the glosses for camani: “caber algo en su lugar” (to fit well into a place) and the pairing up, the evening up of entities in the verb camarini: “aparejar algo” (to be paired up).75 González Holguín’s 1608 dictionary entries maintain the ordering and correctional function of cama as seen in the definitions of caber algo (to fit in), medir grano (to measure grain), and mi obligacion camay (my obligation).76 Gerald Taylor is convinced that cama had a parallel evolution similar to that of hucha: “a partir de un sentido de base de ‘deber, obligación.’ ” Apparently it acquired a meaning derived from “a debt not repaid, an obligation not carried out,” similar to the relationship in Spanish between deber (to owe) and deuda (debt).77 In spite of the supposed synonymity of the semantic range, hucha, not cama, became the lexeme of choice to express sin in Catholic texts translated into Quechua. Perhaps the positive connotations of cama as “power,” for regeneration and existence, reminded the Quechua-­speaking converts of better days, when other deities were in control of the Andean world. The negatively inscribed hucha—discord—was much more useful a term for the Catholics. A similar reductionism was seen with the Quechua word supay where the negative connotation (as devil) was disseminated by the priests and the more neutral, positive connotation (of a spirit essence) was obliterated. Thus, hucha became the common word used by the priests for “sin,” and it was imposed on the Andean converts. By 1584, in the “Vocablos dificultosos” (Difficult words) of the Doctrina christiana, the expressions for mortal and venial sin depend on hucha: huañuy hucha and huahua hucha (lit., deadly sin and baby sin), and “original sin” is described as “callari parichisca hucha.”78 Yet, in the text of the Creed there is only hucha. The text of the first Quechua-­Spanish confession manual (1585) also illustrates this preference for a simple form to designate “sin”: “Cunan confessacuncayquipacri, huchayquita allilla yuyacuspachu

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hamunqui?” (In order to confess your sins at this moment, do you come [here] having well thought [remembered] your sins?).79 However, in ritual expression and its particular wording, many lexemes are preserved and lexical domains amplified, despite the efforts of the Catholic priests. In this excerpt from seventeenth-­century testimony in the northern part of the Andes, the shaman-­priest confessor describes worship of numerous deities, illness rampant in the community, sinfulness, and the desire that sin be carried away. The prayer is coded, hierarchical, and ethnographically relevant. Significantly, both cama and hucha appear with meanings of “sin”: Irka yaya qutu yaya, punchaw yaya, atun wara yaya, hacha guanca yaya, chuchu quyllur, unquy waraq, Yanac yaku mama, Llaclla yaku mama, ..... Panpachay uchanta, kamanta, kananqa llumpallay [. . .] Runap uchanta, kamanta, apay mama quchoman. Lord of the Mountain Lord of the Sacred Mound Lord of the Day Lord of Morning Star Lord of the Acha Guanca the Twin Stars the Pleiades Mother source of the Yanac River Mother source of the Llaclla River ..... Bury [Forgive] the sins the transgressions cleanse them now [. . .]

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Carry the people’s sins the transgressions to the sacred sea-­lake.80

Within the ambience of an indigenous confession, the shaman-­confessor pronounced—in one speech act—the two lexemes for “sin” commonly found in Quechua at contact, both hucha (here as ucha) and cama (here as kama). While the Catholic priests had long ago channeled expression using one noun, hucha, in this example of indigenous utterance we have an instance of the survival of an earlier semantic item, cama, that does not conform to the Catholic theological prescriptions. The dependence on this word pair (hucha and cama) is called forth by the patterning of couplets in Quechua lyric (appositive, syntactical, or equivalent, for example).81 Here, the pairing is set up so that the second element in the lexical pair is a close-­knit equivalence but varies subtly in its field of semantic reference. Thus, here, the first item is hucha, allowing for the sense of debt and disorder, while cama is glossed with the implicit significance of noncompliance with ritual obligations. Both types of infraction are to be carried away from the sinful Andean site to the sacred lake source and thus forgiven. The Cultural Categories of Sin The privileging of hucha established the nomenclature of sin as a categorical noun; however, the particular acts of sin had yet to be defined by the priests. Colonial sources regarding the sins that might be considered hucha, whether confessed to indigenous confessors or to the Catholic priests, are scarce. As seen in the Quechua words for “sin” (hucha, cama), dictionary sources stress the sociopolitical transgressions against society, actions that imperiled the harvests or the well-­being of the Inca ruler. These “faults” were often committed by the ayllu, extended family group. They were “transgressions” such as not carrying out ceremonial rites for the sacred huacas. Some actions might be pinned on an individual—stealing, killing, or committing to a long-­term relationship with a woman who was already seen as “paired up” by the community—but most often the individual act had great consequences for the entire community. There was some overlap between the Catholic and the native belief systems regarding violations of the social order. Appended to the Confessionario of 1585 is a statement written by Juan Polo de Ondegardo that summarizes the items that Quechua speakers considered transgressions in Incan society:

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Lo primero, matar vno a otro fuera dela guerra. Item tomar la muger ajena. Ite[m] dar yeruas, o hechizos para hazer mal. Item hurtar. Y por muy notable peccado tenian el descuydo en la veneracion de sus guacas: y el quebra[n]tar sus fiestas: y el dezir mal de Inga: y el no obedecerle. No se acusauan de peccados y actos interiores. The first, killing someone other than in circumstances of war. Next, taking someone else’s woman. Next, using herbs or spells to accomplish bad ends. Next, stealing. Next, a most grievous sin was not complying with the ceremonies of the guaca [variant spelling of huaca] deities: not observing their fiestas: speaking badly of the Inca, not obeying him. They did not accuse themselves of sins of thought or desire.82

From the perspective of Catholic beliefs, one could read these sins as similar to European norms: acts of homicide, adultery, necromancy, theft, not respecting the ruling Inca, and not worshipping the deities in the proper manner were familiar concepts. But the sins of thought and desire were clearly a category that was a new theological concept. Other contemporary sources often listed the same litany of offenses. Father Bartolomé Álvarez, the shrewd sixteenth-­century observer who lived among the indigenous peoples, noted some sins or prohibitions he found uttered in the communities of the southern Andes: incest, the sin of theft, killing by poisonous herbs, and disobedience of the commands of the Inca.83 In the seventeenth century, the priest Fernando Avendaño listed a short number of sins confessed to the shaman-­priests that he found in Cajatambo: theft, living with more than one woman, homicide, disobedience of the Inca.84 Although a few sources mention prescribed times for regional confessions, notably, the time of the appearance of the Pleiades, often the onset of an illness or the evidence of adverse agricultural conditions was enough to provoke public confessions among the native peoples with their own local confessor-­ shamans. This is the case for some events described by Father Álvarez, who personally observed many deathbed confessions when an infirm sinner was urged to identify the source of his ills: Cuando alguno enferma: juntarse toda la parentela, o los que son de aquella casa, pocos o muchos; y entrellos un viejo—y si no le había, cualquier que fuese varón—, y confesaban al enfermo diciendo que se confesase para que sanase. Lo cual el demonio les dio—ciegos con aquella mala usanza, la cual mudarles es muy dificultoso—no pudiesen venir en conocimiento de la confesión verdadera.

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When someone is ill, all the relatives get together, or those that live in that dwelling—few of them or many—; and among them an old man—and if there was no elder, then any man—and the ill one was confessed, and they told him to confess to cure himself. The devil gave them the confession format—blind they are with that old usage, so that changing the [custom] is not possible—so they do not recognize the true confession [the Christian sacrament].85

Carmen Bernand’s research links the concept of hucha to cataclysmic telluric occurrences, when the world is out of balance. For instance, when a woman was seduced by the rainbow and became pregnant, she had to expiate to resolve this monstrous event: “En somme la hucha ouvre une négociation que les humains doivent mener a terme pour rétablir l’ordre de la vie” (Generally, the “sin” functions as a means by which humans reestablish order in their lives).86 Estenssoro Fuchs, on the other hand, is less certain that these ceremonies of “confession” are a revelation of sins, as in the Christian sacrament, but instead he sees the indigenous acts as rites of adivination: “[una] transgresión a identificar ad post, tras un síntoma, como el procedimiento adivinatorio” (a transgression to identify ad post, following a symptom, as a divinitory process).87 Two late-­seventeenth-­century texts, obtained through a visita, interrogations carried out among indigenous communities in the northern Andes (Cajamarca area), reveal the subtleties between the two belief systems regarding sin—the Christian and the Quechua—as recorded in the transcripts of the religious trials. Although these were forced confessions following a structured program of the visita, often the accused and the witnesses from the indigenous communities offered a glimpse at the categories of belief in 1656. Except for occasional phrases, we read these records only in Spanish transcriptions. Yet, enough detail is given to follow the thread of discourse regarding the sins being confessed, or not being confessed. We read of many sins told to Alonso Ricariy, who was accused of being a shaman-­confessor by the witness Andrés Chaupi Yauri: Y asimesmo uio este testigo que lo que tenian por pecado era boluer a las amigas que abian tenido y no haçer honras a sus malquis y si la muger con quien trataba (o mugeres) no se hubiesse metido con otro hombre aunque tratasse con ella muchos años no era pecado sino es quando se hubiesse metido con dicho hombre y boluiesse otra bez a ella entonzes era pecado. Y asimesmo no lo era el tener pensamiento y desear otra qualquiera muger ni menos el desear matar otro hurtarle su haçienda ni todo genero de

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pensamiento malo ni tampoco tocar y tactos lasçibos ni el tener con las amigas con sus parientes y mugeres y de hermanos era pecado lebantar testimonio no era pecado ni jurar falso en nombre de Dios pero el jurar a su antigualla que era coger un poco de tierra de su pueblo y deçir Caymi alpay Caymi marcay beis aqui mi tierra beis aqui el pueblo y besando la dicha tierra fuesse mentira lo que deçia era grauissimo pecado. Y no lo era el perder el respecto a sus padres y a sus mayores esconder dichos pecados suso referidos a sus confessores era grauissimo pecado quando se confesaban. And thus, this witness observed that what they believed to be a sin was to return to their female friends, to not honor the mummy/deities, and if the woman or women with whom he had relations had not been paired up with another man, although the relationship went back many years, it was not regarded as a sin. Only if she had been with another man and he came back to her after that was it considered a sin. And it was not sinful to think of sinning and desiring any other woman, nor to think of killing someone and stealing his lands, or any type of bad thought. Lascivious touch was not a sin, nor to have [sexual] contact with friends of one’s relatives and one’s wives and one’s brothers. Testifying falsely in the name of God was not a sin, but swearing in the ancient manner was sinful, such as picking up a handful of earth from your pueblo and saying Caymi alpay Caymi marcay, “Here is my land, here is my territory,” and kissing that handful of earth might be a lie, and was a serious sin. And it was not a sin to lack respect for one’s parents or the elders, but hiding sins from the confessors was a serious sin in the rite of confession.88

Another transcription from the same region reveals similar items expressed in confession, or items to be hidden in confession, according to the testimony of Juan Guaraz in the town of Santo Domingo de Pariac in 1656: Y los que tenian por pecados son tratar dos bezes con una muger y si un [in]dio tiene una muger soltera con quien trata no es pecado pero si trato vn tiempo con dos el que buelbe a ella sauiendolo es pecado y tratar con casada es pecado y con soltera no lo es ni los pensamientos que tienen no lo son ni aborrecer a otros ni deseo de hurtar ni [testado: casarse] desear negras o indias o españolas era pecado ni ayunar dias de vigilia y adorar las Guacas en pecado era pecado dormir con muchas mugeres no es pecado y adorar a Dios era pecado y acabando de adorar las Guacas y de haçer los dichos ayunos entrando en la yglesia era grauissimo pecado y de la manera que se confessaban era asi.

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And what they held for sins is having repeated relationships with a woman; if an indigenous man has a regular relationship with an unattached woman it is not a sin, but if he was involved for a while with two women, he who returns to her willfully, it is a sin; and sexual involvement with a married woman is a sin, but with an unattached woman is not, nor are the thoughts of this sinful, nor are the thoughts of hating someone sinful, nor a desire to steal, nor marrying, nor was lusting after black women or Indian women or Spanish women a sin, nor was fasting on days of vigil sinfully adoring the guaca deities a sin, nor was it a sin to sleep with many women, and adoring the Christian god was a sin, and entering the church after adoring the guaca deities and fasting was a serious sin, and the way they confessed was thus.89

In these two testimonies, the Incan-­era sins, before the Spanish invasion, are repeated: sins of theft; sins of not honoring the deities with the prescribed ceremonies; having sexual relations with a woman who was living with another man. Sins of sexuality are given high priority, yet there is a decidedly active protest against what they have heard in mass or in catechism sessions. Generally, from the indigenous point of view, relationships with many women were acceptable, especially if the woman was not “paired up” and a “soltera.” Sex with an unattached woman, even if she were a friend of a relative or related to a brother, was not a sin. Erotic touch was not a sin. Neither were thoughts deemed sinful: of theft or hateful thoughts about others, or about killing someone to take over his land, or about lustful desire for black or indigenous or Spanish women. The adherence to Incan patterns of worship is seen in condemnation of betrayal of their Andean gods, such as worship of the Christian God, not fasting during a sacred period of huaca worship, or fasting in honor of the huacas and then going to church. These were sins to be confessed to a shaman-­confessor. Furthermore, what also can be discerned within these transcripts is preservation of Quechua ethnicity and the voice of their resistance to the Spanish “civilizing project.” One of the major offenses was the consumption of Spanish foods: Y asimesmo vio este testigo que los pecados de sacrilegio que confesaban eran que quando estaban en las mitas de los tambos en tiempo que hacian chacras y sacrifiçios a los dichos malquis y honras [a los] ydolos eran el aber comido sal agi pescado carne de obejas çebollas ajos coles y otras comidas de los españoles porque les llaman Racchaymicuna o yanamicuna y el beber uino.

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And thus, this witness observed that the sins of sacrilege that they confessed when they were carrying out their rotational turn of mita [labor] in the waystation tambos at the time of year when they worked the fields and sacrificed to the mummies and honored the idols, were sins that they had eaten salt, chili pepper, fish, lamb meat, onions, garlic, and other Spanish foods, because they call them racchaymicuna, “poor person’s food” or “worthless food” [ yanamicuna], and that they drank wine.90

To reestablish order in their world, they eschewed European foods, and the testimony gives long lists of what not to eat and drink: lamb meat, onions, garlic, cabbage, and wine, labeled racchaymicuna or yanamicuna (food for a subordinate class of workers). Over and over again, in the testimony of the accused, there are references to idolatry seen from a Christian perspective. Church officials were persistent in asking if the native Andean villagers were idolaters and shaman-­confessors. Most answered yes. Asked why they worshipped the stars and the mountains, these villagers constantly spoke of the need to increase the population, to secure enough to eat, of their fear of being unable to clothe themselves. The accused Alonso Ricariy readily admitted that he had led his community away from belief in Christianity. Asked if he used his status as a shaman-­confessor “a mandado a los yndios que no adoren a Dios ni acuden a la yglessia a reçar ni confiessen con su cura mas que el que no oyen missa y comen carne los biernes” (to command the Indians not to worship God, not to go to church to pray, not to confess their sins in church to the Christian priests but to come to him instead, not to go to mass, and to eat meat on Fridays), Ricariy answered yes. He also volunteered more information: that he urged his people not to worship God but to worship their own deities, “que no adoren a Dios sino sus Camaquenes Guacas ydolos y malquis porque estos les daban de bestir y de comer y tambien que no fuessen a la yglessia ni se confesasen con sus curas mas pecados que los que les pregunta” (that they not worship God but instead their camaquenes creators, their sacred places, idols, and mummies, because these had provided them with clothing and with food, and also he told them to not go to church, or confess any other sins than those which the priest asks them).91 Domingo Paucarmanya in San Juan de Machaca (1567), denouncing the idolaters in his community, likewise revealed the ritual fasts in honor of the guacas and the confessions with the native shamans. These confessants also were given instructions about exactly what to confess to the Catholic priests and exactly what to confess to the shaman-­confessors by the indigenous community leaders:

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Y mandaban que con sus curas no confesasen mas de que comian carne en viernes y no oyan misa ni ayunaban y domatisaban los yndios que no adorasen el dios de los españoles porque no era su camaquen ni les daba sus comidas beuidas salud ni uida sino sus mal[quis] que eran sus camaque[ne]s y los que les daban bienes salud y aumento de bienes y que no entrasen en la yglesia quando hasian dichos ayunos y sacrificios porque ensusarian sus ofrendas ni que les confesasen a el dicho el cura estas ydolatrias porque no se supiesen y los castigasen. And they cautioned that with the Catholic priests to not confess any more than that they ate meat on Fridays and did not go to mass nor did they fast, and he instructed the Indians to not worship the God of the Spanish because it was not their Maker [camaquen] nor did the God give them food to eat, drink, good health, or life. Rather, their mummies [malquis] were their creators and were the ones who gave them wealth and health and increases in wealth. They should not enter the church when they were doing the aforementioned fasting and sacrificial rites because they would sully their offerings. And do not even confess these idolatries to the aforementioned priest so he would not find out and punish them.92

Semantic Conversions: Translation For Bartolomé Álvarez, writing in 1588, Christian concepts were not easily translated—the indigenous languages did not provide equivalences: “Una de las causas es faltarles los vocablos dichos que son tocantes a la fe. Cosa llana es que de los vocablos extraños . . . [creo, fe, esencia, espíritu, infierno, limbo, gracia] . . . no podrán creer lo que por ellos se les significa” (One reason [for misunderstanding] is the lack of words regarding faith. It is clear that for rare words like . . . [I believe, faith, essence, spirit, hell, limbo, grace] . . . they cannot believe [in Christianity] because of what it means for them).93 The difficulties of translation in the Andes clearly were evident in the search for the proper word for “sin,” in a period when churchmen were not always convinced that the Andean vernacular languages were worthy of this task. For Catholic scholars to accept the validity of Quechua as a vehicle for the word of God meant a leap of faith. This leap was a movement beyond the belief that Greek or Latin were the perfect languages, “part of an ancient covenant between God and man.”94 For some Renaissance scholars, translation was the means of returning to a language center, participating in the “wordiness” of the divine creation. Translation was hindered by a nostalgic look to the

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past, a Renaissance view “that languages, like men, are the products of a primal archetype, a divinely revealed Ur-­Sprache.”95 Creating a translation into French or Spanish was problematical in this framework, for these languages were less highly regarded in the hierarchy of world languages. Subsequently, a translation from Latin to an indigenous language would be even more fraught with error. As Vicente Rafael has written, the lexicographer Nebrija and the theologian-­translator Fray Luis de León “both presuppose[d] the nonarbitrariness of classical languages, particularly Latin, by virtue of the authority of their original speakers and writers.”96 Therefore, the vernacular languages must be worked on to convey the gravity of the originals and to conform with these classical models of expression. The first Quechua grammar necessarily alluded to the primacy of Latin and mentioned Nebrija’s earlier attempts to have the Spanish language conform to the Latin model. Domingo de Santo Tomás noted the need to impose the ordered format of Latin on Quechua, yet he also wrestled with the problems of carrying out the task: De aqui es, q[ue] entre las cosas mas difficultosas y mas variables en la variacio[n] humana es, dar arte y modo d[e] hablar en cualquier le[n]gua. Y si esto es assi en todas, aun en las mas sabidas, ente[n]didas y vsadas, y d[e] q[ue] ay artes hechas, por varones de grande erudictio[n], quanto mas sera en esta le[n]gua de Peru, ta[n] extraña, tan nu[n]ca hasta agora redduzida a arte, ni puesta debajo de preceptos del? Thus, among the most difficult of things and the most humanly variable, is to create an Arte and means of speaking in any language. And if it is thus in all languages, even the most known, understood, and used, and for which there are Artes written by men of great erudition, how more difficult will be the language of Peru, so rare, so unrestricted to an Arte until now, nor subject to the rules of grammar?97

It was a major undertaking to produce a formal grammar of the language, to reduce the target language to an ur-­model. Indeed, recognizing the grammatical structure of Quechua was crucial to the project of conversion. It is quite another matter to translate the tenets of accepted Christian doctrine into Quechua. In the zeal to convert the heathens, many catechisms were translated to indigenous languages for use in the various monastic orders; precisely because of these individual interpretations and idiosyncratic translations, church authorities were alarmed. Certainly, these manuscripts (by Juan de Betanzos, Bishop Sebastián de Lartaún, and others) were consulted when

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the translators began their work on the translation of doctrine at the close of the sixteenth century. Accomplished translators—Juan de Balboa, Alonso Martínez, Bartolomé de Santiago, and Francisco Carrasco—formed a team; they signed their names at the conclusion of the pages of the Doctrina christiana. Another group of language experts—Juan de Alamaraz, Pedro Bedón, Alonso Díaz, Lorenzo González, Blas Valera, and Martín de Soto—checked the accuracy of the translations.98 Thus, the combination of theological talent and expertise in the languages of Peru produced a work that supposedly would end the “confusion” regarding the varied terminology and the discrepancies in the doctrinal teaching in the various proto-­parishes of native peoples. These noted scholars of Quechua were not of one voice regarding translation. Commentary embedded in the pages allows us to glimpse this: Aun que ouiesse cosas, q[ue] por ventura se pudieran dezir mejor de otra suerte (que forçoso es que aya sie[m]pre enesto de traductio[n] diversas opiniones), pero hase juzgado, y lo es menos inconueniente, que se passe por alguna menos perfection que tenga por ventura la traduction: que no dar lugar a que aya variedad y discordias. Although there might be some things that perhaps could be better said by another means (how difficult it is that there is always a question of differing opinions in translation), it is determined that it is less inconvenient to carry on with less perfection in the translation: instead of giving in to a variety of translations and discord.99

Fortunately, the “Annotaciones” appended to the doctrinal texts of 1584 allow us to trace the thought processes that entered into the selection of Quechua equivalences. The vocabulary lists of the difficult concepts often consider matters of style and also provide a short sentence in context. For instance, simpler diction is contrasted with an “elegant style” spoken in the region of Cuzco. “You love God” is given in the syntactically correct “Diosta muñaqui” of everyday speech. Yet paired with it in the same paragraph is “Diosma[n] so[n]co canqui” (lit., toward God your heart is), which makes use of the metaphorical topic of “heart” common to both cultures.100 There is semantic flexibility written up in the Andean priests’ approach to translation in the Andes. Often the “Annotaciones” provide a glimpse of the intent to translate, as they state, “meaning for meaning instead of word for word.”101 For example, the concept of cuscachay as a lexeme for “justice” is explained in a context that assures the validity of the choice: “Cuscachay viene de cuscachani, por ygualar, emparejar, allanar, ajustar, enderreçar lo tuerto,

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y tomarse propiame[n]te por justicia” (Cuscachay comes from cuscachani, for equaling, pairing up, to level out, to adjust, to straighten out a one-­eyed person, to be used correctly for “justice”).102 In choosing a Quechua equivalent for this European concept of justice, the lexographers selected a common lexeme that was linked to the cultural metaphor of reciprocity. This “adjusting, equaling, pairing up” is privileged in Inca concepts of space, regulation of local territories and lands of the state, and ceremonies of work parties and gift giving (see chapter 5). Another example of semantic conversion is given by the priests who grap­ pled with the concept of “belief.” They settled on the verb ñini, which is equivalent to “to speak, to say,” but in general usage it also meant “to intend to, to think.” It became “to believe” as the priests and linguists molded the verb to their purposes. Their reason for this choice is stated in the “Annotaciones”: “Yñini creer, sentir, conceder, viene de, y, que significa si, y de ñini que significa dezir, y es lo mismo que en otras partes dizen ariñim, checan ñini, llullallam ñini” (Yñini, to believe, to feel, to agree in acknowledgment, comes from y, which means “yes,” and from niñi, which means “to say,” and is the same thing they say in other regions, ariñim, checan ñini, llullallam ñini).103 Following the reasoning of the translators as revealed in this statement, the priests acknowledged that this verb had a wide semantic field: to feel deeply, to concede, to “believe.” It was restricted and even more forceful when a y was attached to the root, so that “Yes” ( y) was paired with “to say.” This “yes, I say” acknowledged Christianity and submission to that belief system; “Yñini,” therefore, is equivalent to the Christian “I believe.” Bruce Mannheim provides this explanation and claims yñini is obviously a neologism, a verb created to convey the inner state of an individual.104 However, Alan Durston would emphasize ñi- as a delocutive verb, which has the ability to fuse with many interjections, of which “Y ” is one; he explains ñini as a common term for “to agree.”105 Years later, Juan de Pérez Bocanegra chose another, more suitable verb to stand in for “belief ” (checanchacu: to be verified, to be true); he thus replaced ñini, the canonical term of the previous century, in his translation of the Creed.106 With some terms, Latin guides the translation, not Spanish. The “Annotaciones” warn that a specific directive from the pope should be heeded in translating “the resurrection of the flesh”: “Porque es aviso del Catecismo del Papa que se diga Carnis; el interprete explique que carne se entiende” (Because it is a caution from the pope’s catechism that one is to use carnis; the interpreter explains that “flesh” is understood).107 The translation of the “Credo” in 1584 follows closely; the Quechua word aycha (whose literal translation is “meat” and “flesh”) is pressed into use: “Aychap cauçarimpuyninta” (the flesh’s in-

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stance of coming alive).108 This is a case of a word-­for-­word substitution for “resurrection of the flesh,” but there still seems to be a need for more clarification on the part of an interpreter, as a similar word for body (ucu) also exists in Quechua. There is a precedent for this translation choice regarding theological terminology. Santo Tomás, in his Lexicon, includes hucu as an alternate spelling of a general word for “body” (ucu).109 Yet in his Platica, instead, he chooses aycha for its sense of a “material” body: “Paykuna [the angels] mana aychayukchu, mana tulluyukchu” (They do not have flesh, they do not have bones).110 Gerald Taylor concludes that the translator(s) avoided the use of ucu “possibly because it is an erudite creation or a rarely used term, or it is generally incomprehensible to many Quechua speakers.”111 In an explicit passage of the 1584 Doctrina christiana, however, both concepts of aycha and ucu appear with the theme of resurrection: “Aychap cauçarimpuynin ñispaca ymactam vnanchanqui?” (The flesh’s coming alive [resurrection], what do you mean?).112 The answer includes ucu, the specific body of each Christian, now indicating that the spirit is reuniting with the body: “Quepa punchaupim llapa runacunap animancuna Diospa callpamanta quiquin vcunman cutipuspa, taripaque[n]” (On the last day many Indian souls, by God’s great powers, to their own bodies returning, come together).113 Tellingly, the use of the Spanish ánima to convey the complex idea of “soul” complicates the message directly enunciated to the convert. The theologians followed the dictates from Rome for “flesh” (aycha) in the question, yet in the description of the union of body and soul in the answer, they turned to ucu. The use of both concepts conveys a mode of being that did not exist before the resurrection: “The idea of conversion is amply realized if the following condition is fulfilled, viz., that a thing which already existed in substance, acquires an altogether new and previously non-­existing mode of being. Thus in the resurrection of the dead, the dust of the human bodies will be truly converted into the bodies of the risen by their previously existing souls, just as at death they had been truly converted into corpses by the departure of the souls.”114 However, even with the lexical choice reduced and determined, what really did the native peoples understand for these words? Was there a belief in an afterlife that preceded the Christian teachings? Father Cobo is one source for the colonial period: “No se halló entre todos estos indios nación que tratase de la resurreción de la carne, ni por alguna vía creyese que los cuerpos han de venir a ser algo jamás” (Not one of these native Indian nations dealt with the resurrection of the flesh, nor in any way did they believe that bodies have to become something more).115 Yet, the dead were present, alive in their in-

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digenous thoughts, and the living communicated with them. As Bartolomé Álvarez states, the dead could speak to them in dreams, saying, “Give me this” or “Why don’t you give me this?” as they had need for food and drink.116 The Christian return of the body, the reattachment of the body to the soul, conflicted with the Andeans’ traditional beliefs. As Estenssoro Fuchs insists, resurrection as understood by the native converts differed greatly from the Christian concept: No hay que dejarse engañar por la palabra resurrección que no tiene el mismo sentido utilizada para Cristo que para los antepasados. . . . No es como el concepto cristiano, puesto que no hay resurrección de la carne (la destrucción de los cuerpos mortales es entendida como ireversible). One must not be deceived by the word “resurrection,” which does not have the same sense of that used for Christ when used with Andean ancestors . . . It is not like the Christian concept, because there is no resurrection of the flesh (the destruction of mortal flesh is understood as irreversible).117

Often the dead appear before the living, in their human form, in the five days of the mourning period.118 Thus, in 1565, when native testimonies alleged that the huacas had been resuscitated, this was a problem, for they had no bodies to inhabit, as the mummies were burned by the Spanish.119 Final Judgment Day, as conceived of by the Christians, was a moment when all souls and bodies, whether of the sinners or the saved, were reunited. The sermons emphasize with great detail the uniqueness of each body, how each person’s eyes, hands, and bones will appear, never forgotten by God: “Cay quiquin vcunchichuan, ñauinchichuan, maquinchichuan, tullunchichuan” (The very flesh of us, our faces, our hands, our bones).120 In these passages, the soul is infrequently mentioned, whereas the material substance of the flesh, the body, and the outer skin are named often: “Cay quiquin aychanchichuan, cara[n]‑ chichua[n]mi cauçarimussunchic” (With this very flesh, nourished, we shall live).121 All sinners, whether Inca or powerful lord, will go—body and soul— to the eternal fires on that day of judgment. These texts about body and soul brought up a sticky issue for the translating priests: how to express the spiritual dimension of a living being? Father Álvarez tells of attempting to converse with and convert the Andean peoples: [Por] no tener discurso de cosa espiritual para venir en conocimiento de las cosas espirituales; y así, aunque entre ellos tenían conocimiento de una cosa así como “anima” y la nombran cada uno según su lengua, no sabían della

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como de cosa espiritual y esencial, porque de espíritu no tenían conciencia ni vocablo con que significar lo que a nosotros nos significa “anima”; de donde vino que algunos, o los más, tenían que el hombre se acaba todo cuando moría. They did not have discourse about spiritual things to be able to understand spiritual concepts, and thus, although among them there was a knowledge of a thing like “ánima” [soul] and they named it according to their own language, they did not recognize it as a spiritual and essential thing, because they did not have knowledge or a word to mean what for us “ánima” means; so that some, or many, believed that a human being ceased to exist when he died.122

An early dictionary suggests cama- or sonqo for the concept of “spirit” or “soul”: “camaquenc, o camaynin o songo anima por la qual vivimos,” “the spirit through which we live.”123 These lexical items, given as synonyms, refer to a noncorporeal essence. As Gerald Taylor well established in an early publication, cama refers to the Andean concept of an animating force that gives life and nourishes; camaquenc has the agentive suffix and the third-­person possessive, meaning the animating source that is transmitted to a recipient.124 As noted above for cama-­, the semantic domain is ambiguous; it can also denote a substantive, very concrete, observable action, such as a command, of ordering, of advising and giving good counsel, to indicate good preaching and good speechmaking, to fill up and inflate, to protect, and to provide for. These glosses with a practical worldly dimension contrast with the more ethereal meanings of an innermost spirit force.125 Songo or sonqo is another problematic lexeme with a wide semantic reference. In 1560, the meaning was “heart of an animal,”126 but by 1608, the definition was ample, both concrete and abstract: “El coraçon y entrañas, y el estomago y la consciencia, y el juyzio o la razon, y la memoria, y el coraçon de la madera y la voluntad y entendimiento” (The heart and the entrails, and the stomach and conscience, judgment and reason, memory, and the heart of a tree and willfulness and understanding).127 Often reduced to the European concept of “heart,” as Xavier Albó claims, sonqo gained importance in delineating the workings of the rational human being who reasoned well, who remembered, and who possessed conscience and understanding.128 Sonqo also can describe age grades, indicating whether one is of the age of reason, llullu‑ huahuasonco (the immature, baby stage of consciousness and knowledge).129 For Gerald Taylor, in the colonial context of defining sonqo, it is the “núcleo material del cuerpo que recibe dicha fuerza vital” (the nuclear material of the body that receives vital force).130

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Heart and soul, body and soul, were troublesome concepts for the sermons; no wonder the priests gave up and chose Christian terms as soon as possible. By 1586, the religious lexicographers designated the Spanish loan word ánima for “soul,” while “body” survived in its Quechua variants of ucu and aycha.131 Colonial sources on Andean conceptions of the soul and death are vague and contradictory. Gabriela Ramos notes that Andeans believed in an animating force (the camaquen discussed above) which could be considered a soul, yet this force was not just a human attribute: “The fact that camac was also attributed to animals and objects led some churchmen and functionaries to aver that the Andeans did not recognize the fundamental differences between themselves and animals, another important aspect of the Christian world view.”132 Similar problems surfaced in regard to the body. The doctrine of resurrection was concerned with the corruption of the flesh, which contrasted with Andean care of the remains of their ancestors. In general, Andean attitudes regarding the afterlife stressed the material character of life, not the spiritual. In fact, Juan Polo de Ondegardo, cited by Ramos, “saw the Andean belief in the material . . . as a clear indication that they harbored no hopes of resurrection.”133 The Christian descriptions of the resurrection of the flesh, as noted in the sermons of 1585, portrayed a Last Judgment Day that consisted of a blackened sun, a blood-­red moon, stars falling from the sky, the sea devouring the earth, and rivers rising as high as the mountains.134 This tumultuous scene was the moment when the soul and the body became one, but given this staging, who would want to come back? Judging by twentieth-­century Andean belief, the image of the body and the fleshiness of this Christian resurrection could be terrifying enough. As Catherine Allen has written, flesh and the prolongation of a fleshy body after death is not desirable. Clean bones are desirable; fleshiness and death are the domain of evil sinners who have committed incest, called kukuchis: “Once the ancestral bones are cleansed of flesh, the body enters a new mode of existence. A sinful individual is unable to complete this [desirable] transformation [to bones bare of flesh] and continues to animate its rotting body, becoming a kukuchi condemned to wander among the glaciers. . . . A kukuchi feels an unmasterable compulsion to eat the flesh of humans, including its own relatives.”135 Thus, this doctrinal precept was met with firm opposition. The Andeans were loath to give up ancestor worship and protested the strictures to bury their dead in graves near the churches, despite the promise of resurrection. The process of semantic conversion required considerable linguistic skill on the part of the early Spanish-­speaking missionaries. Well versed in Latin, they

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often forced Quechua into classical verb conjugation patterns and maintained declensions common to Latin adjectives and nouns.136 Finally convinced that these peoples of the New World were “rational,” and therefore capable of conversion, the clergy were perplexed about the lack of appropriate vocabulary to disseminate the word of God. In learning the language of the Andean heathens, they assembled dictionaries and grammars that attempted to fill the perceived lacunae in Quechua expression. Sifting through lexical items overheard in natural speech or latching onto natives to rattle off answers to elicitation lists, Santo Tomás, Torres Rubio, and González Holguín, among others, compared Quechua nouns and verbs with theological constructs elaborated in European contexts. Their work was often directed by legislative decrees sent out from Spain or altered by the receipt of wise counsel suggested by their religious brethren. In the vocabulary lists, the annotations, and the liturgy, a paring down of the semantic field occurred as each Quechua lexeme was reduced to a constricted orthodox Catholic frame. In particular, the ample tropes for hucha and cama were funneled into a sieve that discarded the positive denotations (and connotations) found in a language reflective of a culture that did not sort beings into a dichotomy of good and evil. But as much as the clergy insisted on new semantic references, the older, less restricted referential essence often persisted. Thus, in the texts of extirpation, camaquen surfaces, not with its imposed Catholic meaning of “soul,” but instead retaining its significance as “ancestral spirit.” The appeals we now read addressed to this entity are not mere appeals to escape the fires of purgatory or to ensure resurrection of the flesh on Judgment Day. Instead, this prayer is directed to those camaquen deities who have always watched over the flocks and the fields, even before the arrival of the Spanish. With the enunciation of “ánima,” on the other hand, repeated in prayers and catechisms, preconquest meaning and imagery often were obliterated.

CHAPTER 4

Codifying Sexuality: Huchallicu- (to Sin, Fornicate), Huaça- (to Have “Improper” Sex)

The indigenous chronicler Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala includes several sketches of the rite of confession as practiced in the Andean highlands in his Primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno (1615). One drawing in particular portrays an angry priest kicking the swollen belly of a woman penitent. The father confessor, seated in a high straight-­backed chair, his habit parted to reveal the lower part of his leg, is pointing the index fingers of both hands at the woman as he admonishes and instructs her. Although the woman is crying profusely and looking at the floor, the priest maintains a firm gaze, with raised eyebrows, and looks fixedly at her while he kicks her. The drawing is labeled “the bad confession,”1 and it well illustrates the prevailing ecclesiastical opinion about the sinfulness of Andean women and their refusal to correct their evil ways. Deviance from Catholic norms resulted in violent outbursts from the pulpit or in the environs of the confessional; men and women were excoriated. From the early Celtic confession manuals, sexual behavior has often been the topic of theological and moral discourse. Catholic treatises discuss the need to control lust and the capital vice of lechery; doctrinal tracts contain ample review of the sacrament of marriage and sexual matters; theological treatments likewise explore the nature of sex at the moment of creation. In time, Christianity developed regulations and theories regarding sexual intercourse and fashioned multiple perspectives from the inherited literature of Roman law, the decrees of church councils, and penitential directives. Pierre J. Payer correctly reminds us that “ ‘the sensual act of intercourse’ was perceived as a good, flowing from God’s good creation and initially lying under the precept to increase and multiply.”2 What must be bridled and reined in, on the other hand, is concupiscence (desire). Thus the permissible limits of marital intercourse fall within Catholic teaching, virginity is seen as the “crowning achievement of temperance,”3 and sexual conduct with oneself, with others,

Figure 4.1. The bad confession. From Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, Nueva corónica y buen gobierno (codex péruvien ilustré). (Paris: 1936). The Institut d’Ethnologie 1936 edition is based on the original manuscript El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno GkS 2232, 4to, Royal Library of Denmark, Copenhagen.

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and with nonhumans is well restricted. And it was the confession manual that set the rules for a complete confession by including “descriptions of the respective positions of the partners, the postures assumed, gestures, places touched, caresses, the precise moment of pleasure.”4 For Michel Foucault, the Council of Trent tempered the “nakedness” of the questions about sexual practices in existence since the Middle Ages. The degree of detail was curtailed, which had formerly been pursued to assure that the confession was complete. There was increased discretion on the part of the priests, who refrained from teaching their penitents, through interrogation, new ways to sin. However, at the same time, Foucault sees the scope of interest in sex expanding, even as the nomenclature became more restrictive. All of the “insinuations of the flesh” were pursued in the process of self-­examination required by the Catholic faith,5 as the fleshly desires afflicted the whole person. All sexual correlations, including “a shadow in a daydream, an image too slowly dispelled, a badly exorcised complicity between the body’s mechanics and the mind’s complacency: everything had to be told.”6 Foucault’s study of the institutionalization of sexuality in Europe, as outlined in The History of Sexuality, provides a useful focus for analyzing discourse on the theology of concupiscence in the Andes: “to account for the fact that [sex] is spoken about, to discover who does the speaking, the positions and viewpoints from which they speak, the institutions which prompt people to speak about [sex] and which store and distribute the things that are said. What is at issue, briefly, is the over-­all ‘discursive fact,’ the way that sex is ‘put into discourse.’ ”7 With regard to issues of the flesh, theological commentary is ample. The violation of the sixth commandment (“Thou shall not fornicate”) provoked pages of commentary from the Catholic missionaries who were attempting to convert the European masses as well as the American Indian heathens. As Asunción Lavrin has written, the sixth commandment is the most useful indicator of sexual mores that were transmitted to the general populace by means of sermons and the confession manuals: “In most confessionals, . . . it is under the study of the sixth commandment that ‘sinful’ sexual behavior receives its most thorough review. The explanations of the sixth commandment hold the key to the discourse on sexuality and its manifold forms of expression and repression as they surveyed the nature of ‘turpitude’ and all attempts against chastity and sexual restraint.”8 Serge Gruzinski applies Foucault’s observations of confession and sexuality to the Viceroyalty of New Spain in “La ‘conquista de los cuerpos.’ ” He examines the Christian model that was promulgated in New Spain as the clergy in this region were insistent about controlling polygamy and sexual excess. They embarked on a campaign to promote marriage among the indigenous peoples.

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But, as he notes, with the imposition of the sacrament of Christian marriage came confusion and ambiguity among the indigenous: which wife among the many wives was the proper one for a man to choose?9 There was resistance among the Nahuas to conform to Christian sexual norms, especially because ethnic groups subordinate to the Nahuas and therefore their inferiors practiced monogamy and were the despised “other” from the Nahua perspective. Preaching to the newly converted regarding Catholic sins was hampered because Western notions of sin could not be easily expressed. Gruzinski wonders about aauilnemiliztli, the word for “luxuria”: did it keep its Nahua connotation as “pleasure and joy” instead of “disordered and illicit sex,” as it was resemanticized in the Catholic paradigm? Louise Burkhart’s research delves further into these struggles with translation, noting that there was no adequate designation for “virgin” among the Nahuas. They prized abstinence in postpubescence, but their semantic field privileged marriage and family as a means to attain full adulthood, and virginity was not marked with a particular value. The priest Motolinía invented a way to discuss virginity; he chose the trope “still a pure jade” to encourage discourse about sex within a Catholic framework.10 Often sex is the privileged theme of confession; the articulation of confessional discourse was accomplished through a learned, scholarly codification of terms and concepts. As Pierre J. Payer notes, sexual sins were expressed generically through the term “lechery” (luxuria) or “fornication” ( fornicatio). However, in the twelfth century, there was an attempt to clearly differentiate between the two terms; fornication became a particular type of illicit sexual behavior, and specific infractions were named outright. Isidore of Seville outlines the origins of this first lexical item: “These [ fornicatrix, female fornicators] practice prostitution under the arches, which places are called fornices, whence the term fornicariae (female fornicators).”11 From the twelfth century onward, the confessor now could question the categories of simple fornication (illicit sex between an unmarried male and an unmarried female), double fornication (committed twice in sin), sodomy, bestiality, marital debt (the right to relations to engender children), and masturbation, and he would be able to dole out the appropriate penance for mortal sin. Occasionally the terminology departed from the concepts expressed in Roman law, on which the reasoning was based. Stuprum, for instance, connoted the defilement of virgins and widows in the first instance, and extended to boys in the second. Later, it was narrowed to include three essential aspects: illicitness, deflowering of a virgin, and the lack of mutual consent.12 In the Andes, the codification of theology was most pronounced in the

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Doctrina christiana, published in Lima in 1584, in an attempt to curtail the number of clerical interpretations of dogma. Sexuality, however, was much more explicitly codified in the later Confessionario para los curas de indios (1585), which is the result of a collaboration of several priests who also had translated the Doctrina christiana in 1584.13 The format was in part derived from numerous confession manuals extant in the Andes. Although possession of the Confessionario was required of the priests ministering to the indigenous parishes after 1585, no priest was obligated to confess the natives using only this Quechua (or Aymara) text. They could draw on their experience living as missionaries among the conquered Andean peoples and add to their interrogatory in the act of confession. While subsequent versions of confessionals translated to Quechua derive much of their content from the early publication, four principal editions, from 1589 to 1641, were enriched with texts that include observations of the sinful behavior of their flock by each author priest. Luis Jerónimo de Oré’s Symbolo catholico indiano, which contains a “Confessionario breve para las ordinarias confessiones de los indios” (Brief confessional for the ordinary confessions of Indians [Lima, 1598]) is an early text based on the patterning of the 1585 collaboration. The anonymous Confessionario para los curas de indios (Seville, 1603) is a faithful copy of the 1585 edition. “Confessionario breve en quichua” (Brief confession in Quechua) in Diego de Torres Rubios’ Arte de la lengua quichua is not an extensive confessional text. An extensive confession is found in Juan Pérez Bocanegra’s Ritual formulario, the most cited of all confessionals because of the priest’s attention to ritual and lexemes. The “Confessionario breue” (Brief confessional) in Pablo de Prado’s Directorio espiritual is much abbreviated yet well serves to model the colonial preferences.14 In the lengthy Confessionario of 1585, the commandments that exhibit the largest number of interrogations are the first (“Love God above all things”), the fifth (“Thou shall not kill”), and the sixth (“Thou shall not fornicate”). Curiously, sexual sins are not mentioned in the first Quechua-­Spanish confession text, published by Domingo de Santo Tomás in 1560 (see chapter 3), but sex is prominently featured in all the confession manuals published after that date. Questions for the penitent in the category of the sixth commandment number as many as 22 in the confession guidelines of 1585 and some 236 in the confessional manual of 1631. The early Andean-­based Confessionario of 1585 reveals how terminological distinctions in Spanish and in Quechua evolved in the comingling of theology and vocabulary. While in other instances, Spanish theologians debated among themselves as to which lexeme could represent God, the devil, and sin with

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regard to the sexual status of women, Spanish words were readily employed. On the topic of virginity and female purity, the inquiries of the confessional rely heavily on Spanish lexemes for “chaste” and “not so chaste” women and avoid Quechua vocabulary. Thus, the Quechua text in the first published confessional asks about sin with a soltera (a nonvirgin but unmarried woman) as well as sin with a donzella (doncella, a virgin) by using the Spanish nomenclature. For a “married woman,” a loan word is pressed into use (casarasca): Huaquin huarmicuna huar[m]i, casarasca hua[n]pas, solterahua[n]pas huchallicucchu canqui? Donzella huarmicta paquicchu canqui? Do you sin with any woman, married or nonvirgin but single? Do you break into [deflower] a virgin?15

In Spanish, soltera has a specific meaning: a woman who had engaged in a sexual relationship but has not entered into a legal union (marriage or a promise of marriage). Doncella denotes a virgin, a woman who has maintained her honor. Both terms had civil and ecclesiastical consequences, and the appropriate category was written alongside her name.16 Tellingly, though, surrounding the Spanish lexical items are the Quechua verbs hucha and paqui-­, pressed into action to convey meanings of sin and breaking of the hymen. Hence, a double message was codified with recourse to both languages to best ensure that the European-­conceptualized prohibitions could be well understood. But, often, Andean penitents firmly clung to their pre-­Hispanic cultural patterns, despite the introduction of new vocabulary. The Confession of Confusion: Women and Sex These concepts of sexuality, and the process of confession, were not easily assimilated by Quechua speakers. Sermon Ten of Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fe catolica (Sermons on the Mysteries of Our Catholic Faith, 1648) includes a brief anecdote illustrating the supposedly pagan deceitfulness with which native Andeans confessed to the missionary priests. The categories of soltera and doncella are prominently uttered and obviously misunderstood by the Andean woman penitent. In this sermon, the young indigenous woman, who is obviously pregnant, denies that she has sinned with a lover. After the priest calls attention to her pregnancy, she changes her mind and answers that this, indeed, is her sin:

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Llegó una vez una India soltera a confessarse con un Sacerdote, y estava preñada: preguntole el Padre, si auia tratado con algu[n] hombre y respondia, no Padre, soy doncella, y oyendo esto el Padre le dixo: Si eres doncella como estás preñada? Ella respondió: este es mi pecado. A young Indian woman, a nonvirgin, arrived once to confess with a priest, and she was pregnant. The priest asked her if she had had relations with a man. She replied no, that she was a virgin. He replied, “If you are a doncella, how are you pregnant?” She answered: “This is my sin.”17

Thus, this sermon, published in Quechua and Spanish in 1648, depicts the ongoing difficulties of conversion in the Andean region. According to the missionary priests, indigenous converts steadfastly refused to change their sexual beliefs, to admit their guilt, and to seek forgiveness according to the theological principles of the Catholic Church. Father Fernando Avendaño, the author of the sermon, blames the young woman for hiding her sins in a deceitful manner, and the moral of his tale from the pulpit is obvious. However, this story of the coerced confession reveals much more than an unwillingness to admit sexual congress. In this narrative, the incompatibilities of the Spanish and the Andean indigenous cultural constructs are glaringly apparent. Discourse is hampered because of lexical disparities between Quechua and Spanish referents and augmented further because of the distinct sexual codes of each society. To best unravel this brief conversation between priest and penitent, we must investigate the nomenclature of sin in Spanish- and Quechua-­speaking societies, the language of sex and sexuality, and the nature of discourse between the priests and the indigenous parishioners in colonial Peru. While we are able to translate all of the words and phrases of the anecdote of confession, the narrative logic of the passage is elusive. Why does the penitent deny her state of pregnancy and declare that she is a virgin? When the priest prods her into confessing her sin, why does she suddenly capitulate and say that she has sinned? A glance at the Quechua version of the story, published by Avendaño as an aide for preaching sermons, does little to clarify the motivation of the penitent. Basically, the same narrative sequence is repeated: Huc mittas, huc mana cassarascca, soltera huarmi huc Diosparantin Sacerdotehuan confessacocc humarccan cai, soltera richichum carccan, Padre, ccari huan huchallicoccchu ca[n]qui, ñispas, tapurccan. Chai huarmiri, Manam Padre, doncellam cani ñispatacc cutiparccan. Caita uyarispas Padre:

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doncella caspaca, ima hinatacc chichucanqui? ñirccan; ñiptinsi chai huarmi. Caimi huchai, ñispa, nirccan. One time, an unmarried woman, a soltera, non-­virgin came here to confess to a priest, God’s representative on earth. The soltera non-­virgin was pregnant. It is said that the priest asked her, “Do you sin with a man?” That woman said, answering, “No, Father, I am a virgin [doncella].” Hearing this the priest said, “Since you’re a virgin, how can you be pregnant?” Then that woman said, “This is my sin.”18

Before we deconstruct this passage in its Quechua and Spanish versions, a glance at narrative technique reveals that Avendaño was well aware of the rules for discourse in Quechua as well as those common to Spanish. At the time of writing these sermons, he had spent forty years in the Andes as a Quechua speaker. Despite the similarities of content in the two versions, the syntactical structure of the Quechua narrative highlights an important distinction regarding source of knowledge. The Quechua markers for reportative speech tacked on to the questions and answers (evidential reportative suffixes s, si) indicate that this story is hearsay, was told to Avendaño, and was not witnessed by him. In contrast, in the Spanish version, although the straightforward factual past of the preterite predominates, “una vez” (once upon a time), a common device of fairy tales and traditional narrative, serves to distance him from the telling. However, the Quechua version of this confession is even more complex. The passage also must include the reference to who told whom and what was said, as discourse in Quechua always reveals the speaker’s relationship to the data. The affirmative suffix mi, or m, is part of the validation system, indicating that the speaker’s relationship with the content is firsthand experience, often “something learned through direct sensual experience.”19 This pregnant woman stridently proclaims “no” when asked about her status, and attaches the m of direct experience. This use also is emphasized in the woman’s answer when she states: “I am a virgin,” adding the Quechua m(i) to the Spanish word doncella. Her own personal knowledge, in this case, the knowledge of her body, is declared. Significantly, the marker is not found attached to the word for “sin” in her final statement, “This is my sin.” Here, the placement of mi on the locative cai, “here,” indicates a less personal involvement according to the rules of Quechua discourse. She emphasizes the location (“right here”) in this phrase and thus purposely does not stress the sin: caimi huchai. In contrast, and illustrating the Quechua rules of emphasis, mi in the phrase “It is my sin,” cited by Quechua speaker Felipe Guaman Poma, is emphatically con-

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nected to the noun for “sin,” where the specific personal sin is acknowledged and known: “Huchaymi, yncallay” (It is my sin, my Inca).20 Thus, in adding mi, the speaker’s immediacy is emphasized. She is a person in a narrative not witnessed by the narrator, yet she approaches us in time and space by the use of mi, which performs this function in Quechua.21 In addition, the Quechua text displays evidential markers in the form of -­shi, which “marks an indirect source of information, where the facts asserted are outside the speaker’s own experience.”22 The inclusion of the suffix -­shi (sometimes displayed as -­s) at crucial junctures in the text (the phrases equivalent to “una vez,” the priest’s first question, the priest’s listening, and the stating of the woman’s answer) indicates events outside the experience of the speaker, in this case, the priest preaching the sermon. It is obvious to a Quechua speaker that the speaker was not witness to this confession. In addition, this suffix also marks spatial and temporal distance, as suggested by Sabine Dedenbach-­Salazar.23 In this narrative structure, based on grammatical rules for Quechua well known by Avendaño, there is a heightened sensitivity to truth value in the Quechua-­speaking woman’s use of -­mi, -­m, and her personal involvement, as it contrasts with the -­shi of hearsay and distant time in the telling of the moral tale. The precise explanation of this convoluted conversation, however, rests on further examination of linguistics and semantics, in addition to cultural categories. To arrive at a more culturally sensitive explanation of this confession, we must delve into the pages of four colonial dictionaries, two manuscripts written by Quechua speakers in the seventeenth century, several confession manuals, and several chronicles written by the Catholic missionaries. Yet, before progressing with the analysis, one other caution is in order. As with other Quechua texts from the colonial period in the Andes, we must remember that the narration in Quechua is not free from Spanish influences, both lexical and ideological.24 Nevertheless, the passage from Avendaño’s sermon is useful in revealing the intricacies implied in accomplishing a “thick” cultural translation. It is not surprising that the pregnant penitent exclaims “Caimi huchai” in her confessional discourse. As discussed in chapter 3, the word hucha has often been used in Quechua speech acts. Hucha was established as one of the words used to designate a transgression even before the arrival of the Spaniards. However, the Spanish- and the Quechua-­speaking cultural reference to “sin” denoted differing sets of transgressions. There was some overlap between the two belief systems; both saw “sin” as violations of rules of social order. A list written up by Juan Polo de Ondegardo in the mid-­sixteenth century explains what was deemed a “sin” in the Andean region, and “tomar la muger ajena”

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(taking someone else’s woman as a sexual partner) was seen as an infraction.25 This offense overlaps established codes for sex as laid out in the Christian concept of adultery. Avendaño’s sermon, in both the Spanish and the Quechua versions, uses a number of terms to describe sexual relationships. In both societies, precise wording defined the degree of sexual experience of a person and the physical act of sex. In the anecdote used in the sermon, the penitent fervently states that she is “doncella.” The priest asks her to consider her sin and calls attention to her obvious “non-­doncella” status as she kneels before him, obviously pregnant. Her confusion, and hence her bad confession, stems from the different code of sexual conduct operative among indigenous communities. For a young Quechua-­speaking woman, there would be no societal restriction on her sexual activity in the pre-­Christian practice in her community. As many missionary priests have noted, virginity was not prized in the Andes, and Catholics attempted to stamp out what they saw as sexual promiscuity: Uno de los trabajos que los Padres tienen en aquella tierra es desarraigar la manera que estos tienen en casarse, que tenian una costumbre que hasta hoy no hay quién se la quite, ques que antes de se casen con su muger, la han de probar y tener consigo, que llaman ellos hacer pantanaco. One of the tasks that priests have in that land is to eradicate the manner in which they marry; they have a custom that right up to the present day no one can eradicate, which is that before they marry a woman, they have to test her out and be with her, which they call pantanaco.26

This custom, imperfectly understood by the clergy, refers to the Quechua tradition of premarital cohabitation, a “trial” marriage that can be dissolved if need be. With the arrival of the Spanish, a system that prized virginity was imposed. Therefore, this young woman may have imperfectly learned Spanish vocabulary to denote her state. In other Quechua texts, doncella often is prefaced with a Quechua adjective to clarify the meaning: uiñay doncella (a longtime virgin), or the concept is doubled, as in donzel virgenes. Quechua lexical items provide more information as specific age and class terms define male and female sexual experience. Tazqui (also tasqui), as defined by González Holguín’s 1608 dictionary, is glossed as all “children from six to thirteen years old.”27 The word can describe a state of purity, as in “Pachallan tazqui manachancascca. La donzella,”28 literally, “a complete tazqui, not opened up her legs [fornicated], a virgin.” The contrast is seen in the

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word sipas, as defined in Santo Tomás’ 1560 dictionary, a sexually active young woman: “Sipas muger moça” (a young woman) and “Sipas amiga del varon” (a friend of a young man, sexually experienced).29 In the anecdote told in Avendaño’s sermon, the confusion of categories of sin and the confusion of sexual terminology are obvious in the answers given by the pregnant woman. Here, the priest uses the Catholicized common verb for sinning, huchallicu- (to sin), to denote the sex act instead of specific Quechua vocabulary that explicitly denotes sexual activity. This lack of frank discussion about sex may have further confused her. But the problem in communication goes beyond this misunderstanding. Her answer that she is a virgin is prompted by a question regarding her sexual experience, in Quechua: “Ccari huan huchallicoccchu ca[n]qui?” (With a man do you sin?). True to Spanish preference, the question, a common one in confessions, is phrased in the Catholic euphemisms of sin: “Do you sin with a man?” where sexual intercourse is implicit by naming the male agent. Certainly, because of her use of doncella, the woman does not understand the Hispanic civil and ecclesiastical codes common to the seventeenth century. If the woman had been questioned using the well-­defined verbs for sexual behavior common in Quechua, she might have done a better confession. With this in mind, this pregnant woman who arrives at confession may be “translating” this question within the Quechua codification that a sexual relationship between unattached persons is not a sin given the trial marriage customs of pantanacu (variant of pantanaco). Or, for her, sex is not a sin because it did not take place in a time of Quechua prohibitions for intercourse. For instance, sexual relations between unmarried and married persons are prohibited in times of huaca ceremonial worship or after the birth of twins. The confession enacted between a pregnant woman and a priest, embedded in a sermon published in 1648, reveals the subtle nuances of syntactic, linguistic, and cultural translation. An accurate semantic translation must reflect the differing narrative stylistics where the reporting of knowledge is highlighted in Quechua versions. Quechua would require the acknowledgment of the priest’s witnessing the confession or his secondhand knowledge of the event. And a thorough semantic translation must account for the privileging of the verb huchallicu- by the Spanish priests to denote their concept of sexual sin. As we shall see in the entries found in colonial dictionaries, the Quechua speakers have perfectly good synonyms to denote societal sexual mores. More important, the translation about confession uncovers real discrepancies in the cultural system of the Spanish and that of the indigenous Andeans. By the mid-­seventeenth century, the practice of “trial marriage” still

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was practiced in indigenous communities. Despite Catholic intent to contain sexual behavior, fervent preaching seems to have had little effect on changing sexual conduct within indigenous communities. Clearly, testimony collected in the campaign against the idolatry of the seventeenth century indicates that the Catholic rules of conduct were not put into practice. A quotation from testimony in 1656 describes indigenous sexual codes that did not conform to Christian ethics: Lo que tenian [los indios] por pecado era boluer a las amigas que abian tenido . . . y si la muger con quien trataba (o mugeres) no se hubiesse metido con otro hombre aunque tratasse con ella muchos años no era pecado sino es quando se hubiesse metido con dicho hombre y boluiesse otra bez a ella entonzes era pecado. Y asimesmo no lo era el tener pensamiento y desear otra qualquiera muger . . . ni todo genero de pensamiento malo ni tampoco tocar y tactos laçibos ni el tener con las amigas con sus parientes y mugeres y de hermanos era pecado. What the Indians held as a sin was to return to women of previous sexual relations . . . and if the woman they had relations with—or women—had not been with another man even though they had had relations with her for many years, it was not a sin. Only when she had relations with another man and he returned to relations with her was it a sin. And also it was not a sin to think of and desire any woman whatsoever . . . nor was any other thought considered sinful nor was touching or other erotic touching considered sinful, nor was having relationships with their relatives and their wives and the wives of their brothers considered sinful.30

A reading of this passage calls attention to the most offensive sexual transgression, adultery, or having a relationship with a woman who was already in a partnership with another man. If that woman was not involved with another partner, the sexual relationship was not sinful. Furthermore, sexual thoughts were not sinful, sexual touch was not sinful, nor was a relationship with kin seen as a sinful act. Felipe Guaman Poma’s (1615) review of Andean sexuality from an indigenous perspective basically agrees with the summary regarding sexual ethics described above, although he heavily emphasizes the existence of the revered Andean virgins, perhaps due to his close association with the Catholic Church. In fact, Alejandra Osorio comments that Guaman Poma’s viewpoint is slanted to present a just and ordered society similar to that of the Spanish.

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However, not all the acllas (sacred women) were virgins,31 so Guaman Poma’s statements regarding virginity must be carefully evaluated. His drawings and his prose, as Osorio also has mentioned, reveal the harsh punishments delivered by the Incan rulers for certain sins of the flesh. Adultery was a primary offense, and in Guaman Poma’s chronicle there is a depiction of the punishment for adultery in which two consenting adults are stoned to death.32 Furthermore, if one member forced the other into a sexual relationship, the initiator was executed and the partner (whether male or female) was banished.33 Thus the battle lines were drawn in the domain of sexuality. The Catholics advocated for the solid formation of the nuclear family and restricted sexual relationships with kinfolk, which often occurred in indigenous ritual celebrations. In the sermon, the pregnant woman at first defiantly declares herself free from sin. For her, it was indeed not sinful behavior to have a sexual relationship and to bear a child. Ccari (also spelled cari ), the generic word for “a man” in the priest’s question about sin, had another meaning in terms of pantanacu; from a Quechua lexical perspective, it denoted her recognized partner in a trial marriage who was acknowledged by the indigenous community. When pressed as to her pregnant status, she answers with, “This here indeed is my sin.” Certainly, in the Spanish version, this is the best translation. However, seen in the Quechua context, the translation is different: “This here indeed is my obligation.” Thus, she references the wider semantic field of ritual and societal expectations for behavior. When it appears that she may have conceded to Catholic coercion to admit her sin, she instead may be reasserting traditional Quechua values of ritual obligation and acknowledging her responsibilities to her unborn child. Sex Texts: Spanish and Quechua Wording of Desire The confessionals of the early colonial period (1585, 1598, 1619, 1631, 1650) truly make every effort to instruct Quechua speakers in their own language, but many times the Spanish theologians resort to European constructions to convey their conceptions of sexuality. The sixth commandment, “Thou shall not fornicate,” was translated to Quechua in a standardized fashion, using various terms that were common to European expression of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Women were subjected to questioning based on the verb “to sleep with,” a euphemism drawn from sexual norms in Spain: “As consentido que alguno o algunos hombres duerman contigo?” (Have you agreed to a man or men sleeping with you?).34 And other examples culled from the confession

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manuals illustrate the Spanish phrases for sex that shy away from the explicit carnality of the act: Has tenido cuenta con otras mugeres solteras o casadas? Has forçado alguna muger? Jugaste, o retoçaste con casada, o con soltera? Have you dealt with single women or married women?35 Have you “forced” a woman?36 Did you play around with or touch a married woman or an unmarried sexually broken-­in woman?37

The Spanish made use of the euphemisms, and, of course, the Quechua-­ speakers could understand what they were being asked. In fact, puclla- (ostensibly, to play) also means in many songs and conversations to play around in the sense of to have sexual relations.38 For the Spanish translators of the early colonial period, the most common Quechua word for fornication is a phrase using the generalized verb for sinning, huchallicu- ( pecar). It is derived from the noun hucha, pecado (sin), but also pleito (a legal petition or a business transaction), according to the seventeenth-­century dictionary written by González Holguín. The etymology of hucha is given a more detailed analysis in chapter 3, but, briefly, for Andean natives, it was sinful to disregard ceremonial obligations, to speak badly of the Inca, to kill, and to steal. The Spanish prescribed huchalli- to denote sin and especially sexual sin. However, as recorded in colonial Quechua texts, there were many additional words that could describe sexual relationships. Assimilation of the newly imposed sexual codes and semantic categories by indigenous converts was difficult. Even Guaman Poma, trained to read by his mestizo half-­brother priest and longtime collaborator with church official Cristóbal de Albornoz,39 confused the categories of sexual sin, as we see in a passage from his chronicle. In this paragraph, Guaman Poma urges that native peoples be taught to confess their sexual offenses correctly in Catholic categories. He writes in Spanish: Y al yndio y a la yndia le enseñe cómo lo a de confesarse de cada pecado y le dé a entender al dicho penitente la culpa del pecado mortal o uenial, soltero, furnicacion cimple, y del casado, adulterio; y de la parienta, yncisto; y del uirgo con donzella o donzel uirgenes, estupro; del sacrelego con persona rreligiosa dedicada a Dios, adulterio; con saserdote, cierbo de Jesucristo se dize sacralego, adulterio esperitual, el mayor pecado del cristiano y de la cristiana.

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Teach the male and female Indians how to confess each sin and teach each penitent what is a mortal sin and a venial sin; with single persons, simple fornication, and with a partner married to someone else, adultery; with a relative, incest; and a virgin male with a virgin or various virgins, violation of virgins (stuprum); sacrilege with a religious person [monk] dedicated to God [is] adultery; with a priest, a servant of Christ, it is called sacrilege, spiritual adultery, the most offensive sin of a male Christian and of a female Christian.40

He accurately depicts most of the offenses; he separates estupro (sex with virgins) from the act of simple fornication (sex between sexually active unmarried persons). He also well understands the concept of sacrilege in which the vow of chastity is violated by a priest or a nun; both participants (the religious person as well as the partner) are equally guilty of sacrilege, and this is the intent of Guaman Poma’s summary.41 Rape, defined as “the sexual act forced on a female,”42 is not mentioned by Guaman Poma. The intricacies of the theological causes were well understood by the literate Guaman Poma, but they would have been baffling to a woman penitent who had not assimilated church teaching about sexuality, a woman not literate and scarcely exposed to the teachings of the church. In Europe, as well as in the Andes, the Catholics privileged the nuclear family and restricted sexual relationships and even sinful thoughts about prohibited sexual liaisons. In particular, six acts were considered mortal sins: simple fornication; adultery; incest; vice against nature; violations of virgins (stuprum); and rape-­abduction, as outlined by Paul of Hungary in a medieval European manual. Sacrilege, prostitution, and masturbation were also frequently added to the list.43 To assist the native Andeans, and to aid the priests in explaining such things, Guaman Poma includes the same passage in Quechua in his Corónica. The text is important in presenting not only the occasions of mortal sin, but also for the Quechua verbs that describe each action. My English translation of the Quechua allows the reader to see the variation in the supposedly similar texts: Wayna sipas sapamanta yuqunakusqa, wañuy hucha. Wachuq kay, hucha. Yawarmasin, hucha. Thaski p’akiy, hucha. Padre Dios rantinwan huchallikuy, huañuy hucha. When a young man and a young girl decide on their own to have sex, it is a mortal sin. Adultery, a sin. Sex with a blood relative, a sin. Breaking a virgin, a sin. Sex with a priest, God’s representative [on earth], a mortal sin.44

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The pared-­down Quechua version is less verbose; through nouns and verbs the various Christian sexual transgressions are identified. Guaman Poma correctly names the traditional age and kinship classes: wayna is a sexually active male of marriageable age; sipas is a sexually active, marriageable woman; yawarmasin denotes a “blood” relative, and thaski is a sexually uninitiated young woman. In the lexicon of the Andean natives, the verbs denote the availability for acts of fornication. They represent differing aspects of carnal desire with specialized vocabulary. Coitus is indicated by the verb yoccu- (also spelled yucu-­, yuqu-­): “tener copula hombre o animal con hembra o fornicar varon” (to copulate human or animal with a female or a young man to fornicate).45 In this definition copulation is not necessarily sinful; yoccu- is morally neutral, even when written down by a Catholic lexographer. Yuqunakusqa, with the reciprocal naku, implies willing consent on the part of both partners in the original Quechua. In Quechua the verb is innocent; however, under the teachings of Catholicism, copulation now results in mortal sin. P’aki- is the verb for breaking (opening) and here implies “deflowering” in the European sense. Huchalliku- refers to the grave offense of fornication with a priest in Guaman Poma’s conception, although in other contexts it is the verb for “to sexually sin” in general. Yet, his meaning is strengthened when he labels it the most serious of sins, the mortal sin of sacrilege. What other verbs for carnal acts were used by the indigenous peoples in the Andes as recorded by the colonial-­era priests in their dictionaries? The 1560 dictionary describes forced sex with a virgin or nonvirgin woman as ossachi(obtained) or callpamanca yucu- (callpamanca, wasted, ruined; yucu-­, copulation) and expresses the act of adultery with a common sexual verb, guachucu-­.46 Yoco- was still in use in 1586 for the general act of fornication, with a clarification that it also referred to any copulation of a male animal with a female animal.47 There are some new verbal notations of fornication: tarinacu- usually glossed as “to meet up with,”48 and chirmaytucu- and chirmayacu-­, with the latter specifically designating a woman fornicator.49 By 1608, chirma no longer designated the sexual act, but instead referred to busy hands that destroyed or dirtied all things.50 Diego González Holguín had several additional verbs to add to the lists: paltanacu-­, “to pile one thing on top of another” and thus to fornicate;51 puri-­, “to walk around,” but in the sense of to “walk with” and thus fornicate.52 Huachoc is given semantic clout as a useful word for sins of lust,53 and in this case means fornicator; yet in the Spanish elicitation it is glossed only as adulterar (to commit adultery).54 Use of a strong insult, “to be like a dog” (allco), is cast in reference to sex: allcocha-­, “to force a woman” or, literally, “to dog a woman” in the sense of being sexually promiscuous.55 But the extended list for “to fornicate” is whittled down to three common verbs

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eventually: “to sleep with,” puñu-­; “to have sex with,” yoccu-­; and “to have sinful sex,” huchallicu-­.56 The last verb eventually became the verb of choice as it stemmed from “to not fulfill an obligation” (i.e., to sin) with the addition of llicu, “to acquire the characteristics of.” González Holguín specifies the action of acquiring: “Llicv. Con todo nombre de vestidos calçado adorno y quanto se pone vno encima se haze el verbo . . . Chumpi, el cinto. Chumpillicuni” (Llicv. With all the verbs of putting something on, such as clothing, shoes, and adornment one uses th[is] verb . . . Chumpi, the waist belt. Chumpillicuni [I put the waist belt on myself ]).57 Antonio Cusihuamán’s modern Grammar helps us understand the power of this verbal suffix. He describes lli and ku as “self-­transformative” and used when the person acquires the characteristics of the property to which the verb is attached, brought about by the person’s own actions.58 This grammatical explanation serves to highlight the sense of sin in which one’s own actions precipitate the sinning. In the collection of the coastal myths from Huarochirí, both wachuq (also spelled huachoc) and huchallikurqa are used by Quechua speakers and indicate a newly learned Christian sense of “sinful copulation.”59 Yet, in this same manuscript we see other attitudes about sex revealed frankly, with details of unbridled sexuality. For instance, in the text of the Quechua myths, the words raca (vagina) and ollo (penis) are included in the original Quechua text. However, when the priest or scribe read over the Quechua transcript, these same words were crossed out (indicated below with strikethrough) and a more generic Quechua word, pincay (shameful parts) was substituted: ollon (pincaynin) chicta chicta ricuspan ancha cusicon ñic when Chaupi Namca sees their penises (private parts) she’s happy all over, they say.

and llollachipac racanta (pincayninta) pas ñoñontampas ricorichispa to beguile [him] she displayed her vagina (her private parts) and her breasts.60

Here, this acceptable lascivious conduct was crossed out in the Quechua version. The Quechua raca (in the text as racanta) and ollon were eliminated and chaste parenthetical explanations were chosen to tone down the erotic energy. However, in the original version, the Quechua mythtellers emphasize,

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with delight, the lust caused by the viewing of the genitals and thus exuberantly record their ancient history. But the priest, looking over their shoulders, crosses out and censors the explicit lexemes in Quechua. In another myth from Huarochirí, a specific sexual term is again crossed out: “yuma (puñu)huan ñispa.”61 Yuma is the word for “sperm,” so a translation would emphasize the overt sexuality of the act, whereas the correction, perhaps dictated by the Spanish scribe, is the euphemism “sleeping together” (puñu-). But occasionally the verb huchallicu- (to sin, pecar) is used, under the influence of the Catholic translators, to mark sexual transgression. For instance, when the verb is used in narrating the Quechua myths of Huarochirí (1613), in the nine instances of its use, the couples are engaged in sexual relations. However, as Frank Salomon and Jorge Urioste indicate in the translation, Quechua speakers commonly used the Christian euphemism huchallicu- to describe sexual intercourse without necessarily implying the Christian sense of shame or as a reflection of the Christian mentality.62 Twice in the manuscript, though, this term does mean prohibited sex, even among Quechua speakers, as the fornicators violated the Andean norms for abstinence in preparation for ceremonial celebrations, when sexual activity was curtailed. The sexual prohibitions of the Quechuas differed greatly from those of the Christians, who, as Louise Burkhart insists, saw sex as physical and moral pollution. Thus the genitals were seen as something “dirty.” There was a painstaking review of the sexual act, as Foucault mentions, in all of its positions, caresses, the precise sites of pleasure.63 This documentation of sexual habits was first undertaken to examine the conscience of the European Christians. The explicit detail, as Foucault notes, tended to become more veiled after the Council of Trent. However, while the European confessionals might reflect more reserve, curiously, those published in the Andes contain a frank realism, even in texts published in the mid-­seventeenth century in the Andes. The sexual interrogations of the early Quechua-­Spanish confession manuals were oriented toward male penitents. Thus, in 1585, there are many items questioning male sexual relationships with a female partner, the length of time spent with a female concubine, the use of love potions to obtain women, the instances of racy language, and the intervals of masturbation. The same is true for Oré’s 1598 manual, which has a female partner as the object of most sexual attention and often provides masturbatory inspiration by means of the interrogatory. Bestiality and homosexual relations also appear, with a male orientation. Juan Pérez Bocanegra wrote his confessional with a new communicative purpose in 1631. He began with interrogations for men, then for married persons, and ended with a separate section for women. In all, he wrote 236 detail-­oriented items about sexual conduct.

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Interrogation regarding fornication began with a familiar format. Very tentatively, the priest brought up the usual phrase: “How many times?” Then a pattern common in Europe unfolded: asking about the specific female partner in terms of kinship affiliations. In the Andes, this section was equally thorough: Have you had sex with a relative of yours?64 Have you sinned with one of your relatives? What kin relationship was there? Is there a blood relationship or a more distant kinship? Have you sinned with a mother and her daughter? Or with two sisters?65

Although the words of interrogation might parallel those in the European manuals, in the Andes these questions reveal the priests’ observation of incestuous practices, concubinage, and trial marriage. The priests were determined to stamp out such customs. One Quechua dictionary of 1586 bears a long list of ascendant and descendant kin relationships, four steps removed, which defines afinidad licita (approved kinship for marriage).66 Terms for all relationships are given, with emphasis on ascendant, descendant, and collateral kinship. This was not easy to map out, as Quechua “distinguishes gender of owner, rather than gender of referent.”67 For instance, in its simplest manifestation, the word for child differs depending on the “owner.” For father’s child, the word churi is used; for mother’s child, wawa. The case of siblings is more complicated, as both the gender of the owner and the referent are differentiated: brother’s brother is hauqui, and sister’s brother is turi. Likewise, sister’s sister is ñaña, and brother’s sister is pani. Linguists see a reduction from the once-­extensive system: “The elaborate, traditional kinship terminology of Quechua became reduced as a result of the introduction of Christianity and European-­style family relations. The once socially and ritually important distinctions between woman’s relatives and man’s relatives have all but disappeared.”68 These confessional questions reflect a theological outlook which permitted marriage, in a very explicit manner, only to persons outside of a first- or second degree of kinship, as well as outside of the bonds of comadre (godmother) or compadre (godfather), and not to the wife or husband of anyone with whom you had committed adultery. The Quechua system of kinship generally allowed for no marriages closer than four generations from a common ancestral pair,69 so the Spanish overreaction here was in regard to cases of excessive sexual activity with concubines and the all-­out sexual license of ritual celebrations.

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All this cross-­referencing terminology caused some confusion. The writers of the Vocabulario y phrasis (1586) suggest how better to discuss kin relationships: “Y es tomando unas piedrezuelas, o tantos y por ellos yr diziendo. Este es el padre, este es el hijo, estroto el hijo deste y este es el mejor modo de satisfacerse el que pregunta y de darse a entender el que lo refiere” (And by taking some small stones, and so many others, and by means of these to say “This is the father, this is the son, this other one the son of this one.” This is the best way to clarify for one who asks a question and to have understood what [the kinship] refers to.)70 By 1631, Pérez Bocanegra’s confessional text was heavily embellishing this theme, as is evident when we read the long list of questions: As pecado co[n] tu madre? As pecado co[n] tu hija? As pecado co[n] tu prima? As pecado co[n] tu nieta? As pecado con tu abuela? As pecado co[n] tu madrastra? As pecado con tu cuñada ó con tu suegra? As pecado con madre, y hija? As pecado con dos hermanas? con cada una quantas veces? Have you sinned with your mother? Have you sinned with your daughter? Have you sinned with your cousin? Have you sinned with your granddaughter? Have you sinned with your grandmother? Have you sinned with your stepmother? Have you sinned with your sister-­in-­law or your mother-­in-­law? Have you sinned with a mother and her daughter? Have you sinned with two sisters? How many times with each of them?71

A similar list of questions was asked of a female penitent, who was interrogated regarding sexual relationships with two brothers, father and son, uncle and his son, her own father and her brother, uncle, the son of her brother, the son of her uncle, the son of her aunt, her grandfather, the husband of her aunt, or with the husband or friend of her mother, the suitor of her sister, or the husband or partner of her daughter.72 A sermon of 1585 suggests how to avoid these vexing circumstances: “No durmays rebueltos como cochinos, sino cada uno por si” (Do not sleep all tumbled together like piglets; instead each one alone by himself ).73 Much has been made of trial marriage in the Andes, termed in Quechua sirvinakuy, tincunacuspa, and pantanaco. This custom is highlighted in the manuals for confessors, although the traditional Quechua nomenclature does not appear. In one example, for instance, the Quechua translation for the question about sinful unmarried living together is written in such a manner that a Quechua-­speaking penitent might find it confusing: “Huarmijquihuan manarac casaracuspa, hayca quillam hayca huatam caranacurca[n]qui?

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huyhuanacurcanqui?”74 The translation of this Quechua phrase shows just how far the authors of the confessional deviated from a head-­on confrontation with trial marriage in their interrogations. The question is roundabout: “Before you married your woman, how many months, how many years, did you feed her, did you raise her?” Perhaps Quechua terminology might have been more helpful. Significantly, manuals for confessors published after this date avoid the vagueness of the 1585 version. The hybrid verb manceba-­, from Spanish vocabulary denoting “concubine status,” was direct and understood by most indigenous penitents. When the penitent answered yes to having had sexual relations, the priests were instructed to ascertain the circumstances of intercourse. Body parts appear in the question-­and-­answer format of the confession manuals. With the male penitent, the priest attempted to assess the flow of semen, as seen in this text: Tocando las partes vergonçosas, o los pechos, o otras partes, o besado, o abraçado a tu muger, o a tu manceba, o a tu parienta o a la de tu muger, as venido en polucion? o as tenido alguna distilacion? Touching the private parts or the breasts or some other part of the body, kissing or embracing your wife, or your mistress, or a woman relative of yours, or of your wife, have you polluted yourself or have you had a distillation [a pollution, an ejaculation]?75

The Quechua text differs from the Spanish. The Quechua wording uses the euphemism for genitals (pencai/shameful parts), names the breasts outright, and then is much more explicit than the Spanish for “other parts,” using vcun aichan, meaning, literally, the “inner flesh.”76 The Quechua for “ejaculation” is up front and direct, literally, “Did you eject sperm?”; the Spanish version speaks of “distillation”: Huarmijquip pencaininta, ñuñunta, ucun aichantapas, llamcapuspa, cairi siminta muchaspa, . . . yumainijquita, hicharcanquichu? Touching your wife’s genitals, breasts, inner thighs, squeezing, kissing her mouth, did you eject sperm?77

Women also were questioned about where they kissed and touched: “Have you kissed the private parts of a man or have you agreed that he may kiss yours, enjoying this very much?”78 The Quechua translation done by the priest again

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uses the code word for genitals (pencai): “Carip pencaininta, muchallipocchu canqui?” (A man’s genitals, do you kiss them?).79 Of course, the choice of this verb is fraught with associations of idol worship and adoration of the Inca ruler and the gesture of the lips and hands noted by the Spanish chroniclers, mucha-­. The crucial additions again are the lli and the pu (here, po), verbal suffixes that signal lascivious kisses (besos torpes).80 Lli serves as an additive for indicating the “acquisition of characteristics,” and pu, “an act for a beneficiary,” reinforces this sense of having something done for someone.81 Women also were asked about which erotic zones they had allowed to be kissed: “Pencainijta, ya[n]ca muchaipas nispa, huñecchu canqui?” (Your shameful parts, desiring good-­for-­nothing kisses, are you a prostitute?).82 Women, in particular, had to answer yes or no about this sexual practice, too: “Carihyan puñuspa, hahuampi tallaicocchu canqui?” (Sleeping with a man, have you climbed on top?).83 The Quechua for the female’s “being on top” is conveyed by the verb tallai- (to throw oneself face down),84 combined with a locative hahuampi, meaning in this case, on top.85 Furthermore, in Spanish, the phrase is specific and asks about the incorrect vessel for semen, “fuera de tu vaso natural” (outside your natural receptacle),86 and in the Quechua translation it is much more anatomical, which asks where it was deposited “outside of your genital area” (mana pencainijquimanta).87 Of course, the correct receptacle is the vagina, but here the Quechua translation lacks the specificity of raca (vagina), a word avoided by the priest, who instead writes “genital area.” Although we might like to see these confessions as vicarious enjoyment of carnal adventures by the priests, they are, in fact, reflective of theological treatises regarding sexual practices. One fundamental requirement is that coitus between married persons consist of only vaginal intercourse and in the “missionary position”: “This is a necessary condition of all morally correct sexual relations, since only in this way can coitus respect the natural procreative finality of sex. The natural position is what is sometimes referred to today as the missionary position, the woman lying on her back with the man lying on top, facing her.”88 In a ranking of the five major sexual positions, drawn from theological writings on the subject, Albertus Magnus lists the favored theological coital enjoinment positions from the most favored to the least:

1. woman reclining, man on top 2. side by side 3. sitting 4. standing 5. entry in the dorsal position.89

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Some priests also included a sixth prohibited position, woman astride the male.90 Thus the priest examined the substance of the act (nonvaginal intercourse) and the manner of the act (intercourse not in the missionary position) to arrive at penance.91 Woman on top was generally viewed with horror, even if the vagina was the receptacle, but much more sinful was the dorsal position. Albertus Magnus was fearful for a couple in this position; it was comparable to the copulation of mules.92 Degrees of penance were imposed depending on the distance from the favored bodily site of vaginal intercourse: “the gravity [of the nonvaginal position] is in proportion to the distance from the natural manner.”93 The fifth position (dorsal) often required penance of forty days.94 Thus, for centuries Catholic theologians had struggled with the issues of sex for pleasure and sex for procreation, where only the genitals “well joined” (man lying on woman) was seen as the correct procedure to produce children. These details are repeated in the Andean confessionals and translated into Quechua. In fact, when confronting so many questions asking for explicit sexual detail, we may wonder if in fact the church was not serving to disseminate knowledge of sexual pleasure. Perhaps these acts never had occurred among their newly converted Quechua-­speaking parishioners. Indeed, the 1585 confessional advises caution, and Torres Rubio’s confessional restates that advice: “Es mucho de aduertir la qualidad del penitente aquien se ha[n] de preguntar porq[ue] no se le enseñe lo q[ue] el no sabe” (It is well to observe the quality of the person of whom you must ask [these sexual questions] so that he is not taught what he does not know). For masturbation, he gives further advice, as usual, in his confessional guide: “Mayorme[n]te que este peccado es tal q[ue] el que lo ha cometido lo dize sin ser preguntado” (Generally, this sin is one that he who has committed it says it without being asked).95 Similarly, the last item in Pérez Bocanegra’s list of 236 questions prying into sexual practices within the confines of the sixth commandment begs for discretion and caution in these matters: Otras muchas preguntas dexo de escreuir en este interrogatorio que se podia[n] hazer, à varones, y a mugeres, que entre ellos se cometen, que son todas pecados mortales, dexolas por no ofender los oydos castos, y limpios, de los confessores, letores, y por que en la lengua Quechua, no se pueden traduzir con honestidad que tan santo lugar requiere. In this interrogation, I leave off writing many questions that could be addressed to men, and to women, about acts that they commit together, that

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are moral sins. I leave them unmentioned in order to not offend the chaste and clean ears of the confessors and other readers and because they cannot be translated forthrightly into the Quechua language given the sacredness of this act.96

Another caution, written out for the priests, refers to the seal, the guarantee that the confessor will not ever reveal what was confessed. When the priests pried into these sexual relationship combinations, apparently, names were named. Oré (1598) specifically asks the confessants not to give him personal information: No me declares en tu confession el nombre o los nombres delas personas con quien vuires hecho algun peccado, solamente diras si es casado o no, guardate que no descubras su nombre que peccaras en ello, porque no se ha de descubrir el nombre sino solo el estado de la persona. In your confession, do not tell me the name or names of the persons with whom you have sinned, only say if the sinner is married or not, take care to not reveal the name of who sins in that manner, because one does not reveal the name but only the state [married or not] of the person.97

Other Sexual Pleasures: Of Self, of Priests Of course, pleasurable sex with one’s self also was condemned by the church. Masturbation is talked about through a circumlocution in the Spanish text, and it is quite specific in the Quechua text. The 1585 Spanish text speaks of male “voluntary pollution,” yet the Quechua translated passage explicitly asks: “Do you cause your sperm to arrive? Touching your shameful part [pencai] do you enjoy it?”98 The Spanish text also is imbued with European conceptions about the use of “dirty touching” (tocamientos suzios) but the Quechua pencai, as we saw, is related to the idea of shame or effrontery, not necessarily genital. Its use as a reference to genitals is constant in the later confessionals. The 1619 confessional also refers to sperm ( yuma) for male masturbation;99 the 1631 text follows in the same vein and directs many questions to male sinners about sperm in ejaculation.100 However, in contrast to other texts, women penitents in 1631 also are specifically asked about masturbation, and women’s sexual fluid is denoted using the same word as for sperm, yuma: “Maquijquihuan pe[n]cainijquita llamcac-

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chu ca[n]qui? Cairi, rucanaiquicta ima haicactapas, pencainijquiman, haihuarecchu, cachaicocchu, canqui, yumainijquicta hamuchincaiqui cama?” (Do you touch your genitals with your hand? Item, your hands, how many times do you reach out to your genitals, place your [hand], until you make your sperm [sexual fluid] come?).101 And, as we will see in other sexual interrogations, the woman sinner was asked if she was thinking about men when she did this act. Given the rules for assigning penance, dirty thoughts about male partners compounded the sin of masturbation and required additional penance. Concupiscence, or desire for pleasurable acts, could take place in thought; mental images of food (for the sin of gluttony) and other sensual pleasures are mentioned throughout the manuals, but, in particular, sexual desires are emphasized. Dreams are related to sexuality in a curious section of a confessional which focuses on the ejaculation of semen, here again referred to as “pollution,” which the dream image of a desirable woman brought about: “Have you ejaculated while you were sleeping, because you have seen some women whom you have desired when you were awake or because you ate food that was too hot, which encouraged you to sin because you have eaten it or drunk too much or slept too long?”102 Of course, other reasons for sexual fantasies are acknowledged, but, most often, male desire is provoked by a specific woman. However, an examination of conscience also included queries of additional circumstances of arousal. Pointedly, desire, fanned by watching animals copulate, is seen in “Allco huatanacocta, cauçacuna palltanacocta ricuspa munainijquihuan ricocchu canqui?” (Seeing a dog intertwined, animals one on top of the other, do you see [it] with desire?).103 Likewise, the sins of intention were included in confession. One example mentions the donning of colorful clothing (llipek pachahuan),104 put on with the purpose of seducing women and thereby offending God. In many confession manuals, sections on the sixth commandment ask about the use of love potions to enhance sex. In the 1585 Spanish version of the interrogation manual, the Quechua noun for love potion (huacanqui ) is used specifically to pinpoint exactly what is being discussed: “Has usado del huacanqui para alcançar mugeres?” (Have you used love potions to attract women?).105 The same wording is carried over to Prado’s 1650 manual, with additional details given: “Sueles traer huaca[n]qui para este fin o sueles mingar algun hechizero, o hazer otras cosas para este intento?” (Do you usually use huacanqui for this end, or do you call on a shaman, or do you do other things with this intent?).106 In the early sermons, the huacanquis are described in detail, and priests are warned that both men and women were knowledgeable about the potions and substances:

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Es cosa usada en todas partes tener, o traer consigo una manera de hechizos, o nominas del demonio, que llama[n] [Huacanqui] para effecto de alcançar mugeres, o afficionarlas: ellas a los varones. Son estos huacanquis hechos de plumas de paxaros, o de otras cosas differentes, conforme a la inuencion de cada prouincia. Tambien suelen poner en la cama del complice. [Huacanqui] is very widely used, and they carry about these enchantments or things of the devil that they call huacanqui, used to obtain women or to gain their affection, or women to gain that of men. These huacanquis are made out of feathers of birds, or of different things, according to the region. They also are accustomed to putting them in the bed of the intended.107

The 1608 dictionary glosses huacanqui as “vnas yeruas, o chinitas señaladas de la naturaleza, o otras cosas assi con que engañan los hechizeros y los dan por hechizos de amores” (some herbs, some chinitas occurring in nature, or other things that the shamans use to seduce in love potions.)108 However, it is Pérez Bocanegra who most illuminates us as to the particulars of sexual enhancement in the Andes. Huarnapu and hualliquita are used as a perfume to enable a repeatable sexual performance. Little worms (sucama) are rubbed directly on the male genitals for the same effect.109 These items are distinct from huacanqui (a substance used for sexual charms), and Pérez Bocanegra devotes a long paragraph to describing them: carhuayanchi (a substance to make a woman follow you when you pass by close to her), huacallpachi (which makes any woman cry out for you), chachacuma (a thorny substance) from the quisuar plant, and mosquitoes from Callao.110 He reveals a much more profound understanding of Andean secrets than his predecessors had. The importance of herbal potions is found in the early texts of the indigenous chroniclers, and the use of these substances is recorded in the trials of the Inquisition in Lima. Irene Silverblatt mentions the accusations in 1612 against Ana de Castañeda, an expert in mixing love potions that she learned from indigenous sources. Although she was of lower-­class status (part mulatta), her potions were sought after by women of the highest rung of the social ladder. Her favorite huacanqui was called palla palla (Inca noblewoman) and was used to calm angry husbands and discourage them from beating their wives. It was also said that she made a priest go crazy with desire.111 Thus, we can understand why Pérez Bocanegra asked: “Have you sold, given away, or taught Indian men or women, Spanish men or Spanish women these things [about huacanquis]?”112 This type of indigenous knowledge was sought after by non-­native Andeans, but those who learned this magic were persecuted by the church. As

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José Toribio Medina points out in his transcriptions of trials of the Inquisition in Lima, the indigenous Andeans were not the only individuals defying the church in these matters.113 Love magic was a domain in the confession manuals where actual Andean practices were codified and observed, adding to the lore of filters and potions that were well known by European sorcerers. Priestly knowledge of sexual practices, perhaps gleaned from yearly confessants, may indicate that the clergy were well informed about the sex lives of native women. Perhaps the taitas (clergy) were putting their knowledge to good use. While “Thou shall not fornicate” was the official ecclesiastical admonishment from the pulpit and in the confessional, the reality of sexual practice was something else. Some priests used the privacy of confession to solicit sexual favors. One well-­known example of this abusive practice is the case of the Jesuit Luis López, tried by the Inquisition for the brutal assault of an adolescent, María Pizarro, and the rape of other young girls. He was expelled from Peru, served two years under arrest in a Jesuit house, and never again was allowed to confess women.114 Miguel de Fuentes, another Jesuit priest, was accused of sexual relations with the nuns of the Convent of La Concepción in Lima and with young laywomen in the 1580s. He was allowed to remain in Peru, with a reprimand from his Jesuit superiors and a prohibition against confessing women for a period of ten years.115 Decrees issued by the Third Lima Provincial Council in 1582–1583 attempted to control this sinful sexual behavior by having women confessed in an open space, without doors.116 Guaman Poma’s drawing of confession certainly indicates such a designated space; although there is no confession box, the priest appears to be in a well-­lit room with the woman penitent.117 With the reforms of the Council of Trent in the mid-­sixteenth century, the use of a confessional booth was suggested by the archbishop of Milan, Charles Borromeo, who feared that a face-­to-­face confession would lead to sexual arousal and innuendo. Separating priest and penitent by means of a grille with openings no larger than the smallest finger precluded sexual contact; in contrast to the twenty-­first-­century confessional, however, the entire structure was open, and only the grille separated female confessants from the priests.118 Guaman Poma gave firsthand witness to solicitation in the Andes: “Cómo los dichos padres confiesan a las yndias en casas de la yglecia y pila o sacristía en cosas de escura y sospechosas escondidixos a las yndias solteras por algún efecto y pecado de la fornicación y de pecar con ellas, dixno de castigo” (Since the aforementioned priests confess the Indian women in houses belonging to the church, baptismal fonts, and the vestry, in dark and suspicious places, and the young Indian solteras hidden for some purpose and the sin of fornication and to sin with them, worthy of punishment).119

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In the confessional of 1631, women penitents were specifically asked about this sin of solicitation: “With how many priests who officiate at mass have you sinned? With those who do not celebrate mass? With how many men who wear the cloth? Or any other member of a religious order?”120 These clerical distinctions are carried out in the Quechua version of the query, with references to the specific status of the clergy: Missa rurac padrehuan (priest who celebrates mass), mana Missa rurac padre (priest who doesn’t celebrate mass), Clerigo (diocesan clergy), and Religioso (churchman of religious orders).121 Guaman Poma used a generic term, “Padre Dios rantinwan” (God’s representative), to label all prohibited sexual liaisons with the clergy; however, the priest Pérez Bocanegra used his specialized knowledge of church hierarchy to make the accusations more specific. Guaman Poma’s observations would corroborate the claim that many priests saw no harm in establishing relationships with unmarried native An‑ dean women: “El padre tiene todas las solteras enserrado en su casa, unos le rrascan y otros le souan la barriga” (The priest has all the solteras shut up in his house, some scratch his stomach and others fondle his stomach).122 In a vivid passage, he describes at length the cruelty and sadism of a priest in the town of San Cristóbal de Pampa Chire: Juan Batista Alaudán . . . fue muy apsoluto, cruel padre, las cosas que este hombre hazía no se puede escriuir. . . . el Padre Aluadán le desnudaua y le miraua el culo y el coño y le metia los dedos y en el culo le daua quatro asoticos; cada mañana le hacía a todas las solteras. Juan Batista Alaudán . . . was a controlling, cruel priest, the things he did one cannot write about. . . . Padre Alaudán undressed her and looked at her buttocks and her cunt and he inserted his fingers, and in her anus he gave her four little thrusts; each morning he did it to all the solteras.123

Guaman Poma also mentions that single women abounded in the kitchens of the priests; it was said that they enjoyed sex with the clergy: “Entrando una ues a casa del padre o de español, pierden la honrra hasta murir; dexando a su padre y madres e hijos se huyen y todos se meten en casa del padre porque le fornica” (Once they [indigenous Andean women] enter the house of a priest or a Spaniard, they lose their honor until they die; leaving behind their father and mothers and children, they flee and all enter the padre’s house because he has sex with them).124 Thus were born many mestizos in the Andes to the detriment of the native Andean race, according to Guaman Poma.

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As Alejandra Osorio has indicated, sexual pleasure was not the foremost motive in indigenous Andean females aligning themselves with priests or any other Spaniard. The children of a union with a Spaniard were labeled mestizos and thus were exempt from tribute contributions and spared a life of hardship.125 Guaman Poma’s vehement criticism of sexual liaisons between clergy and indigenous women was founded on his own personal difficulties; the priest Martín de Murúa attempted to wrest away Guaman Poma’s wife.126 Guaman Poma accused the priests, along with other Spanish officials, of corrupting the indigenous women. They became outcasts, turned to prostitution, and gave birth to many mestizos: Y ací andan perdidas y se hazen putas y paren muchos mesticillos y no multiplican los yndios. . . . los rreligiosos andan a la rronda toda la noche en áuito de yndios, sin dejar casa de los yndios. Estan dormiendo las donzellas, abr[e]n la frezada y se la mira la güergüenza. And thus the Indian women become outcasts and they become whores and they give birth to many mestizos and the Indian race does not increase. . . . The religious go on night rounds dressed as Indians, in all the houses of the Indians. The virgin girls are sleeping, and they lift up the blanket and look at their genitals.127

Although Guaman Poma seems to trace corruption of the indigenous women from the arrival of the Spanish in the Andes, nomenclature for women who were sexually active existed in Quechua. Words about these “sinful women” are sprinkled liberally in dictionaries and confessional texts. The 1560 dictionary lists terms for defining a whore (puta), pampayruna and mita guarme, literally, “those that live outside society” and “the woman one takes turns with.”128 The elicitation list includes a notion of the good-­hearted whore (ramera, puta honesta),129 translated in Quechua as pampayruna o guachoc. Covarrubias’ dictionary of 1611 includes ramera in a similar nonjudgmental tone, describing women in Spain who live near flour mills and olive presses and, in their little dwellings made out of branches, engage in sex outside the city walls.130 Thus, the accepted nature of the prostitute is conveyed. Prostitution was a tolerated occupation in many medieval communities, although women were required to live in brothels and wear designated clothing, often of bright colors. The prostitute performed a function in Europe: “They would spare respectable women, especially the wives and daughters of the established citizens, from the sexual importuning of randy men.”131

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The 1631 penitential manual was the first to emphasize the role of whores in the Andean context and was specific in labeling “bad” women as huachuaña huarmi. It specifies a whorehouse (huacin) where they awaited their clients.132 González Holguín acknowledges prostitution using the term huñicuk huarmi.133 Both verbs (huachu- and huñi-­) imply men lining up for the act, connoted through the original reference “to plant agricultural rows” or “to consent and put things in lined-­up order,” and thus are an extension of the original concept of taking turns with the mita guarme (also spelled mit’a huarmi). Sodomy: Defined and Decried Sexual sins were high on the list of vices in European theology, and the categories of sexual sins written in the Andes also reflect this emphasis. The privileging of sodomy is seen in the twenty-­fourth sermon of the Tercero cathecismo, in which sodomy is defined in the context of the late sixteenth century: Sobre todos estos peccados es el peccado que llamamos nefando, y sodomia, que es peccar hombre con hombre, e con muger no por el lugar natural, y sobre todo esto es aun peccar con bestias, con ouejas y perras, o yeguas, que esta es gra[n]dissima abominacion. Above all these sins is the sin that we call nefarious, vile, and sodomy, which is to sin man with man, or with a woman in the incorrect orifice, and above all this is sinning with beasts, with sheep and dogs or with mares, which is a grave abomination.134

In translating this sermon to Quechua, these “abominable” carnal acts are termed millai hucha, the “fearful” sin, or (literally) the “fright-­causing” sin, which often became the code word for sodomy. Years later, in addressing the sodomites, Pérez Bocanegra defines this sin as having sex with another man or entering a woman (wife or lover) using an improper receptacle. This male-­to-­ male sin is so serious, he says, that “quan gran pecado es este, q[ue] no tiene propio nombre, si alguno tiene, es no poderse dezir” (it is such a major sin that it does not have its own name, and if it does, one cannot say it).135 Yet, there eventually was a word that the priests invented for this homosexual sin, huaça hucha, literally, the “backside” sin.136 There is plentiful documentation of clerical interest in sodomy as seen in the confession manuals of the colonial period. The Confessionario of 1585

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specifically directs questions to ferret out practices of sodomy and bestiality within the confines of the sixth commandment: Has usado del peccado nefando con alguna persona? Has usado de bestialidad con algun animal? Have you used the vile sin with someone? Have you committed bestiality with an animal?137

The two acts are linked together, grouped together in the list of questions. However, unlike the example above in which the sins are named separately, as “nefarious, vile sin” and “bestiality,” the early colonial translation of this query into Quechua makes use of one specific verb huaçana for both. Whether referring to a same-­sex human partner or an animal partner, it codifies entry in retro: Pihua[m]pas huaçanacucchu ca[n]qui? Llamahua[n], ymahua[m]pas, huaça huchacta huchallicucchuca[n]qui? Whom do you enter from the rear? With a llama, with anything, do you sin using the rear [lit., the retro sin do you sin]?138

In its noun form, huaça (variant spelling, huassa) is defined as “las ancas de la bestia” (the flanks of the beast),139 which is easily seen as a reference to copulation from the rear with a human or an animal partner. The context clarifies the specific partner: “with whom” not “with what” in the first case, and the mention of a common camelid in the second. The preferred animal in the Andes is, of course, the llama, which is given primary status in the question. Yet, on continuation, the questioning includes reference to any animal. Technically, the semantics of one query also differs from that of the other. The first never designates the act of entering en retro as a sin (“Whom do you enter from the rear?”), but the second example doubles the loathsomeness of the sin by repeating the phrasing to state, literally, “the retro sin do you sin?” The Quechua nomenclature for sodomy and bestiality was not always consistent in the translations provided by the Spanish priests. A confession manual written by Jerónimo de Oré in 1589 at first used the verb panta- to refer to male homosexuality: “Caripura pantanacucchu canqui” (With male companions do you have sex, lose yourself, err [have sex]?).140 In the next question the backside reference is made explicit with huauça (variant of huaça):

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“pihuampas huauçanacucchu canqui?” (With whom do you enter by the flank/backside?).141 Women, too, were asked if they had participated in homosexual acts, as seen in this translation from the Spanish: “Have you sinned with another woman, like yourself ?”142 However, just as above, the Quechua query was more precise and elaborate: “Huarmipura tallanacuspa, carihuan huchallicoc hina, huchacta ruracchu canqui?” (Among women lying face down, like sinning with a man, do you do it?).143 Women were also asked whom they were thinking about as they sinned. As Asunción Lavrin notes, a sin became more serious if, during the primary carnal act of sodomy, thoughts of other sexual partners were present in the sinner’s mind: “Thoughts as well as actions counted in the definition of sin; confessants had to examine their innermost thoughts before, during, and after sinful behavior to be sure that the confession was complete and that full absolution would eventually be achieved.”144 We find the excesses of this query in the manual of 1631: “Cai millaimana, pe[n]caimana, huchacta ruraspa huarmiyoc carictachu, huarminnactachu, Padre, frailectachu, runamaçijquitachu, huchallicocmacijquip runamacintachu, yuyac canqui?” (When you engage in this abominable sin, the shameful act, do you think about married men? unmarried men? the priest? the friars? your male kinfolk? your sinful kin of your husband?).145 Entries for homosexuality and bestiality were often lumped together. For instance, Oré’s reference to bestiality is linked closely with the same query he poses regarding homosexual behavior; he uses the same verb. The carnal use of the llama is highlighted, although other “four-­footed beings” (the code word in Quechua for animals) are mentioned also: “llamahuampas maycan tahua chaquiochuampashuauçana curcanquichu?” (With a llama, with any four-­ footed thing [animal] did you enter the rear?).146 Torres Rubio’s confession manual of 1619 is content to use the verb hochallicu-­, “to sin,” not huaçacu-­, allowing the context of male partner or beast to define the act of sodomy if the penitent merited such protracted interrogation.147 However, Pérez Bocanegra’s Ritual formulario (1631) is much more specific in his reference to sodomy and bestiality. He outlines sexual possibilities with a whole barnyard full of animals in an effort to have a male penitent confess his sin: Tahua chaquiyochuan, maican animal ñisca cauçachuampas, huchallicurcanquichu? vuijahuan? cabrahua[n]? china asnohua[n]? china atahuallpahuan? china allcohuan? mulahuan? misihuan? ñuñumahuan? china llamahua[n]?

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With any four-­footed thing, or with any living thing that is called an animal did you sin? sheep? goat? a female ass? a female chicken? a female dog? with a mule? with a cat? with any animal that can nurse? with a female llama?148

It would appear from this list that European animals were more seductive than Andean livestock; only the llama was native to the Andes. Also this priest fixates on the female of the species (china) in denominating certain animals: a female ass, a female chicken, a female dog, a female llama. Other animals are not sexually coded: the mule, the cat, the sheep, and the goat. For women penitents, the listing of sinfulness also carefully noted the male animal (orco): “Cairi ma? orco allcohuan? maican orco tahua chaquihuan? Ima orco cauçac, animal ñiscahuampas, huchacta ruracchu canqui?” (Now this? with a male dog? with any male four-­footed thing? with any male nonhuman, what is called an animal, do you commit a sin?).149 Pablo de Prado’s Directorio espiritual of 1650, on the other hand, limits the categorization of the sixth commandment to a mere six questions in the confessional. One of these is formulated to address the sins of sodomy and bestiality. Millai hucha, “the horrendous sin,” is used to denote this act in the first question, while the more familiar huaça- is found in the second part: “Cai millai huchacta runahua[n], llamahuan, tahua chaqui huihuacunahuan imahuampas ruracchu canqui? pihuampas huauçanacucchu canqui?” (Do you commit the horrendous sin with a man, a llama, a four-­footed domesticated animal? with whom do you engage in activity of entry en retro?).150 Given the use of the Quechua adjective millai, glossed as “debased, dirty, and repugnant” by González Holguín,151 it is evident that the Spanish clerics designated sodomy and bestiality, not adultery or premarital sex, or even idolatry, as the most offensive sins. Confession manuals often explain that it is mandatory to delve into the nature of fornication in an attempt to determine the gravity of the sin. Pérez Bocanegra’s 236 questions cover the specific circumstances of sodomy, bestiality, incest, licentious songs and dancing, heterosexual and homosexual attraction, fornication inside the walls of the church, and the use of love potions to procure a sexual partner. He has a purpose for asking so many questions, as he explains to the priests who will be using his manual: En los pecados de deshonestidad (en que son muy frequentes) de poluciones, de sodomia, de bestialidad; es muy necessario hazerles las preguntas abaxo dispuestas: assi a los varones, como a las mugeres, de cualquier estado, y edad que sean (variando pocas cosas) porque é hallado por experiencia, estar

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muchos adultos, manchados con tales pecados que jamas los an confessado; unos por ignorancia, otros por oluido, y otros por verguença, y otros por proposito que tienen de jamas confessarlos. Y porque sus Confessores no les an preguntado tales pecados en ninguna confessio[n]. In regard to the sins of dishonesty (because they are frequent) of masturbation, sodomy, bestiality, it is very necessary to ask them the questions listed below: for men as well as for women, whatever their civil status, and age (varying the items a little) because I have found from experience that there are many adults stained with such sins that they have never confessed; some from ignorance, others because of forgetfulness, and others from shame, and others for whatever reason they have never had to confess them. And because their confessors have not asked them in any confession about those sins.152

Not fearful of teaching the native Andeans new ways of sinning, he assures us that he has written very honestly and with great modesty, using appropriate Quechua to have these sinners realize the gravity of their sins. From the first sighting of the native peoples of America there was comment regarding native enthusiasm for the pecado nefando (sodomy). Used as a justification for the “just war” of conquest, this sin, along with cannibalism and idolatry, became another reason (the second cause) to wage battle. Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, arguing against Bartolomé de Las Casas in Valladolid in 1550, pointed to sodomy as a transgression of natural law and a justification for the severe punishment that the Spanish would carry out in the Americas. As Michael Horswell has explained in Decolonizing the Sodomite, Las Casas, countering Sepúlveda, championed native rationality in aspects of their personal behavior, their economy, and their politics.153 In the Brevísima relación de la destrucción de las Indias (often translated as Tears of the Indians), he specifically addresses the issue of sodomy and vehemently denies its existence among the Amerindians. His later works also address this theme. Las Casas’ summary describing sodomy in Guatemala, where young boys were given over to be “used as women,” blames a devil who taught them this behavior.154 And in another passage he refers to Cuba and describes a transvestite, yet he denies that it is an example of sodomy. Provocatively, Las Casas counters with histories of the Old World, calling attention to the Greeks and the Romans as ancestors who allow him to make these comparisons, according to Horswell: “Las Casas carefully undermines the dominant sodomy trope of his predecessors by . . . establishing the correspondence between Old World sexuality and the

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transvested Amerindians.”155 In the mid-­1660s, sodomy was still rated as the first vice to be eliminated in the Americas in the view of Bishop Alonso de la Peña Montenegro. He names the chroniclers Herrera, the Inca Garcilaso, and Pedro Martyr as sources for documentation of sodomy in his guide for confessors.156 Citing book chapters and page numbers, the bishop proves how widespread this vice was: Herrera mentioned the sins of Hispaniola; this sin in Peru was commented on by the Inca; and Pedro Martyr narrated how Balboa grabbed forty of those men dressed like women and threw them to the dogs. The emphasis on sodomy—defined as homosexuality—reflects keen European interest in this “vice,” which was fervently persecuted in the Old World. In Spain, for instance, Aragonese inquisitors processed more than 250 cases of homosexual sodomy in the years 1570 to 1700.157 Only in Aragón was the crime under the jurisdiction of the Inquisition. The other Spanish sodomites were tried in secular courts, according to the provisions of royal edicts published in 1497, 1569, and 1598.158 In Madrid, 100 to 150 deaths resulted from this accusation; in Seville 100 perished. In contrast to the vehemence with which the priests combated sodomy among the indigenous peoples in the Americas, the Moors underwent persecution only when they were observed in the act by an “old” Christian, or when they had chosen an “old” Christian as a partner. The Moorish community rarely reported this “unspeakable” crime to authorities, yet sodomy was a custom widely practiced by the Moors.159 Michael Horswell’s exemplary reading of colonial sources allows us to postulate the complex nature of the sodomite practices in the Andes. Fray Domingo de Santo Tomás’ narrative, which was cited by Cieza de León, describes sodomy in religious ceremonies of the sierra and the coastal yungas: “Algunos mozos dende su niñez estuviesen en los templos, para que a tie[m]po y cuando se hiziesen los sacrificios y fiestas solenes, los señores y otros principales usasen con ellos el maldito peccado de la sodomia” (Some young boys were in the temples from the time of their childhood, so that in the time when they offered sacrifices and held their solemn celebrations, the nobles and high officials practiced homosexual relations with them).160 However, Horswell sees this practice as “third gender ritual subjectivity,” not necessarily the “debased sexuality” that other critics have seen in the colonial chronicles. Due to the divine nature of the celebratory rituals, this practice was a response to a mediated third-­gender presence, destabilizing gender constructions of male and female. Bartolomé Álvarez also comments on the everyday occurrence of sodomy and cross-­dressing in his summary of 1588. He cites a long history of transvestite behavior in the region of Lake Titicaca: “Usan la sodomía, que ha sido pecado tan antiguo entre ellos y tan usado que se sabe haber andado entre ellos

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los hombres en hábito de mujeres, sirviendo desta maldad” (They practice sodomy, which has been such an old sin among them and practiced by them that it is known that among them men dressed in the clothing of women satisfy this wicked desire).161 From his years as a clergyman in the region of Charcas he knows for a fact that boys six or seven years old begin sexual relations with each other and that this practice continues as they get older. He blames a lot of this behavior on their uncivilized manner of sleeping all together on the floor, with one woven blanket between them. Their play—joking and teasing—ends up with them caressing each other in a delirium of passion. A study of sexuality in the early colonial period reveals a discourse determined, on the part of the Christians, to impose a traditional European model.162 The interrogations of the confessional read like a modern sex manual because of the European obsession with procreation and fulfilling the marital debt within the sacrament of marriage. For the Spanish, the definition of sexual conduct was explicated in the Ten Commandments and disseminated in the confession manuals that attempted to standardize descriptions of sexual sins and suggest penance to rectify such sinning. In the Catholic view of sexuality, virginity and marriage were the two approved ways of life: “Virginity is preferred, but intercourse in marriage, for procreation only, is permissible.”163 For the descendants of the Incas, sexuality was part of their nature, as God had made them with a proclivity for sin. As disclosed by Juan Polo de Ondegardo, the Quechua themselves said that they were unredeemable; they were born wicked: “[Dizen] que Dios los crio para viuir en peccado, y especialmente para cosas deshonestas de luxuria y de embriaguez, que ellos no puede[n] ser buenos” (The Indians say that God raised them to live in sin, and especially in regard to sins of dishonesty, such as desire and drunkenness, they cannot be good).164 For those indigenous sinners who rejected the Christian restrictions of monogamy and chastity, desire and drunkenness were envisioned as both procreative and celebratory. For them, huchallicu- retained its ancient significance of unfulfilled ritual obligation; it was not meaningful as a newly configured word that condemned pleasures of the flesh.

CHAPTER 5

Confessing Commerce in the Plaza: Ranti-­, Catu-­, Manu-­

While the conversion of the Indians was an ostensible goal of the conquest, the mechanisms for spreading the gospel also included the dissemination of an economic system based on European patterns. In fact, we see religion and economics converge in purpose; the two concepts are highlighted and bound together in the introduction to the first Quechua dictionary. The lexicographer, the Dominican priest Domingo de Santo Tomás, was convinced of the usefulness of Quechua for preaching and for hastening conversion; in addition, he added that the Quechua language would serve nicely as the instrument for commerce: Esta [lengua] es la general y entendida por toda la tierra, y mas vsada de los señores, y gente principal, y de muy gran parte de los demas Indios. . . . Porque co[n] la communicacion, tracto, y grangerias que al presente tiene[n] vnos con otros, y concurso en los pueblos de los christianos, y mercados de [e]llos, assi para sus contrataciones,1 como para el seruicio de los españoles, para ente[n]derse entre si los de diuersas provincias, vsan desta general. This [language] is one generally used and understood in all the land and the one most used by the nobles and officials, and by the majority of the rest of the Indians. . . . Because of the communication, deals, and business that they presently have with one another, and with the gatherings that are held in the Christian towns, and the markets they have, and also for their contracts, like service for the Spaniards, in order to be understood among themselves in the various provinces, they use this general language.2

Thus, in privileging Quechua for religious purposes, Santo Tomás at the same time orients his reader to the linked mission of language and commerce. The

Figure 5.1. Drawing indicating the importance of the colonial plaza. From Juan de

Matienzo, Gobierno del Perú con todas las cosas pertenecientes a él y a su historia (1567). By permission of the Obadiah Rich Collection, Manuscripts and Archives Division. The New York Public Library. Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundation.

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words of his dictionary would facilitate conversations between Quechua speakers themselves engaged in acts of commerce as well as business negotiations between the indigenous peoples and the Spanish. Santo Tomás, writing in 1560, took as a given that Spanish and Andean Indians would thrive in energetic and welcome commercial contact. However, the right to commerce was used as a prominent justification for conquest, a right that allowed for a “just war” prior to the debates of Bartolomé de Las Casas and Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda in the mid-­sixteenth century. The Dominican priest Francisco de Vitoria is well known as a precursor to Las Casas. He, along with others trained in the Scholastic tradition, drew from many sources—Aquinas, Saint Thomas, Aristotle, Cicero, the Bible, Roman law, and others—to assess the legitimacy of European expansion. From these texts, he crafted arguments denying the plenary jurisdiction of the pope throughout the world, as well as negating the Castilian claim to dominion in America. Vitoria’s defense of the Indians is best known through his “De los indios recientemente descubiertos” (On the American Indians). Here he enters into lectures on this topic because of rumors all have heard, of “tantas humanas matanzas, . . . señores destituídos y privados de sus posesiones y riquezas, sobrada razón hay para dudar si todo esto ha sido hecho con justicia o con injuria” (so many human massacres, . . . worthy men made destitute and deprived of their possessions and riches, more than enough reason to doubt if all of this has been done with justice or with great offense).3 This is, he states, a matter of conscience (“fuero de conciencia”) that must be brought before experts to resolve the uncertainties and doubts. Thus, he goes on to prove with subtle arguments that the Indians are true masters of their private chattels and possessions and not “natural slaves,” that Indians are not feebleminded, or children, or sinners, nor are their lands to be seized by right of discovery. These “unjust claims,” often promulgated by the Spanish, are followed by a list of “just” reasons for proclaiming war and instigating possession of territories. The first and most substantial argument depends on rights of “natural partnership and communication,” that all nations (and of course including the Spanish) have the right to travel to foreign lands and cannot be prohibited from entering. Vitoria cites Roman texts as truths; the right of passage is universally binding and acceptable to all: “Se prueba, en primer lugar, por el derecho de gentes, que es derecho natural o del derecho natural se deriva, según el texto de las Instituciones ‘Lo que la razón natural estableció entre todas las gentes se llama derecho de gentes’ ” (It is proved, first of all, by the law of nations [ gentes], which is natural law itself or derived from natural law, according to the text of the Institutions, ‘that which natural law established among all peoples is called the law of nations’).4 Vitoria is convinced that the

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law of nations operates to ensure the common good of all and is agreed on by the majority of humankind. All nations agreed with the right of travel and the need to be receptive to strangers, he claims, alluding to scripture and thus to the universal acceptance of this right. Vitoria follows up with an argument for the law of reason among humankind, that it is lawful for the Spanish to engage in commerce with other people: Es lícito a los españoles comerciar con ellos, pero sin perjuicio de su patria, importándoles los productos de que carecen y extrayendo de allí oro y plata u otras cosas en que ellos abundan; y ni sus príncipes pueden impedir a sus súbditos que comercien con los españoles ni, por el contrario, los príncipes de los españoles pueden impedirles el comerciar con ellos. It is lawful for the Spanish to engage in trade with them [the barbarians], but doing them no harm, importing for them the things they lack and taking from there gold and silver or other things that abound among them; and neither can their princes forbid their subjects to enter into commerce with the Spanish nor, on the other hand, can the Spanish princes prohibit the lawful exchange of commerce with them.5

Vitoria’s privileging of commerce was not merely oriented to the acquisition of goods in the new lands. It related to a larger vision of the interconnectedness of humankind, a mutual self-­interestedness that bonded humans with each other.6 Importantly, a capacity for commerce and trade distinguished the brutish from the enlightened, as Vitoria knew from Cicero and Seneca: “The exchange of goods (commutatio) was conceived as a further dimension of the civil association between men.”7 Through trade, material objects were exchanged, but, in addition, human knowledge was transmitted, allowing for a consensus as to what was right and what was wrong. These channels of communication, established by God in the act of trade, contributed to an exchange of knowledge. From the perspective of natural law and commerce, then, American Indians, if they engaged in trade among themselves and with others in their lands, also were engaged in the world order. Therefore, any refusal to trade with the Spanish necessarily indicated nonacceptance of laws that most other nations believed to be true. Anthony Pagden orients us to the more subtle outcome of commercial interactions among nations: “Trade between peoples was also

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a means of establishing what Vitoria called the ‘vitae communicatione,’ the channels along which knowledge—the human consensus—was transmitted from one group to another. . . . [A]t a deeper level still, trade is a part of the communication among men, the consortium hominum which is the necessary cause of the highest of human virtues, friendship.”8 Vitoria stressed the need for peaceful and fair trade between the Spanish and native peoples; his intention was to bring the natives into the “orbit of international law.”9 However, the rules of conduct in the New World were governed by rationally conceived norms erected from a Western corpus of legal and theological ideas,10 not necessarily shared by the “barbarians.” According to Pierre Vilar, given the complexities of the money markets and the marketplace, theologians often became masters of trade and the economy in the confession box: “A theologian charged with deciding the legitimacy of gain had to go into subtleties of analysis to discover whether or not it was ‘reasonable’ to profit on a given exchange, a given fair-­time payment or a certain maritime loan, and the confessor’s handbook became a veritable economics textbook.”11 Tomás de Mercado’s treatise on “confessional” economics, in particular, came with a warning that the penitent should choose a confessor who well understood the market bustling around him: “Debe tener un confesor señalado hombre de ciencia y conciencia” (He should have a confessor skilled in science and conscience).12 His manual specifies certain characteristics and eliminates the brilliant man of letters as confessor in favor of choosing a clergyman of middling intellect with “street” knowledge: Tampoco se requiere sea profundo letrado (que son estos tales muy raros) y sería menester irse a confesar muchas veces, veinte o treinta leguas de su pueblo. Lo necesario es, tenga medianas letras con gran noticia de la práctica. Porque el derecho de todos estos contratos, en muy pocas reglas se encierra: mas son tan universales, y la materia tan amplia, que se aplican de dos mil modos. Para lo cual importa sumamente entender el praxis de los negocios. A deep thinking, learned man is not necessary (these are very rare), and it would be necessary to go and confess many times, 20 or 30 leagues from his town. What is necessary is to have adequate training with a knowledge of the practice [of business]. Because the rights of all these contracts are enclosed in few rules, but they are universals, and the material is so abundant that the rules are applied in two thousand ways. For that reason, it is really important to understand the praxis of business deals.13

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This attention to real-­life situations of buying, selling, profit, and credit occasioned an examination of the sin of usury by the church fathers. In an attempt to provide for harmonious and just relationships, these rules were made explicit to seller and buyer, merchant and banking partner. A transition from a feudal society to one of global fairs and banking credit complicated the church’s guidelines concerning the seventh commandment. The sin of avarice became even more pronounced with the advent of international trade, contracted and concentrated in Seville: “In the eyes of the Church, the merchants and bankers who were profiting from the American trade were in moral peril. Often, however, they were sinning out of ignorance, which the doctors saw as their duty to dispel.”14 Buying, Selling, and Bartering The manuals written in the Andes closely followed the European patterns in lumping excess profits and market exchanges into the commandment about theft. The 1585 Andean confessional written by a team of theological experts summarizes attitudes toward commerce that originated in Europe and were imposed on indigenous exchange practices. Included within the seventh commandment (“Thou shall not steal”), the usual interrogations regarding theft predominate before centering on market practices: “Has engañado a otros vendiendo y comprando en el Tianguez o en otra parte? (Have you deceived others selling and buying in the Mexican indigenous market or in any other place?).15 The word tianguez (here modified by the Spanish from the Nahuat) is embedded in the Spanish phrase—and rather surprising. The Mesoamerican word pops up in other instances; Spanish chroniclers called an Andean trading area a tianguez in reports in 1534 and 1536 in Quito, as a substitution for market.16 Of course, there is a perfectly good Spanish word for market, mercado, as stated in the Covarrubias dictionary of 1611: “Mercado, el lugar donde se vende y se compra” (Market, the place where one buys and sells).17 Why use tianguez in this text of Spanish words after some five decades of commercial interaction between the native Andeans and the Spanish? Perhaps the native indigenous exchanges, whether Mesoamerican or Andean, differed significantly from the European model, and this disparity is marked with the usage of a native word—even if it is from another American culture area—for “transaction.” In a Quechua translation of this query, the 1585 confession manual chooses a Quechua word that later is used by the Spanish to designate the Andean marketplace plaza, catu:

Confessing Commerce in the Plaza 157

Catupi maypipas ranticuspa, hucmanta ranticuspapas llullaycucchu canqui? In the catu plaza market, exchanging to benefit [selling], exchanging from another, do you lie?18

The earlier 1560 dictionary, in the section of Quechua vocabulary, offers up words for a merchandising enterprise labeled “catu.” Here this word reveals a separate semantic domain for merchandising ostensibly defining commercial exchange in the restricted space of the plaza: Catu camayoc mercader [merchant] catucuni mercadear [to trade, to market] catu mercado [marketplace] catucuni hazer almoneda [to have an auction] catucona almoneda [auction place].19

Yet these glosses of “auction” and “marketplace” need some in-­depth discussion of the Spanish conception of commercial sites, primarily mercado, almoneda, and feria. What did these terms mean in sixteenth- and seventeenth-­ century Spanish? While mercado designated a local place of buying and selling, there were other places of commerce known as ferias in Europe. Sebastián de Covarrubias defines the two spheres, introducing feria as a contrast: “Es lo mesmo que mercado, aunque incluye gran concurso de gente y mercaderías” (It is the same thing as market, although it is a large gathering of people and merchandise).20 He conveys a European sense of these large marketplaces (sometimes called “money markets”) as he expands his definition in the same passage: “Ay otras de mercaderes, que tratan en gruesso, y en ellas hazen sus pagas y cobran sus letras de cambio; como digamos en Medina del Campo, Vizazón [Villalón], y las demás” (There are others of merchants, who deal in bulk sales, and in those they make payments and collect from the letters of credit; as seen in Medina de Campo, Vizazón, and other places).21 Of course, Covarrubias is documenting the well-­known difference between the traditional fair—feria de mercaderías (merchandise fair)—and the feria de pagos (exchange center), which was coordinated between Spain and Flanders. In Spain, Medina del Campo held its fair in May; Rioseco, in September. There was another at Medina during the spring and at Villalón in the summer.22 These Spanish fairs were coordinated with those in Flanders and the Low Countries; often they coincided with the arrival of the treasure fleet from the Indies. Covarrubias’ use of economic nomenclature would have been well

158  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

understood by his seventeenth-­century readers. Wholesalers or those who “sold by the lump” (tratar en gruesso) collected payments and congregated with moneylenders who extended credit through letters of deposit and transfers. The nature of the market had evolved; no longer was there just a simple exchange of commodities: “The fairs dated back to mediaeval times and had not ceased to serve the community by supplying it with goods, but they were tending to engage more and more in purely financial business. They had become great international clearing centres, ‘the beginning and end of all payments,’ as Tomás de Mercado said in 1569, and ‘mainly places for settling accounts, not for true buying and selling, though of such there was still ‘a good share.’ ”23 The fairs of Europe were well established when the occupation of the New World took place. However, it would be years before commerce in the Americas reached the complexity of those fairs in Seville or Flanders. “Market” would best define the space of local postconquest commerce for the Andes, as seen in the definition in the first Quechua dictionary: “catu, mercado.” In the 1560 dictionary cited above, catu is mostly associated with a particular domain of commerce and what goes on in that space, as seen in the lexical entry “catucuni hazer almoneda” (to have an auction).24 Again an understanding of the value of this word, “auction,” in the seventeenth century is crucial. The gloss in Covarrubias’ dictionary of 1611 explains the meaning of almoneda; as “auction” it referred to a scene of commerce where prices were shouted out, negotiated, and bid up: La venta de las cosas, pública, que se haze con intervención de la justicia y ante escrivano y con ministro público, dicho pregonero, porque en alta voz propone la cosa que se vende, y el precio que dan por ella; y porque van pujando unos a otros, y acrecentando el precio, se llamó auctio. The sale of things, in public, that is carried out with the intervention of the law and before a notary scribe and with a public official, because in a loud voice the thing to be sold is presented by a crier and the price that they gave for it; and because they are pushing one and another, and increasing the price, it is called auctio.25

The use of this word, almudena (auction), in the seventeenth century thus leads us to surmise what catu could mean in the Andean sphere. We begin to find the Quechua word catu in the colonial manuscripts of Diego de Ortegón (1577) and Martín de Murúa (1590).26 Yet, there is another Quechua word that is consistently found in the confession manuals and sermons of the early colonial period: ranti- often is the privileged verb of exchange with a wide

Confessing Commerce in the Plaza 159

semantic reference. However, whereas for the European circumstance these acts of commerce were entirely discrete acts (buying, selling, and barter require specific words), one verb (ranti-­) in Quechua generally is glossed for all transactions of exchange. Ranti, in its most general semantic domain, denotes substitution of one thing for another. For example, the colonial dictionaries highlight the use of ranti as someone substituting for another person, particularly substituting as a representative of a high official: “substituto lugar teniente legado” (substitute place, lieutenant [subordinate officer], religious legate).27 Ranti also designates succession and can be modified to mean predecessor or descendants. Another use of ranti designates the spread of disease, as an illness jumps from one to the other person, replacing (or substituting) one with the other.28 Even after three decades of Spanish presence in the Andes, however, concepts of commerce (to buy, to sell) lacked a stable, restricted equivalent in Quechua. For commerce, to codify buying, selling, and barter in the marketplace, we turn to the Spanish side of the 1560 dictionary to discover a translational equivalence conforming to the European conception: “comprar” randini [to buy] “vendido ser” randisca [an (item) that is sold] “trueco o trueque” randinin [to barter].29

Turning to the section of Quechua entries yields the same multisemantic result. Selling, buying, and bartering are all designated by one verb again, ranti-­.30 In 1586, another Quechua dictionary glosses ranti- in the same manner, with all the functions of exchange: “rantini trocar cambiar y de ay se toma por vender y comprar” (rantini, to barter, to exchange and from that one uses it for selling and buying).31 And the dictionaries of 1608 and 1619 follow suit, repeating the tripartite meanings of ranti- into the seventeenth century. Lacking the system of markets and fairs common to European civilization, Quechua speakers did not divide the activities of exchange with the same insistence on a clearly demarcated buyer and seller.32 Ranti- and catu- are fashioned into the favored lexemes for economic activity in the Quechua translations of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The agreement among the bilingual and trilingual translation teams to codify market practices and Catholic theology by means of commonly used Quechua vocabulary furthered the introduction of European concepts in the colonial Andes. The dictionaries, sermons, and the Spanish-­Quechua confession manuals preserve a record of this use. The colonial Quechua dictionaries maintain semantic distinctions between

160  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

catu and ranti that allow us to see a demarcated range of use. The 1608 dictionary draws an important distinction between the two verb stems, using catu for foodstuffs and ranti for all nonfood transactions: “Mercadear comidas katuni katukuni, o ranani, y rantini ranticuni para lo que no es comidas” (To sell food, katuni katukuni or ranani, and rantini ranticuni for selling nonfood items).33 This distinctive pairing of semantic domains is repeated in a confessional question of 1631: “Catupi, maipipas imallacta rantispa, ranacuspapas; pi maicantapas llullarcanquichu?” (In the plaza, in whatever town you were trading in, or also selling food, did you deceive anybody at all?).34 But most significantly in these dictionaries we glimpse another key to difference. We read pejorative allusions to marketplace sellers in the use of catu, such as catu runa regaton (loosely translated as one who asks a high price and sticks to it).35 The 1608 dictionary continues emphasizing the disparaging use of catu; this verb is associated with unethical market practices. Katu runa is glossed as one who sells for profit, one who buys in large lots and sells in smaller quantities and asks a high price and gives little in return.36 The aspersions cast toward merchants who sell in the plazas are also seen in Covarrubias’ Spanish dictionary of the same decade. He similarly defines market practices in Europe and describes the regatón (fierce bargainer): “El que compra del forestero por junto y revende por menudo . . . Regatear, procurar abaxar el precio de la cosa que compra, es muy del regatón” (He who buys wholesale from an out-­of-­towner and resells in small lots . . . Regatear, to try to lower the price of the thing that is bought, is the essence of a relentless bargain seeker).37 Spanish reports emphasize catu, a Quechua word designating the space of commerce usually confined to a plaza. Spanish writers, through their European lens, often saw “market” as synonymous with “plaza.” The chroniclers Miguel de Estete and Bernabé Cobo describe trading in the plaza in a familiar economic system. What function did the plaza fulfill in pre-­Hispanic times? What did it become after Spanish contact? Although large plazas are mentioned frequently by the chroniclers, these spaces were not commercial but largely ceremonial in their functions. The Inca Garcilaso (a Quechua speaker) describes the major plaza in Cuzco as 400 feet long and 300 feet wide, so huge that the Spanish soon divided it in two.38 Juan Polo de Ondegardo describes the sacredness of the Cuzco plaza: on ritual occasions miniature figurines would be buried in the deep sand brought up especially from the coast.39 Juan de Betanzos (a Quechua speaker) also mentions the placing of a precious stone in the middle of the plaza, where the Indians would deposit their offerings as a celebration paralleling that of the idols in the Temple of the Sun.40 Beyond ceremonial purposes, Betanzos, relying on indigenous informants for his in-

Confessing Commerce in the Plaza 161

formation, also presents a view of the city in which Incaic exchange transactions were carried out in a large open plaza space within the city: [Inca Yupanque] mandó que cada cuatro a cuatro meses se diese y repartiese a todos los de Cuzco lo cual cada uno había menester de comida e proveímientos . . . mandando que de los depósitos se sacasen los tales bastimientos y comidas a que dellos se hiciesen en la plaza de la ciudad grandes montones de las tales comidas y de allí se les fuese repartido por su medida y cuenta y razón dando a cada uno lo que ansi hubiese menester. [Inca Yupanque] ordered that four officials every four months give out the food and supplies they needed to those of Cuzco . . . ordering that the supplies and food be taken from the storage facilities and brought to the plaza in Cuzco and that food be piled up in large stacks and then that it be distributed according to measure, and accounting, and correctness, giving to each one what was needed.41

This distribution of goods lasted until the time the Spanish arrived, Betanzos notes. Betanzos credits Inca Yupanque for setting up the mercado (market) in the Cuxipata Cato, alongside the major open space in the center of Cuzco. Yet when we look more carefully, the Spanish word mercado may be misleading as to the type of exchange taking place in the plaza. The Quechua translation of this marketplace name is “the happy open space of exchange”; it was a place to obtain food, fruits, and other necessities, according to Betanzos. The patterns, however, may look more like barter than a price market, as the Inca specified that both parties had to agree in the exchange of goods. If a “buyer” took an item “without paying for it” or, more likely, without the consent of the person who brought the goods to market, the thief was whipped.42 The Inca Garcilaso and Martín de Murúa also describe the patterns of commerce in postconquest Cuzco. Garcilaso remembers standing in the plaza of Cusipata (alternate spelling, Cuxipata), where male and female Andean natives bartered items of little worth: “Con sus miserias hacían en mis tiempos oficios de mercaderes, trocando unas cosas por otras” (With their poor items, even in my time there they were merchants, trading some things for others).43 He notes that this space was called catu by the indigenous peoples; it was similar to a feria (fair), yet, significantly, he emphasizes that there was no buying and selling (due to lack of money). Murúa is more prolix in his description of the postconquest plazas. Au-

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cay Pata and Cusipata, significantly, are not named as catucuna. According to him, both Cuzco plazas were spaces where indigenous merchants could “sell” their goods: cumbi (fine cloth), coarse cloth, cotton cloth, vicuña wool, poultry (volateria), meat from wild game, meat from domesticated animals. Likewise, they “sold” unleavened bread, gold, silver, copper, and lead in addition to medicinal herbs. Coca was the most coveted merchandise, “sold” in baskets and in smaller quantities. Some Andean fruit was brought in from faraway places, and even varieties of Spanish fruit came in for sale: Tuvo esta ciudad una plaza grandísima y, por serlo tanto, está hoy dividida en dos, . . . la una llamada Aucay Pata, donde está la iglesia mayor, a un lado y al otro la iglesia de la Compañía de Jesús. La otra plaza se llama Cusipata, que significa Plaza de Regocijo, porque allí se lidian los toros . . . En tiempo que poseyeron esta ciudad los Yngas y el día de hoy, era esta plaza y plazas el mercado público de los indios, donde había infinitos y los hay, que traían a vender de fuera sus mercaderías de ropa de cumbi, y ahuasca, y del algodón, hilados de pelos de vicuñas, volatería, de caza, de carne. Vendíase otro cazabe, oro, plata, cobre, plomo. Allí estaban los boticarios, que traían yerbas para curar, y los médicos. Hoy se venden las mismas cosas, y sobre todo, la coca tan estimada de los indios, en cestos y por menudo, y regaladísmas frutas de Castilla y de la tierra, traídas de partes lejanas, de manera que es abundantísima de todos los mantenimientos necesarios a la vida humana. This city had a huge plaza, and because it was so large, it is today divided in two, one part is called Aucay Pata, where the main church is, on one side, and on the other side, the Jesuit church. The other plaza is called Cusipata, which means the Plaza of Happiness, because there they hold bullfights . . . In the days when the Incas possessed this town, and even today, this plaza and other plazas were the public market for the Indians, where there were, and are today, uncountable persons that bring things from afar to sell merchandise of finely woven cloth, cloth of a lesser quality, of cotton, some woven from the fibers of vicuñas, birds, animals from the hunt, meat. Others sold cassava, gold, silver, copper, lead. There were the herbalists, who brought herbs to cure with, and the native doctors. Today they sell the same things, and above all, coca leaf, so desired by the Indians, in baskets and loose, and Spanish fruits and local fruits, all worthy of gifts, all brought in from far away, so that the city is abundantly provided with everything to maintain life.44

Betanzos, El Inca Garcilaso, and Murúa were Quechua speakers who listened avidly to and understood Quechua well. However, their accounts may

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Table 1. Comparison of semantic frames associated with ranti- and catuRanti-

Catu-

To exchange Plaza and countryside Substitute Nonfood Ranticukmaci (trading partner)

To merchandise, market Market plaza Auction Foodstuff Caturuna “revendon” (reseller)

blur the distinction between a price market (European style, using the verb vender) and the one for barter (using ranti-­) in the time of the Inca. The 1608 definition of catu (also spelled katu)—with emphasis on profit and price—contrasts with definitions of ranti-­, especially obvious in the phrase rantinacukmaci, glossed as “those who trade together.”45 Never used with catu, maci is a key element in alluding to a much different pattern of trade that predominated in the Andes. Maci (also spelled masi), even today, means “close friend, colleague, co-­member, equal, one from the same class, circumstances, profession, or town.”46 Here the warmth of personal trust, knowledge, and desire for trade are expressed with less emphasis on the prices and space of commercial exchange. “Trading partners,” our limited translation of the phrase, cannot adequately imbue the definition with the affective bonds of friendship and kinship that are inherent in this exchange of goods. Because of the varied ecological niches prevalent in the Andes, access to food is not always guaranteed. Thus, as Benjamin Orlove has shown, the creation of trading networks—whether kin or fictive kin—fosters mutual dependence among the partners in the exchange of animals for maize or coca for high-­ altitude tubers.47 Charles Fillmore’s word frames help us analyze the commercial event denoted and connoted for catu- and ranti-­. Both verbs are “lexical representatives of a single coherent schematization of experience or knowledge” and refer to the process of exchange.48 But in their particular contexts, the words refer to designated categories in the history of a language community. Presented in the context of presupposed structures of relations to each other, we can tease out a “semantic territory” when these words compete with each other for that space as seen in Table 1. In analyzing the frame semantics of “commercial event,” Fillmore looked for “a large and important set of English verbs . . . seen as semantically related to each other by virtue of the different ways they were ‘indexed’ or ‘evoked’ the same general ‘scene.’ ”49 Word functions also are coupled with attributions of

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value, wherein “interpretations of their attributive use depend on knowledge of ideational frames to which they are indexed.”50 Thus, ranti- is associated with a domain of nonfractious exchange, of highly valued goods, carried out beyond the confines of the trading space imposed by the Spanish (the plaza), within an established relationship of trust. The catu- category is marked with attributes that disparage the act of commerce. The space of catu transactions is a confined and governed space, of firm prices dictated, of haggling and noise, and of excess profits being accumulated. The ranti- concept is more traditionally Andean in its insistence on networks; the catu- conglomerate is much more concerned with European practices as seen in the contexts offered by the dictionaries. At first, a gleaning of words from the dictionaries in the early colonial period may not appear significant, given the reams of documents recording the massive shipments of goods to and from the Indies or the circulation of goods within the Andean area. However, here in the columns of dictionary definitions and vocabulary are laid bare the two economies of exchange in the conflict of cultures that began in 1534 in the Andes. A discussion of Inca practices of exchange elucidates the resistance and accommodation modes of Andean Indian peoples as their labor, and their discourse, is “refashioned” by sermons, confession models, and decrees written and spoken by Europeans who elected to speak in Quechua. The codification of Andean trade practices by church and civil authorities came up against an Andean system that did not function on a European market model. Anthropological studies of exchange in the Andes consistently highlight the Incan privileging of reciprocity and emphasize the practice of verticality. Reciprocity in the Andes consists of collective resource management at the household level functioning through extended kin networks and enforced through the apparatus of the state. Accordingly, each household provided for its own needs, calling on and benefiting from real or fictive kin who lived in faraway ecological zones. Thus, herder families in the high central Andes, through kin, had access to coca, salt, and chili peppers from the lower moderate valleys. Local families worked for each other in common tasks such as herding, farming, and house building in a balanced exchange called ayni. Reciprocity in terms of ayni meant labor practices carried out among equals, where labor was not contracted but exchanged as a service to one another. This interweaving of land, products, and families allowed for a wide range of commodities to be exchanged along the lines of kin relationships. Access to a maximum of ecological levels of crops and other resources is an “Andean ideal” shared by all ethnic groups no matter how complex their organization.51 On the level of the Inca state, goods were exchanged in a model of labor

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demands in return for state generosity. Thus, all married males between the ages of twenty-­five and fifty (and their households) were required to contribute to the Incan economy. The Incan nobility claimed labor through a rotating system of service called mit’a. Men, and their households, were called on to provide labor for the mines, state constructions, agriculture, and crafts. No tribute was exacted. Instead, the highland Andeans worked from a model where labor energy was collected from subject peoples. The expectation was that these workers would be lent food in times of famine and that they would be satiated with Incan generosity in times of periodic celebration. The “largest storage complexes recorded archeologically in the Americas”—the collqas— were set up to provide for the military, but they also stockpiled goods to be used for ritual festivities and the public display of reciprocity, which preempted the need for a market economy.52 Speculation as to trade patterns in the pre-­Hispanic Andes is a subject of controversy. Frank Salomon has studied the existence of pre-­Hispanic long-­ distance merchants (mindalaes) for the northern area of the Inca Empire and examined the intense trading of mullu shells as a prestige luxury item.53 Additionally, María Rostworowski has traced patterns of merchant long-­distance trading on the north coast of Peru.54 However, some scholars question the existence of markets and assert the lack of trading plazas controlled by a central authority in the Andes. Instead, claims Carlos Sempat Assadourian, other systems were set up to provide mutual access to goods: In the Andes, luxury, ritual, and subsistence goods were not traded in marketplaces, nor redistributed by the state. They were exchanged by establishing bonds of mutual help and activating relationships that allowed each group to gain access to the production of other groups. . . . [One ethnic group in the highlands] bartered goods with six different ethnic groups located from three to six days’ walk at no scheduled dates and on an individual or small group basis, that is, without the presence of merchants, customary marketplaces, or prearranged fairs.55

For comparative purposes, to assess the disruption of Andean traditional culture patterns caused by “market” mentality, a satisfactory definition of “market” is necessary. A study by Charles Stanish and Lawrence S. Coben critiques the usual discussions of anthropologists and economists as overly general or too restrictive. Instead, Stanish and Coben suggest that Kenneth Hirth’s definition of “market” serves best: “single balanced and reciprocal events” or “exchange in clusters” such as in a marketplace. There are characteristics operative in one entity and not the other. In early modern European

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markets, price fixing predominates, and laws of supply and demand control that pricing. Merchants and traders, often unknown to each other, enter into economic transactions. With letters of credit and currency, these European markets prospered, ranging from continental trade to include international markets (Asia, the Americas). Undoubtedly, in the Andes goods were exchanged prior to the Spanish invasion. Whether in foodstuffs or luxury items, reciprocal and redistributive exchange occurred, in calendrical cycles based on Andean agricultural seasons or ritual celebrations. In the local exchanges, households established the relations of barter, usually with kin or fictive kin. Elite alliances, however, often were the mechanism to provide for elaborate celebrations based on long-­distance control by political authorities. Profit was not the dominant motive in these nonmarket trade relationships; instead, in the Andes, ever-­expanding social relationships were emphasized. Building a larger partner trading group and a long-­distance network that depended on trust and generosity among rulers or householders, compatible with Andean ideals of reciprocity and redistribution provided access to more goods, or luxury goods. Stanish and Coben conclude that in the Andes this trade was “barter exchange without the use of currencies, price swings, and an independent class of traders.”56 A search in one of the oldest colonial Quechua texts allows us to glimpse patterns other than European market principles at work with the use of ranti(to buy, barter, sell). The myths of Huarochirí, collected in the second decade of the seventeenth century at the behest of the priest Francisco D’Ávila, emphasize explanations of deities, kin groups, and modes of worship. However, exchange of materials and products is noted in several passages that depend on the verb ranti- (trade of valuable items, in this case). Ranti-­, in the colonial monolingual Quechua text, provides a significant context that explains the semantic field of the verb prior to the Spanish arrival and its meaning in the colonial period. Catu, with its introduced meaning of plaza marketplace of European resonance, does not appear in the text. An example of a specific context is seen in a myth concerning the Llama Animator Creator, Yacana. According to this myth, when a Quechua-­speaking man is enveloped in darkness, covered by the Llama Creator, he sees all colors of llama hair (blue, white, black, grayish, and all hues of brown) and he grasps clumps of the llama wool. His next act is to worship this Creator before he goes off to trade this wool for a female and a male llama. Previously a poor man who possessed no llama herds, he is now fortunate. The animals multiply rapidly so that he soon possesses many animals, as seen in the passage below:

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Mana llamayoc caspapas tuylla ranticuspa pachan ricuscampi tirascampi muchac carcan, ña muchaspas, huc china llamacta horcontuaan ranticoc, chay rantiscallamantas ñahca yscay quimça huarcana llamanpas chayac.57 If he had no llamas, he’d worship in the place where he had seen the apparition and plucked the wool, and trade for some llamas right away. After worshipping, he’d trade for a female and a male llama. Just from the two he’d bought [sic], two or three thousand llamas would soon come.58

When ranti- appears in the text, Frank Salomon and George Urioste are careful to maintain crucial distinctions in translation, despite the plethora of dictionary definitions suggesting “buying” and “selling” for the early seventeenth century. Generally, they correctly translate the action of ranti- as “to negotiate” or “to exchange” instead of opting for “to buy,” with the exception of the last translation of the verb.59 Despite the dictionaries and the liturgical texts published with the restricted meanings of ranti- as “to buy” and ranticu- as “to sell,” in the telling of this myth the acquisition of animal herds (or wealth) is best translated by “to exchange” and not “to buy.” “Exchange”—rather than “purchase”—allows for the more encompassing concept of the sacredness seen here in the trading for llamas by means of the divine wool. Accordingly, proper worship of the animating deity who provided the llama wool is undertaken before the human actor thinks of entering into actions of trade. So, in this monolingual Quechua text, the preservation of former patterns of circulation of goods is evident. As much as the priests would have liked to translate using ranti- (and other verbs) for the market processes of buying and selling, another pattern— reciprocity with a divine creator—was presented as a model paradigm in the Quechua myth. Interpreting “Sinful” Exchange of Goods Often, “economy” is a word restricted to portray “narrow financial and material bookkeeping.” Yet David Murray expresses a more ample use of this concept: “In using the term economy, I mean a system in which we find a circulation of signs creating and sustaining a set of values. These signs may circulate as language, religious symbols, clothing or forms of money, but my interest is not only in separate semiotic systems but the way the different realms overlap and interlock.”60

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Certainly, production, consumption, circulation of goods, and exchange are cultural constructions subject to interpretation. Long-­standing beliefs about the value of labor or the values of a society dependent on monetary gain frame the assessment of these patterns as beneficial or detrimental. The question of whether markets existed in the pre-­Hispanic Andes has been argued passionately. Many scholars cite references to markets in the chronicles of the colonial period. Yet these observations may have been shaped by the writer’s own cultural expectations coming over to the New World. Susan Ramírez cautions that “merchants” may not be what they appear to be in the early texts of the Andean colony. Such is the case in a description of 1534, written by Miguel de Estete, who supposedly witnessed daily “commerce” enacted in Jauja: “Al parecer de los españoles, se juntaba cada día en la plaza principal cien mil personas y estaban los mercaderes y calles del pueblo tan llenos de gentes” (According to the Spanish [sources], 100,000 people gathered every day in the main plaza and there were merchants and town streets full of people).61 Susan Ramirez’ interpretation of the scene argues for “redistributive mechanisms” at work, not evidence for a “market complex.” She notes that Estete himself said that people were gathered for a fiesta and that tributary native Andeans were recording rations and gifts. She concludes: “ ‘Merchants’ were probably retainers of the lords who supplied the sumptuary goods that lords needed to fulfill their redistributive duties, retain allegiance and good will, and meet the norms of hospitality expected by their subjects.”62 The ethnocentric notions of commerce had guided the Spanish interpretation of the scene, and hence the existence of “merchants” is written into the text. Another such observer, the Jesuit Bernabé Cobo, in his Historia del Nuevo Mundo, written before 1639, illustrates Spanish misunderstanding of the native processes of exchange. Cobo spent most of his life in Peru and was a resident of Lima, Julí, Arequipa, and Pisco. Basing his comments on what he observed in an unspecified Andean indigenous town on a fiesta day, he describes a scene in the plazas where women brought excess commodities to trade: Vemos el día de hoy casi en todos los pueblos de indios deste reino [del Perú], que los días de fiesta salen las mujeres a rescatar a las plazas, trayendo cada una la mercadería que tiene . . . y hacen sus rescates, dando una un plato de fruta por otro de guisado: cuál con ají, compra sal; cuál con maíz, carne, y así en lo demás: con que todos se proveen de lo que han menester a trueque lo que tenían de sobra. We see today in almost all the Indian towns in Peru that on fiesta days the women come out to exchange in the plazas, each one bringing the merchan-

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dise that she has . . . and they make their exchanges, one giving a plate of fruit for a plate of stew; she with ají peppers, buys salt; she with corn, meat, and so it goes, so that all provide supplies of what they need by bartering with what they have in excess.63

Cobo notes that the Spanish looked at these Andean Indian markets as “entertainment,” writes how women are in charge of the exchange of foodstuffs, and alludes to a system of value or a calculation of price that baffles him: [Es] entretenimiento para los españoles . . . ponerse a mirar cómo se conciertan estos contratos y trueques, en que observa esta gente un modo bien particular . . . desta forma: ponen las indias toda su mercaderia o parte de ella, . . . hecha montoncitos pequeños en ringlera, de valor de medio o de un real. . . . La india que llega a comprar con su maíz en lugar de dinero, se asienta muy despacio junto a la vendedora y hace un montoncito de maíz que piensa dar por el precio de lo que compra, sin hablarse palabra la una a la otra; la que vende pone los ojos en el maíz, y si le parece poco, no dice nada ni hace señal alguna más que estárselo mirando, y mientras está desta suerte, es dar a entender que no se contenta del precio; la que compra tiene puestos los ojos en la vendedora, y . . . va añadiendo a su montoncillo algunos granos más de maíz, . . . siempre muy poca cosa, hasta que la que vende se contenta del precio y declara su beneplácito no de palabra, que deste el principio al cabo no se dicen ninguna, aunque dure el conformarse media hora, sino de hecho, extendiéndose la mano y recogiendo para sí el maíz. It is amusing for the Spanish to see how barter and exchange are carried out, it is kind of strange and it is carried out like this: the Indian women place all their merchandise (or a part of it) in little mounds of goods, worth a half a real or a real. . . . An Indian woman who comes to buy with corn, not money, sits down very slowly near the seller and she makes a little mound of her corn, which she intends to give as the price value of what she is buying, without either one speaking a word to each other. The seller looks at the corn and it seems like not enough, she doesn’t say anything nor does she make a gesture, she just keeps on looking at it. Acting like this, she conveys the idea that she is not happy with the price. The woman buying keeps her eyes fixed on the seller and she adds to her little mound a few grains, always just a little more, until the seller is content with the price and demonstrates her agreeableness not by words, because from beginning to end neither of them says a word, even if it takes a half hour to reach an agreement. The deal is done when the seller reaches out and gathers the corn up by hand.64

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In unraveling the peculiarities of this transaction, we note immediately that the European terms of “buyer” and “seller” are imposed within a context of barter, a designation that Cobo duly notes as “trueque” at the beginning of his comments. In his description we are told that the woman arriving is bringing corn to use instead of money. He interjects, from his perspective, that the seated woman has placed her products in little mounds worth a “real” or “half a real.” Oriented to a monetized European system, the unfathomable here for Cobo is not the use of corn as barter; what is mysterious is the negotiation of value. Without words, each woman displays a notion of a correct amount of corn to dish out in order to be able to walk away with the product she needs. And the negotiation was lengthy; half an hour could pass to reach an agreement about the worth of the item being “sold.” Although Cobo seems amused (as well as confused) by the scene unfolding before him, to his mind there is a “normal” standard of conduct and value based on a rational European way of doing things. For him, the little mounds of goods are “translated” conceptually and have a fixed value, as in Europe; he reveals his need to operate within his own familiar monetary system. For the Andean natives, there is a sense of negotiation in increments, a respectful exchange of goods that depends on need and complementarity built on reciprocity. The passage that follows the description of the market is even more interesting, as Cobo reveals his exact theological frame of reference. A Jesuit priest, Cobo sees sin accumulating in the mounds of goods that are added to, grain by grain, in the marketplace. He deplores indigenous transactions specifically because they do not adhere to well-­defined Christian practice. The Andean natives, he writes, have no concept of “fair market price”; they might take “advantage” of the “buyer,” and they never pause to consider the “gravity of their sins” in the marketplace: De ninguna manera reparan en estos trueques si guardan o no la proporción aritmética que pide la justicia conmutativa, ni jamás hacen escrúpulo de haber llevado más del justo precio, ni se quedan obligados a restituir el exceso, ni menos lo que por cualquier vía usuparon al prójimo, aunque haya sido manifiesto logro, hurto o robo, a que poderosamente los lleva su natural inclinación; porque una vez apoderados de lo ajeno, no les pasa por la imaginación poner en práctica el descargar la conciencia. In no way do they consider in these bartering sessions if they adhere to the arithmetical proportions required by commutative justice, nor do they have scruples about having gotten more than the “just price,” nor are they obli-

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gated to restitute the excess, nor even [restitute] what by any means they usurp from their neighbor whether it has been by means of profit, theft, or robbery, to which their natural proclivity powerfully inclines them; because once they have what belongs to another in their possession, it never crosses their mind to put into practice an unburdening of conscience.65

Abruptly in this passage, the amusement caused by watching the women barter takes on more ominous dimensions. Father Cobo reacts to the un-­ Christian manner—the uncivilized manner, to his way of thinking—in which the natives go about their business. The indigenous women traders establish their own equivalences. Cobo calls attention to the absence of equality of “commutative justice” in the transactions. In this remark, Cobo heeds Aristotle and subsequent men of the church who saw exchange as “governed by proportional reciprocity, and that such reciprocity form[ed] the basis of the civitas.”66 As a source for many medieval and early modern treatises regarding exchange, Aristotle’s model stresses rewards for each member of the exchange: “For in Aristotle’s view, if the process of exchange did not continually reward a producer’s skill and labor with equivalent products from other producers, both production and exchange would cease, destroying the foundation of social communication.”67 Canon law required that the exchange contract, a topic for confession, be fair and contain a “certain measure of justice, which ensured that each party to a commercial transaction received his due” or the exchange was a sin.68 This was nowhere apparent in the scene Cobo witnessed; accordingly, he saw no mechanisms for price. Most grievous to Cobo is that Christian tenets of “just price” and “restitution” had not been assimilated by the Indians even after years of the missionizing project. Generally, the “just price” was best described as “an estimate [of value] agreed upon jointly by good and experienced men or even by the whole community on the basis of long custom.”69 Of course, for all the theoretical discussions carried out over the centuries, seen at the beginning of this chapter, this was a vexing problem. In reality, no formula was ever conceived that allowed for setting the just price for any item. For many commentators of Aristotle, the value of a good should not be connected to the “needs” of the buyer or to the abundance of an item or its scarcity. But with Saint Thomas Aquinas’ study of these texts, much was resolved about just price and sin through analysis of certain conditions: risk, scarcity of goods, time for transportation, and whether the item was a luxury good. Thus, it was understood that “the price of bread rises in time of famine, gold is valuable because it is rare and the price of wheat is likely to fall

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when fresh supplies come on to the market.”70 Additionally, labor and costs entered into the determination of price, so that the contract of sale ensured equal utility for both buyer and seller. Much more concretely argued by theologians were instances of fraud in commerce: false weights, diluting wine, soaking grain to make it heavier, sale of stolen items. With the sixteenth century, confessional manuals began to reflect the more complex functioning of the marketplace; this new economy differed from the medieval Christian conception. There were new European channels of exchange (auctions, brokers) in which price was determined by circumstances of state, of national treasuries, and bankers’ loans. Father Cobo, perhaps prompted by the “primitive” scene in front of him, seemed to adhere to the older, simpler medieval framework of “fairness” for buyer and seller that was examined regularly in the confession of each penitent. Thus, in this framework, any profit gained from such transactions must be repaid by restitution of goods or money—and further compensated for in prayers of penance. These thorny issues of “price” and “restitution” appear in simplified form in the sermons and the confession manuals of the colonial Andes. Buying and selling did not need too much explanation; however, the determination of just price called for more practical instruction before it could be queried forthrightly in confession. In Sermon XXV (1585), regarding the sin of theft, the topic surfaces. A Spanish loan word could have been employed, as seen in the translation of other European concepts, but instead the theological imperative is communicated by embedding an explanation of just price in the trade of common items (coca leaves and clothing) and using ranticu- for the verb of exchange: El que engaña a otro quando ve[n]de, y le pide mas delo que vale la coca, o la ropa [pecca] . . . cucacta pachacta ymactapas hucman ranticuspa, chaninta yallichispa achcataña mañacun, runamacinta llullaycun, . . . chaypas çuayupaytacmi. Coca, clothing, whatever you are selling, increasing its value do you ask for too much, lying to your kin groups/traders, . . . in that way you are thieving.71

The Franciscan priest Luis Jerónimo de Oré imitates these same verbal patterns in his confession manual of 1598, linking ranticuspa with catu at first. Yet he also acknowledges that sales can take place anywhere. He broaches the concept of just price as “selling for too much or paying too little”:

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Catupi, maypis ranticuspa, hucmanta ranticuspapas llullaycucchu canqui, yallintahuamchu mañac canqui chaninmanta pissictachucoc canqui? In the plaza, wherever you sell, from whomever you exchange [i.e., buy an item], do you lie, increasing the value you asked, handing over too little?72

The Spanish version of this interrogation is much reduced: “Have you deceived others selling or buying anything?”73 Yet the Quechua query is expansive; the space of selling is mentioned (the catu is a primary reference), and then within that space the measure of too much and too little is added in an effort to introduce price and value into the discussion of the newly acquired European economic system. Now, and only because of the syntactic context, is the significance of ranticu- understood. That root now means “to sell” and “to buy,” and one is distinguished from the other by inclusion of ku (an often untranslatable reflexive or passive) and the use of the directional manta for “to exchange from” or “to buy.”74 A confession manual of 1631 written by the prolific priest Juan Pérez Bocanegra provides another interesting Quechua variation on the simple question formed in Spanish about sins of buying and selling. He orients the reader to the catu, as was done in earlier manuals, and includes both a familiar verb (ranti-­) and one that is less frequently used (rana-­): Catupi, maipipas imallacta rantispa, ranacuspapas; pi maicantapas llullarcanquichu? In the market plaza, whatever town you were trading in or also selling food, did you lie to anyone whomsoever?75

Obviously, at this late date of 1631, two verbs denoting exchange are still in use. The ranti- occupies a familiar meaning, yet this citation also features an additional verb, ranacu-­, glossed by González Holguín in 1608 as meaning “to market food.”76 And a similar differentiation for verbs of commerce is evident in another of Pérez Bocanegra’s questions: Imallactapas ranticuspa, catucuspa, ranacuspa, cutirpacuspapas, pi maican runacta llullachu canqui . . . ? Selling whatever item, selling in the plaza, marketing food, also reselling, to whomever do you lie . . . ?77

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His Spanish query uses only the Spanish verb vender (to sell), but his translation reveals his fluency, tapping into the lexemes of multiple exchange transactions newly minted for the Andes. Four verbs denote commercial exchange: ranticu- is used in its new Christian gloss of “to sell”; catucu- means “to market foodstuffs in the catu; ranacu- is similarly employed and oriented toward food; and listed last is cutirpacu-­, “to resell.” The verbs, which formerly conveyed Andean systems of redistributive and reciprocal exchange, are now marshaled to reflect European trading practices. Multiple verbs are semantically converted and indicate “to sell”; these verb categories establish semantic spheres to document the shift to European economic activity. Often it is easy to fall prey to a nostalgic look back at a pristine Andean world, highlighting the benefits of a nonmonetary economy. As Olivia Harris states, “The appearance of Western money in an economy where circulation was previously organized on some other basis easily comes to imply a whole teleological sequence, in which the values attached to collective interests and social ties are destroyed and replaced by accumulation for individual gain.”78 But, as Harris emphasizes, these two systems are not static or exclusive. Andean economies often expanded and contracted as indigenous people negotiated dynamic relationships with the European invaders. Andean natives did not necessarily resist participating in the new economic site of the market, says Steve Stern: “One might reasonably infer, therefore, that Andean peoples resisted the colonial market economy as an imposition both cruelly exploitative and culturally alien. In the abstract, the inference seems reasonable. In historical reality, it proves utterly false.”79 Both patterns—reciprocal and monetary exchange—flourished in the colonial cities of the Andes as Indians increasingly participated in a market economy. Under the system of encomienda, the indigenous Andeans were obliged to provide the Spanish lord with tribute items: baskets of coca, ore, cloth, llamas, corn, wheat, dried fish, wild birds, beans, potatoes, and chili peppers.80 Exactly how much each indigenous community was assessed varied greatly. Encomenderos early on sought information as to Inca labor demands within the community. In 1549, assessments were gathered from encomiendas in an attempt at regulation, but it was Viceroy Francisco Toledo who enforced the specific levies based on contributions of all able-­bodied men between the ages of eighteen and fifty. The tribute process was cumbersome, confusing, and not well regulated. Generally, tribute was collected twice a year by the state; crops harvested by indigenous farmers were sold to meet the fixed tribute amounts demanded by the state. The kurakas (traditional leaders) collected the tribute items, often depending on the Inca mechanism of reciprocal exchange to ensure contri-

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butions. The commodities were handed over to the Spanish encomendero, who then transported them to urban centers. Often, transportation of crops by llamas was part of the tribute assessment. Karen Spalding, citing an example from Cuzco, describes the mechanism by which indigenous populations, encomenderos, and merchants interacted in the markets. When goods were collected, fixed values were assigned by treasury attorneys and a provincial official from the region where the goods originated. Nonindigenous residents bid on the goods. Sometimes no buyers responded to the announced sales; the goods were then auctioned off in lots, often to middlemen of European descent.81 The confession manuals allude to fixed prices. Not using a price set by the authorities is specifically mentioned in the 1631 confessional manual written by Juan de Pérez Bocanegra. The mandated price is at the forefront of the query: “Iusticiap camachijninmanta, mana yupaspa, aichap chaninmanta, yallichecchu canqui?”82 Or, in Spanish, “As vendido la carne por mas de lo q[ue] esta puesto por la justicia?”83 (The government-­regulated price, not more than that, the value of the meat, do you ask for more?). Tomás San Martín, bishop of Charcas, explains how kurakas often forced Indians into trading with their encomenderos, incurring a loss: “Viene el encomendero ó su mayordomo á su repartimiento de indios, . . . [diciéndoles] . . . ‘por hacerme placer, que tomeis estos cien cestos de coca, y me los hagais rescatar entre vuestros indios á trueque de carneros ó de ovejas,’ entónces los curacas ó caciques por miedo . . . repártenlos entre los principales para cada uno dellos haga tomar por fuerza á los pobres indios, . . . y tómale las ovejas que le halla” (The encomendero or his foreman comes to his royal concession and says to the Indians, “to please me, take these 100 baskets of coca and exchange them among your people for llamas or for sheep,” so then the kurakas or cacique leaders are afraid and divide the baskets among the local indigenous leaders so that they compel “their” poor Indians [to take the coca] . . . and they take [in exchange] whatever sheep they can find).84 San Martín, a knowledgeable confessor, calculates the profits on these transactions: for 200 to 300 ducats worth of coca an encomendero could make about 1,000 castellanos. Texts from the early colonial period insistently use the Spanish verb rescatar to indicate commercial transactions. Covarrubias provides a definition of the exchange process of rescate: “Recobrar por precio lo que el enemigo ha robado . . . Rescate, redemptio, is. O se pudo dezir de recatar o regatar, porque se regatea el precio” (Recover through payment of a price what an enemy has stolen from you. . . . Rescate is redeem. Or one could negotiate or bargain, because one bargains the price).85 Rescate, of course, has its origins in twelfthand thirteenth-­century Spain, when Christians taken captive by Moors were ransomed. In the early 1200s, two religious orders were entrusted with raising

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the funds to pay ransom, the Order of the Holy Trinity and the Mercedarians. Generally, wealthy merchants, alfaqueques, who had regular trade with the Moors and spoke Arabic, were entrusted with ransoming the captives in the frontier towns of Granada. Alfaqueques worked within established trade networks with the Moors, often were granted “passports” of safe conduct, and were expected to respect all the cultural and religious beliefs of the Muslims when in their territory.86 Guaman Poma, in listing the abuse of the Indians by the Spanish, often calls attention to the transactions of rescate. There is no Quechua word to denote this aggressive type of “exchange.” David Frye’s definition of the Spanish word notes the “forced” nature of the business, a frequent complaint in the pages of the indigenous chronicler Guaman Poma: “A system of forced trading that was one of the most lucrative enterprises for many provincial Spanish colonial officials. Guaman Poma used the term to refer to the whole system, fueled entirely by unpaid Indian labor, . . . in which colonial officials organized the forced manufacture of goods, . . . and finally sold the goods in the Spanish markets or, more often, disposed of them in forced sales to Indians elsewhere in the province.”87 Some kurakas became wealthy, and some indigenous communities were able to accumulate surplus as sapsi (goods belonging to the community) in the early decades of the colonial period. But with population decline and the decreasing native items of stored surplus, it was the Europeans who benefited most from exchange patterns in what Spalding calls the “plunder economy.”88 With the introduction of legislation detailing tribute to be paid primarily in specie, each tributary under Toledo owed some four pesos ensayados (minted coins), usually three in silver or gold and the rest in kind.89 Under Spanish rule, tribute was collected without fail, whereas under the Inca, a poor harvest from state lands would have been absorbed by relying on surplus from previous seasons, so that local subsistence was not threatened. This was a new system. Yet, as we have seen in the dictionaries and the confession manuals, the more ancient semantics of indigenous exchange (ranti- is the best example of this) are also preserved in the verbs that the Spanish attempted to reconfigure to suit their purposes. Marketing Christian Credit and Debt: Salvation in Quechua Confession manuals bear witness in the marketplace, often describing in great detail the mechanisms of credit, loans, and debt. In the early colonial Andean

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penitentials, words for credit and debt are found abundantly in the sections on “deceitful trade” and are closely associated with the Hispanic concept of fiar (to enter into a loan contract earning more than the just return on the loan). Tomás de Mercado orients penitents to the sinfulness of this type of credit, which reaps funds through the mechanism of “interest”: Hemos ya llegado al océano y maremágnum de los mercaderes, donde a velas tendidas de su codicio navegan, que es al fiado, de como en golfo no hay suelo, ni pie, ni precio justo, ni regla que se siga, ni ley que se guarde, decir al fiado es echar una red barredera, un destierro de toda justicia, un constituir por reina y gobernadora la avaricia del que vende, y la necesidad del que compra. . . . Este negocio de vender al fiado es tan escrupuloso, que de todos casi es murmado y medio infamado, por lo cual saben ya todos dello, estoy por decir más de lo que yo diré. A esta causa no me detendré en lo que yo sé, que todos saben, y ninguno lo niega. We have now arrived at the ocean and wide sea of the merchants, where under taut sails they navigate their greed, called the loan contract, just as in the gulf there is no base or bottom, [there is] no just price, nor any rule that comes from it, nor any law that is respected, to say on credit is to throw out a dragging net, a banishment of all justice, making avarice the queen and ruler of all that is sold and the need of he who buys. . . . This business of selling on credit is so [worthy of ] scruple, that among almost everyone it is gossiped about and somewhat slandered, and for that reason everybody knows about it already, I am about to say more than I will say. In this matter, I will not dwell on that which I know, what everybody knows, and no one denies.90

Despite the theological pronouncements disparaging credit, commercial transaction by means of credit was a European practice very much sought after and appreciated by indigenous Andeans. Juan de Matienzo’s report of 1567 describes an excessive indigenous reliance on credit in the region of Potosí. In a comment regarding Indian shopkeepers and skilled yanaconas (free workers), he notes the liberal credit extended to Indians. They soon were mired in debt, and the merchant had few channels though which to collect money from them: Los mercaderes y rescatadores fian a los indios e indias y yanaconas gran cantidad de coca y maiz y chuño y ropa, cargándosele a muy mayores precios de lo que valen, e como a los Indios se les da fiado, por no trabajar toman de una

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parte y de otra, y hacense haraganes y vagabundos, y quando se ven cargados de muchas deudas viendo que no pueden pagar, se huyen de los asientos de minas y otras veces los hechan en la cárcel donde mueren de hambre. The merchants and the forced exchange agents give credit to Indian men and Indian women and “free” Indians [to buy] large quantities of coca and corn and dried potato and clothes, burdening them with prices greater than what the items are worth, and because they give it to the Indians on credit, because they do not work, they get a little from here and there and become idlers and vagabonds. And when they see themselves burdened with a lot of debt, seeing that they cannot pay, they flee the sites of the mines. Sometimes they throw them in jail where they die of hunger.91

Matienzo suggests a way to protect the native peoples. He allows them the use of credit to obtain items, yet he insists a judge be present to assure that the usual market price is charged for the item. In no way should any transaction be written down, he notes, apparently dreading the litigation and court cases that could be brought as a result of this type of sale.92 Similarly, in 1573, Nicolás de Benino wrote of the indigenous enthusiasm for credit transactions in a message addressed to Viceroy Toledo. He describes purchases of wine, some conserves, a blanket, and a tunic and the frenzy of consumption, all on credit, contracted by the indigenous miners in Potosí: Eran tan excesivos los gastos que hacían en aquel tiempo los indios, que era cosa para tenerse por increible; porque con valer en aquel tiempo una botija de vino ciento y ciento cincuenta pesos, y un barril de conserva cuarenta y cincuenta, y una manta y una camiseta esto y mucho más, y por consiguiente todos los demás bastimentos y mercaderías, tan sin pesadumbre y con tanta abundancia y liberalidad lo compraban todo de contado, como hoy día se haría en la compra de una de las más mínimas cosas que se venden en la plaza, cosa nunca vista ni oído (así ) en ninguna parte del mundo. The expenditures that the Indians did in those days were excessive, almost incredible; because in those days an earthenware jar of wine cost 100 or 150 pesos, and a keg of preserved food 40 or 50, a blanket and a shirt about this [price] and more, and so forth [the prices] of all the other supplies and merchandise. Without any unpleasantness and with abandon and generosity, they bought it all on credit, just as if today one would purchase an insignificant thing sold in the plaza; something never seen or heard of in any part of the world.93

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In general, Europeans marveled at how the natives did not understand mechanisms of credit: “[Los indios] fácilmente se aficionan de tomar todo lo que les dan de fiado sin tener consideración de los precios” (The Indians easily become enthusiastic about taking everything that they give them on credit, without considering the prices).94 Lexical analysis also documents the entry of European exchange processes into the marketplace and describes semantic assimilation of Quechua vocabulary. The earliest Quechua dictionary (1560) offers up two words that are often seen in the context of loans and repayment: manu- and maña-­. While they both contain a meaning of “obligation for repayment,” these entries clearly separate a debt of money (manu) from a variety of items to be repaid (maña-). Santo Tomás, the lexicographer, strictly defines monetary debts using manu: “Deudas de dinero” (manu: Debts of money).95 The other word for a loan (maña-­) does not specify monetary transactions but instead emphasizes a willingness to enter an obligation of some sort based on trust: “Fiar, confiando de otro” (To lend on credit, trusting the other [person]).96 The introduction of the element of trust is not surprising in this context; the borrowing and lending common to the meaning of both verbs may represent patterns of local activity, among kin and ayllu, as we saw in the trading partners (masi ). Yet, the dictionary of 1586 emphasizes monetary payment alone, as seen in looking up the Spanish (cobrar, to receive payment) and Quechua (manu) entries: “Manuyta chasquicuni recibir pago de lo fiado” (I receive payment for a loan),97 or “Cobrar lo que le deuen manuyta chasquicuni chasquicupuni” (To collect what they owe, I receive payment for a loan) in which “return” is emphasized by repetition of chasqui.98 The priests attempted to translate the complex mechanisms of the imposed economic system for the indigenous converts. Fair trade in the marketplace is explained in the bilingual Sermon XXV of the Tercero cathecismo (1585). The Spanish version concretely enumerates the prohibited market activity and business practices so well understood in a European context: “[Pecca] el q[ue] presta por ganancia, o lleva mas por el fiado, y el que no paga su trabajo al indio” (He sins who lends for a profit, or who earns more because of credit, and he who does not pay the Indian for work).99 The translation of this sermon into Quechua, however, reduces the scope of the sins of commerce: “Maycampas cucacta, pachacta, ymactapas hucman ranticuspa, chaninta yallichispa achcataña mañacun . . . chaypas çuayupaytacmi” (Wherever, coca, clothing, selling whatever to someone, increasing the value, [whoever] asks for a lot . . . that also is stealing from others).100 In comparing the two versions, we see that in the Quechua text, the varied instances of economic thievery (loans, credit, nonpayment of wages) are not mentioned; instead, only charging a

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high price in order to gain a profit is emphasized as an immoral action. Only maña, “to ask too high a price,” appears; loans and credit of the semantically similar lexeme manu are not mentioned. Additional passages in the sermon specifically address interest earnings, but despite the dictionary entries defining manu as monetary loans, maña is preferred again by the team of clerical translators: Tambien es contra este mandamiento prestar por ganancia quando days el dinero o el trigo, o el mayz, con condicion que os bueluan mas. It is also against this commandment to lend for profit such as when you hand over money or wheat on the condition that you are given back more.

and Pimaycan runach collquecta, trigocta, çaracta, yma ymallactapas, huc runa‑ man mañan: chay mañascanmanta yallequeyoctaña chasquicupun, . . . manam DIOS cayta ruranqui ninchu. Whoever asks for somebody’s money, wheat, corn, whatever: from that loan profits in return, God says do not do this, [or literally translated] as for any person’s money, wheat, corn, for whatever item he asks for: from that asking [borrowing] receives an increase in value [profit], . . . God says do not do this.101

However, the confession manual written in the same year brings up credit and tightens the semantic reference. Manu only means a loan that is involved with profit: “Collquecta, ymactapas manupac cospa mirayninta yapayninta huan ñachu chasquicupuc canqui?” (Money, whatever you give for a loan or credit, the increase, the extra bit, do you usually receive [more] for it?).102 In these Christian texts, manu-­, originally a word used for borrowing any item, becomes the preferred verb for monetary contractual leverage, implying creditors and debtors; maña- is used in situations involving a simple exchange of commodities. The 1608 Quechua dictionary continues in this vein, and these two concepts are clearly differentiated. A priest seeking to define the circumstances of a loan by thumbing through the Quechua entries in a dictionary would see the contrasting definitions on the same page, one after the other: Mañani, o mañahuayñini. Es solo pedir por vn rato prestado lo que se buelue luego lo mismo en numero porque no se enagena ni aqui se dize deudor ni acreedor.

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It is only to ask for a short period of time for a loan, which is repaid then in the same amount [number] so that one does not become estranged and with this word one does not use debtor or creditor. Manuhuayñini. Pedir prestada plata, o cosa que se gasta y no se buelue la misma y aqui ay acreedor y deudor. To ask for a loan of money, or something that is consumed, and is not returned as the same thing [exactly] so here there is the concept of creditor and debtor.103

Manu, in the semantic coupling with money, takes on the serious complexity of a relationship built on credit and future repayment, unlike the less complex maña- interaction. In fact, the legalistic nature of the loan is highlighted; with manu there are a creditor and a debtor. With maña the contractual arrangement of the loan is minimal; the same borrowed item is merely returned. Probably this loan of maña is a verbal promise. In addition, the loan relationship is amiable. The definition notes that the borrower tries not to alienate the lender. The oppositional relationship of the two verbs is seen in contemporary usage, one that preserves a particular Andean logic of repaying equal and exact equivalents in the loan exchange. Antonio Cusihuamán’s modern dictionary helps us understand the difference in the two verbs. He defines manuy as “to lend money or a consumable product or food that, when returned is not the same object, but an equivalent replacement,”104 as opposed to mañay, “to lend a nonconsumable item such as clothing, tools, instruments, a work animal, books and office supplies, to be returned exactly, the same item.”105 The more elaborate descriptions found in Pérez Bocanegra’s seventeenth-­ century confession manual indicate that the processes for loans and accounts have well-­established, delineated vocabularies. Discussion of credit and debit, cash sales, and futures commodities are phrased in wording of manu and ranticu-­: “Manupac imallactapas ranticupuspa, checa chaninmanta, carupi yallichispa, ranticupocchu ca[n]gui?” (On credit whatever you sell, [departing from] the true value [just price] causing an increase in value, do you often sell it?).106 The Spanish phrasing helps hone in on what Pérez Bocanegra is really asking: “Por vender fiado as vendido alguna cosa por mas del justo precio [?]” (Because of selling on credit, have you usually sold for more than the just price?).107 As Krista E. Van Vleet notes in a Bolivian Quechua-­speaking community, the distinctions between manu and mañay have implications for economic and material relationships of debt: “To be in debt to others is a precondi-

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tion to production and reproduction.” Mañay is the word used to describe the betrothal, as the bride has been “loaned” when she is “carried away.” Thus this verb has affective connotations that link the wedding couple to the extended network of relations. Manu is used in contexts in which the couple is reminded of future monetary obligations, “with an inherent obligation for counterprestation.”108 By 1631, then, manu—coupled with the ranti- of selling or buying—had an established denotation of “on credit.” “Just price” also became prominently codified. The phrase checa chanin, or “true worth,” denoted a fixed and determined price for penitential confession. Market collusion, particularly as enacted by indigenous people, was frowned on in commerce. Generally, monopolies were regarded as a troublesome area for confession. Tomás Mercado’s guide for confessors (1569) clarifies what this type of “stealing” consisted of: “Se conciertan los mercaderes, de no abajar de tanto (que llamamos los Castellanos monopodio) vicio abominable, y aborrecible a todo género de gente, porque es muy perjudicial, tirano, y dañoso, y por tal condenado en todas leyes” (The merchants make a pact to not lower a price (what we Spanish term a monopoly) an abominable vice, and loathed by all classes of people, because it is prejudicial, tyrannical, and harmful, and for this reason condemned in the law).109 Of course, one Spanish monopoly comes quickly to mind, the trade in wool. Detailed studies reveal how the wool monopoly operated in the peninsula in terms of the classes of wool preferred by the buyers, variations in price at the time of shearing, the different forms of contracts, and the opinions of sheep owners and wool merchants.110 Not surprisingly, this price-­fixing strategy among Andean peoples is highlighted and condemned in the 1631 confessional; the indigenous miners in particular are excoriated for this sin: Camri cana, huccunahuan, cutirpa, caturaccunahuampas, yachachinacocchu canqui, huñullapi, çaracta, papacta, chuñucta, ima muuctapas, yucracta, utcucta, llamacta, ima cacllactapas, ra[n]tipusuncu ñispa, quepama[n]taña, carupi yallichispa, cutirpapuipi, ra[n]ticupuncaiquipac? imapim chai yachachinacuita, ruraroanqui? haica mittatac? Do you, with another [Indian], in order to resell, with some cateras also, cause each other to know [enter into an agreement], gathering together in a bunch, corn, potatoes, dried potatoes, any kind of fruit, shrimp, cotton, llamas, whatever items, saying we intend to buy them, and later causing the price to increase greatly, in the reselling, do you sell? What kind of agreement did you make? How many times?111

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In this passage, lexical distinctions in Quechua introduce a new type of seller, the cutirpa (a reseller, a wholesaler in the market), who is distinct from a catera (usually a female plaza vendor). Moreover, what is emphasized is the act of creating a monopoly (Spanish: monopodio), using the Quechua verb yachachi- to designate price-­fixing. The verb yachachi- would be glossed literally as “to cause to know, to reach an understanding, to prepare one for an understanding,” as it stems from the verb “to know.”112 A definition in the 1608 dictionary gives us a form that includes the verbal suffix naka (to reciprocate to one another) embedded with yacha-­.113 So, here yachachinacu is well translated as “to be in the know” about how exactly these market collusions function. Interestingly, the confessional query also includes a list of the products that were likely to be traded as a monopoly created by natives: corn, potatoes, dried potatoes, cotton cloth, llamas, shrimp. These items often were gathered up and then brought from far away to resell at a high price. These goods may have come from ayllu resources. Mitayos brought hefty supplies with them in llama caravans. Alfonso Messía Vanegas mentions seeing 7,000 people on the move in 1603; their llamas carried chuño (freeze-­dried potatoes), maize, charqui (dried meat), dried fish, and quinoa (high-­altitude grain) flour.114 These products were mostly for subsistence to sustain themselves while working in the mines; yet this pattern of supply from the communities allowed for market networks to be set up in which indigenous peoples could increase their earnings. Native Andeans also were accused of solidarity, tightly in agreement among themselves, in the negotiating space of the auction. Pérez Bocanegra includes a comment in the early part of his seventh commandment queries: “As estoruado en el almoneda, ò en otra cualquier venta, que otros pujen sobre lo que dauas, por lleuarte para ti, ò para otro lo que se vende? que tantas vezes estoruaste que otros pujassen?” (Have you obstructed things in the auction, or in whatever sale, allowing others to bid up the price more than you are giving, to carry it away for you, or for another, the item being sold? How many times have you allowed others to bid up the price?).115 Notably, the Quechua translation depends on a circumlocution to describe the European mode of commerce, the “auction.” Whereas formerly catucuna was used to express “auction,” now uya ranticuipi, literally, “in the hearing place of selling,” becomes the translation of this transaction in confessions.116 Commercial metaphors reflecting patterns of exchange soon entered as tropes in everyday speech and in theological discourse. Notably, the Lord’s Prayer—in Spanish—is laden with phrases about “debts” and “forgiving our debtors”: “Perdonanos nuestras deudas, assi como nosotros las perdonamos a nuestros deudores” (Forgive us our debts, just as we forgive our debtors).117 Al-

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though the economic connotations resonate in the Spanish text, the Quechua translations for the sermon of 1585 concentrate only on the “sin” and the “forgiveness of sins” by others.118 The published version of this prayer uses only the equivalent Quechua terminology for sin (hucha), not “debt.” Pampacha-­, originally referring to agriculture or construction as “smoothing out the ground,” now acquires the sense of a covering over, an erasure (absolution) of sins. Thus, the word “debtors” in this Quechua text of the Lord’s Prayer is expressed as sin and not debt: “Huchaycuctari pampachapuaycu, ymanam ñocaycupas ñocaycuman huchallicuc cunacta pampachaycu hina” (Our sins [exclusive] absolve for us, just as we [exclusive] absolve those who sin against us).119 Furthermore, the use of the exclusive marker for “our” sins emphasizes a special forgiveness among indigenous people. With this verbal marker, non-­Indian peoples are excluded, as yku ( ycu in quotation) refers to a group of “us” but excludes the addressee.120 Thus “our” sins in the exclusive, not all-­inclusive marker for “our” serves to denote a forgiveness bound within a group of Quechua speakers with little emphasis on others outside this restricted group. Although not expressed yet in the Lord’s Prayer, the concept of obligation to a deity is present in dictionary definitions in extensive suggestions about how to use the words maña- and manu- in a Christian context, not one of money. Maña, the verb and noun form reflective of “just asking for, with trust and affection,” as discussed previously, is only used in the communicative acts particular to saints and the deity. Diosta mañapayaquenchic illustrates the powerful interaction on the part of the celestial realms, who ask for or plead for the mortals, as this is the work for the saints: “Los Sanctos son aproposito para pedir por nosotros a Dios que son sus priuados a quienes no niega nada” (The saints are appropriate to ask God for us as they are his favorites and he does not deny them anything).121 This “appropriateness” does not apply to the Christian communicative events restricted with the verb manu-­. Combined with the verbalization cha, which strengthens the utterance,122 manu reveals a semantic domain of utmost obligation, similar to the onerous debt of monetary obligation: “Diospa ancha manu chaycusccam canchik” (We are indebted to God a lot).123 This new combinatory phrase respects the rules for Quechua syntax, adding the cha and the cu in the correct order, included with the past participle, sca, “indebted.” In a letter written in Quechua in 1616, one of the few letters extant, we see that Spanish loan words were pressed into service to convey a special “debtor” relationship to God. A kuraka instructs one of his flock with a written reprimand, using the language of accounting (the Spanish loan word cuenta): “Diosman, cuentakta kukmi” (You will give an accounting to God).124 In

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another letter, the regional leader again threatens the sinners with a Spanish loan word; he warns they will have to “pay” for their misdeeds: “Qan iskayniyki pagaranki qipa punchawpi” (The two of you will pay on the Last Day [of Judgment]).125 This study of differing systems of value and exchange common to Spain and the Andes has occasionally opposed the concepts of use value (privileged nonalienated labor oriented to livelihood and not profit) and exchange value (where objects are valued in terms of what they can be traded for). With linguistic descriptions from the colonial period we can appreciate the overlapping that occurs in the semantic field as both priests and indigenous translators grappled with the nomenclature of older Andean indigenous traditions and concepts from a newly imposed European system. At first, accounting of moral debts was emphasized, an adjustment to correct imbalances based on the nature of sin against community and against God. Later, however, economic record keeping predominated as a sophisticated system of taxation and commerce unfolded in the Andes. Whereas the indigenous colonial exchanges privileged the Andean construct of reciprocity, a flow among themselves, the Spanish invaders attempted to curb this fluidity to a more restricted space of trade governed by the market. Thus, ranti-­, in its traditional semantic reference, best elucidates the friendly pre-­Hispanic patterns of exchange between individuals or among community allyus, which contrasts with the Spanish-­driven spaces of commerce, the katu. Eventually, this semantic polarity dissolved and was reconfigured as both conqueror and conquered entered into new value systems brought on by European colonization. Accounts now would be kept in ledgers, not in the knots of the khipus, so as to hold people responsible for what was borrowed and lent, to be paid back in a timely fashion. Spanish minted coins, replacing woven cloth or a mound of corn, which served as a prized item for reciprocal exchange, commonly served as the new mediator for goods. Increasingly, ranti-­, the verb designating a reciprocal exchange at the local and state levels under the Inca, was transformed by the conquerors to instead refer to buyers and sellers who made profits. Soon the word collque, formerly used to designate sacred silver ore, became the word for money. Paired with ranti-­, the lexeme collque increasingly designated the intricacies of the Spanish marketplace and Spanish value sets. The Quechua dictionaries referenced these monied transactions: rantini collque huan, literally translated as “to buy with money.”126 Thus, the vocabulary lists of the colonial Quechua dictionaries marked the transition from social relationships of exchange to a new Spanish social order, one in which money increasingly was dominant.

CHAPTER 6

Confessing Work and Laborers: Llamca-­, Mit’a-­, Mink’a-­

Eve, biting into that apple, paid dearly for her sin. From that time forth, she and Adam would labor hard as a consequence of their listening to the serpent. Because of original sin, in the Middle Ages labor was often associated with pain, suffering, and fatigue, which eventually led to death: “Laboring was viewed as a cheerless necessity, a constant, if not masochistic, reminder of the Fall and the degraded state of mankind.”1 In line with this common belief, the medieval church fashioned an ideological structure in which the church was hostile to the lower classes: “Labor was thus discredited by association with the baseness of the class that monopolized toil. The Church explained the serf ’s lowly condition as that of society’s scapegoat, invoking man’s servitude to sin. Labor’s disgrace was the result of original sin.”2 A dramatic shift in focus—an examination of self—that occurred in the thirteenth century allowed for reconsideration of work as penance. Work took on a positive value, seen as a means to gain salvation. The monastic ideal of contemplation, far removed from the world of commerce, gave way to a new assessment of craftsmen and workers, who were essential to the growth of towns and expansive agricultural practices. The confessor now moved to an urban space instead of remaining isolated in the countryside. The priests were surrounded by guild members, stonecutters, and engineers who questioned their professional activity in light of Christian teachings about the circumstances of sin. Now obligated by the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215 to hear annual confessions in their parishes, priests called for guidance in matters of penance: “Each man’s new consciousness of himself came to him only through the estate to which he belonged, the professional group to which he was a part, or the trade in which he was engaged.”3 The penitentials aided the priests to secure salvation for the contrite by consulting these pages. The interrogation was done according to profession, as seen in the explanation of the Summa

Figure 6.1. “Mining in Peru.” From Erasmus Francisci, Erasmi Francisci Guineischer

und americanischer Blumen-­Pusch. . . . (Nuremberg, 1669). Courtesy of the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University.

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Astesana of 1317: “Sins typical of men of the penitent’s station must be inquired about. A knight must not be questioned about the sins of a monk, or vice versa. . . . To gain a better understanding of whom you must question about what, observe that princes are to be questioned about justice, knights about plunder, merchants, officials, craftsmen, and workers about perjury, fraud, lying, theft, etc.”4 A confession manual written by John of Freiburg at the end of the thirteenth century includes extensive categories of penitents determined by their vocation, their labor, whether intellectual or physical: (1) bishops and other prelates; (2) clerics and holders of benefices; (3) curates and their vicars and confessors; (4) friars and monks; (5) judges; (6) attorneys and solicitors; (7) physicians; (8) professors and academics; (9) princes and other nobles; (10) married laymen; (11) merchants and the bourgeoisie; (12) craftsmen and workers; (13) peasants and farmers; (14) manual laborers.5 Some trades were deemed illicit, but others became less troublesome for the church. Merchants, formerly scorned by society, became more accepted for their role in commerce. However, increased acceptance of their profession did not alleviate the merchants’ fears of damnation. The first confessors’ manuals “were acquired principally by merchants who had the money and education to purchase and read them, and whose professional activities raised the thorniest questions of conscience.”6 The penitents’ questions for the priests were often based on experience: Was credit a morally acceptable mode of sale? Could a merchant sell on Sundays? To best secure a complete confession for sinners who sought absolution, priests closely followed the interrogatories of the confessionals, written by renowned theologians. In the colonial Andes, contemplation of professional activities similarly fills the pages of the confession manuals, from the simple questions about deceit in the marketplace (1585) to the bountiful questions directed to silversmiths, potato vendors, or saddlemakers in 1631. Confession manuals usually begin with the generic interrogation of sin in the seventh commandment, “Thou shall not steal.” Topics such as purchase of stolen items, debts, and deception in the activities of exchanging goods are prominent. However, many confession manuals also turn to an interrogation of specific professions. The earliest confession manual written in the Viceroyalty of Peru is shaped with these divisions. After all Ten Commandments are posed, the confessional is dedicated to a series of questions for the kuraka native lords; then a set for the fiscales (lay assistants to the parish priest), the alguaciles (town constables), and the alcaldes (head officials in an indigenous town charged with civil and criminal jurisdiction); and last, questions for the hechiceros (shaman-­ priests) and the pagan confessors ( ychuris, native confessors).

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Some variation occurs in the manuals published after this early date of 1585. Jerónimo de Oré’s version centers only on the kurakas, omitting town and church officials, as does the Pablo de Prado manual. Diego de Torres Rubio omits extra questioning regarding profession entirely, but the exemplary confessional by Juan Pérez Bocanegra includes sixteen occupational niches for additional query of the indigenous population. Words for “Work” in Quechua “Labor,” with its troubled history revealed in its etymology of “toil” and “suffering,” is supplemented in English by the lexeme “work,” a word that does not necessarily connote action that is as fraught with punishment for sin. More often, “work” is given a positive spin to indicate mental or physical activity undertaken for a purpose. The semantic opposition of “work” and “labor” is thus emphasized in English. Spanish also makes this distinction: Trabajar is derived from the Latin word for “torture,”7 whereas the word labor is defined as any sort of task, whether physical or spiritual.8 Quechua has its own semantic referential field in regard to work and labor and, in general, the Spanish grasped the differences from the European constructs and respected the Quechua categorical distinctions when they queried native Andeans in confession. The most common word for work is llamccani (with a generic meaning of “to labor”);9 but other Quechua verbs for work (ayni, mink’a, mit’a, paylla-­) had semantic fields that served to highlight the reciprocity that governs the relationships between the community as a whole and one’s neighbors. Indeed, as Bruce Mannheim notes: “In Southern Peruvian Quechua, symmetric reciprocity is a pervasive theme in both everyday cultural practices and in language.”10 These verbs for “work” represent an important social mechanism still operative today and denoting a fundamental relationship within the ayllu of one’s extended family. In the seventeenth century, this meaning was explicit, as we see in the dictionary definition of ayni, Trauajar otro tanto por otro como el por mi” (Work some for another, just as he [does] for me).11 The equality of the transaction was paramount: the transaction was among equals, and the amounts of goods or work were equally exchanged. The verb indicates a mode of repayment, for labor or for loaned items. Georges Dumézil, in a study of 1955, gives many examples of the use of two verbs (ayni and mink’a) in real-­life situations and in literary texts. He well demarcates the divisions. Ayni is characterized as a homogeneous giving and return and refers to specific tasks as carried out by indigenous people and their

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families in agriculture, construction, funerals and festivities, and visits to the ill.12 Mink’a (also spelled minca-­), on the other hand, is related to Inca practice in which community projects were carried out, such as work on bridges and roads. This “work” was not all work and no play; under the Inca, work projects were also a time of great festivity and public celebration. Whereas ayni may be seen as a form of restitution, basically among equals, Dumézil configures mink’a as a form of substitution. It is a solicitation in which a hierarchically superior person (in wealth, in official power) asks another to perform a task. The acceptance of this solicitation is made with the knowledge that a reciprocal gift will be forthcoming, whether it be a nutritious meal or a fiesta. In common practice, it is mink’a—not ayni—that is adapted to describe monetary payments for work performed: “Le mot est aujourd’hui largement employé avec cette valeur dans les villes et partout où intervient l’argent: mink’a est ‘engager un travailleur pour une salaire convenu’ ” (The word is today mostly used with a meaning of money in the villages: mink’a is ‘to contract for work through an agreed upon salary’).13 Jean-­Didier Urbain’s later study (1980) emphasizes the “restitution” implicit in the repayment of ayni, noting that only ayni can take the reciprocal suffix naku, meaning “for each other.” Naku is not found uttered with mink’a, and thus he sees mink’a as a mechanism of substitution, dependent on the European introduction of money in the Andes, where work is “paid” off in terms of food and feasting or in expectation of a salary, not repaid through the bonds of friendship or family. Citing A. Yaranga Valderrama’s study in Ayacucho in 1964–1965, Urbain notes that both ayni and mink’a are common in that region; both systems are operative and fulfill differing purposes in work relationships.14 The endurance of systems of ayni may indicate a resistance to European systems of monetary insertion into the communities and a preservation of a traditional work paradigm. For instance, Annette Fioravante, looking at the introduction of money in the system in Yucay (a valley in Cuzco), notes that while ayni is still in practice, the wealthier native Andeans prefer to pay salaries. Given the scope of ayni, with an expectation to be repaid exactly for the work undertaken, these wealthier indigenous people say it is impossible to repay all the ayni required of them and so they opt for salary. However, in line with the older traditional patterns, most contracted salaried workers still expect the fiestas, food, and drink common to ayni, even if they are paid a salary.15 The Catholic translators of the ecclesiastic texts of the sixteenth century were well aware of the elaborate web of working relationships and obligations developed at the level of community as well as at the level of the state. A ser-

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mon in 1585 dwells on the issue of labor, using both llamca- (also llamcca-­) and minca- (variant spelling for mink’a-­) for the confessional query: “Pimaycan runapas, runacta mincaspa, llamcachispa mana pagaracca, pagaraspapas, huaquillanta pagaracca huchallicunmi” (Whoever, calling upon a person to work, causing a person to work, not paying, or paying a little, sins).16 Why the use of two words for work? Minca- and llamca- are similar in the reference to work, yet minca is work that often does not require payment and functions on the basis of kin ties, while llamca- implies a monetary system. The enclitics in Quechua also indicate the degrees of forcefulness in compelling another person to work. The chi in llamcachispa is causative, rendering the verb transparent, indicating the ability of one person to lay claim on another person’s work for him or her, in an egalitarian relationship. Minca, here written correctly without the causative chi, indicates a relationship of hierarchy and tradition with expectations built in on the part of the contractor and the laborer. Implicit is the higher status of the person asking for the labor, who asks for labor knowing that the lower-­status worker will be bound by tradition to accept. Reflective of the introduction of monetary systems and legislative reforms regarding day wages, the payment aspect is emphasized in the sermon no matter which verb is selected. However, payment for work is not the motivating factor that would allow a person to accept an obligation to work. In Quechua practice, the emphasis was on the ability to persuade a person to collaborate. From the colonial period to what we see in modern practice, mutual obligation patterns are evident in the verbs for “work.” The 1608 dictionary of González Holguín helps explain, offering definitions to denote discrete paradigms of work: Obrero que se aquila por plata. Ccollquepac, o chaninpac llamcca pucuk, o mincachicuk. A worker that one contracts for money. By means of money, for wealth, called to work for another, or obligated to work.17 Obrero que se aquila por ruegos. Minka minkana, o minkachiccuk minkay tucuk. Worker, worker whom you obligate to work by begging him or her, contracted by mink’a, a mink’a worker.18

Obviously, the verb minca (minka) appears in the gloss of both definitions above, designating a situation of rental contracting in which a person

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works for a designated amount of time. The first definition describes a paid contracted worker with the commonly used verb llamca-­, as seen in the gloss based on monetary exchange. The second definition also indicates a contracted worker, but one who is glossed in a set as “enlisted for a task by personal entreaty,” without the promise of money. Significantly, mink’a-­, as opposed to llamca-­, is used in a context of trust and nonmonetary transaction in the second definition, “worker whom you obligate to work by begging him or her.” In usage by contemporary Quechua speakers, mink’a is still invested with a connotation of trust and an acknowledged relationship. According to Antonio Cusihuamán’s contemporary dictionary for the Cuzco region, mink’akuy means to make an appointment for, to contract with, and to beg or cajole collaboration: “Citar, contratar, suplicar a los colaboradores” (To set a date for work, to contract, to encourage or beg others to work).19 While trabajo (work) and jornal (daily wage) are a constant in the Spanish-­ authored Andean ecclesiastical texts for designating European concepts of work, in the Quechua we find mink’a, llamca, and a third verb, mit’a, used in ecclesiastic translations. The verb mit’a is noted in the 1560 dictionary, not confined to a reference regarding work: “to alternate, take turns in doing something.”20 In 1586, mit’a again refers to taking turns: “mitacuni hazer mita” (to take turns).21 A 1608 definition describes the turn-­taking that is part of conversational patterns, yet also includes the turn-­taking of a working group (tanda) in the definition. This last definition makes explicit the rotational labor system instituted by the Incas and made use of by the Spanish. Specifically, this Incan labor assignation marshaled workers for state projects such as mining, and it was the duty of the indigenous leaders to designate able-­bodied persons for this task for a certain period of time. In return for work, mitayos were feted, and the leaders as well as the community were rewarded by the Inca state. This verb accurately reflects the Spanish interest in the traditional obligatory work patterns throughout the Andes, and, significantly, the confessional of 1585 asks: “Pim chacrayquita, pachayquita, llamcapuc cassunqui? runayq[ui]ccunachu? mitampi camachu? chay runacunari Yncapacha‑ ma[n]ta mitacuqueyquipac camachiscachu?” (Who works your fields for you, does your shift for you? Your Indians? Do you order them [to work] even in the mita [labor tribute]? Have those mita workers been commanded to do your mita work since the time of the Incas?).22 The confessional of the Symbolo catholico written by Franciscan Luis Jerónimo de Oré sheds little light on labor practices in 1598, although he knew Andean work patterns intimately, having lived for years in Cuzco and in Potosí. His inquiry repeats the wording of the 1585 texts, however, not using

Confessing Work and Laborers 193

mink’a- or mit’a-­, but relying on the generic llamca- or the specialized verb for herding, michi-­: Runacunacta callpamantachu chacrayquicta, pachamayquicta llamcachic canqui? llamayquictapas michichicchu canqui? Do you call [certain] Indians to work hard in your fields, in your lands? Do you make them herd your llamas?23

Interrogating Labor Practices: Kurakas in the Confessional The ecclesiastic queries we have been reviewing with regard to verbs for labor and obligation are generically aimed at serving any indigenous confessant. However, confession manuals also were written with a separate category of questions for designated indigenous occupational “professions.” Invariably, the kuraka leaders are the first to be questioned about their “work.” Kurakas were privileged individuals; because of their elite Inca status, they often were exempt from payment of tribute to the Spanish invaders. They were also persons charged with responsibility. The kuraka was crucial in determining tribute burdens in their ayllus, labor rotations, as well as settling all disputes within an ethnic domain. The questions that appear in the confessional include comments about their sins as leaders of their communities: sexual relationships with women; hiding huacas in their houses; attendance at (pagan) religious ceremonies in which a lot of drinking and dancing were condoned; or stealing from the church coffers. Tellingly, in the Andean confessional of 1585, the first question addressed to the kurakas illustrates Spanish knowledge of rivalries in succession to major chieftainships after the Spanish invasion. As Steve Stern notes: “Succession to major chieftainships has always constituted a difficult, thorny practice in Andean societies. The potential heirs of a kurakazgo, or chieftainship, almost always included several rivals—sons, and even nephews or brothers of the incumbent chief.”24 In many cases, Spanish judicial authority provided a means by which aspirants could gain access to ethnic office.25 While many of the traditional Inca elite stayed in power after the conquest, other Andean natives, not necessarily of the elite class, by virtue of their acceptance by the Spaniards assumed authority. We can understand why the first question was so pointed and direct: “Did you receive this position from your parents, from the time of the Incas, or did you take it away from someone, to whom it was desig-

194  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

nated, by means of false legal actions and spending sums of money to obtain the position?”26 This query exposes the turmoil that accompanied the imposition of Spanish legislation and occasioned costly litigation among Andean rivals for power. Studies of labor obligations in the Andes detail the transitions from Incan reciprocal exchange to one of European taxation. For the high Andes (the Guamanga area, Huarochirí, Chuquito, and the environs of Potosí), scholars have analyzed a transition to Spanish patterns in the early colonial period. At first, indigenous communities could subsist even with the new demands in tribute from the encomenderos, through the early colonial period of forced labor, violence, taxes, tribute, and negotiations between Andean natives and European colonists. Strong kinship relationships and massive storage of goods within Andean ethnic communities softened the disruption caused by conquest. However, from the time of Pedro de La Gasca, beginning in 1542, males (aged eighteen to fifty) were subject to tribute payment to Spanish authorities and landholders as well as required to provide labor allotments (mit’as) in recognition of the Incan system of work allotments. These tax laws were officially codified about 1550 under La Gasca; with money increasingly required as tribute, the payment in commodities decreased. This new head tax was a departure from the Inca “energy tax,” as the individual, not the community, paid the required allotment. Tribute was paid to the encomenderos, men granted access to the labor of indigenous Andean peoples living on a tract of land, or tribute was collected for the king of Spain because they were under royal administration. Tribute at first was paid in kind, which allowed communities to extract surplus products yet still maintain a subsistence level amenable to community residents. In the early colonial period, there was much negotiation as to items and quantities: “In the early years, each encomendero—accompanied by soldiers if necessary—asked his cacique [kuraka] for what he thought necessary, and [the chief ] bargained about what he could give.”27 Before 1570, an astounding variety of items was demanded: “wooden plates, vases, washtubs, chairs, footwear, horse and saddle gear, large sacks, ropes, cushions, rugs, and whips.”28 Nathan Wachtel notes that the royal tax was quite modest in the royal repartimientos (land grant districts); in Chuquito, for instance, the indigenous communities owed a sum of money (obtained by working for wages), woolen garments, corn, dried potatoes, and muleteer duties for transporting the king’s coffers.29 Given the potential for exploitation of their own people by the kurakas, the interrogation in the confession manual often asked if excess tribute had

Confessing Work and Laborers 195

been collected or if money was taken from community coffers and if that money then served to enrich the kuraka: “Tassaman tumpaspalla, runap collquenta ta[n]tachichicchu ca[n]q[ue]? Chay collq[ue]huanri quiquijquipac ñachu mirachicuc ca[n]qui?” (For an invented tribute, do you collect people’s money? That sum of money, that same money, do you multiply it?).30 In this passage, the Spanish loan word tassa (tribute) is enfolded into the Quechua prose as if understood by everyone. The Quechua word mira-­, on the other hand, a verb formerly used to convey increase, such as the procreation of animals or living things, now signifies the “growth” of money as it accumulates, often illegally. Kurakas could freely enter into commercial contracts; Spanish officials agreed on these privileges for the kurakas. Karen Spalding has researched the 1540 agreement between two Spaniards who had formed a sociedad (company) to collect the diezmo (tax levied on grain) with the understanding that a kuraka would supply the workers for the collection of the money. The kuraka would receive a fee for his efforts.31 Similarly, in Huánuco in the 1560s, there were more of these contracts; kurakas acted independently to provide laborers for payment in specie (assayed money). Cotton clothing was made by native peoples in Huánuco, paid for by Spaniards, and sent off for sale in Potosí and Chile. Contracts also were fulfilled similarly in Chuquito, Siguas, and Piscopampa.32 With few available indigenous laborers to contract, Spanish entrepreneurs were dependent on the native Andean leaders: “Todo lo que se da de la hechura de las ropas se da a los caciques porque con ellos se hace el concierto y si no se hiciese de esta manera no mandarían los caciques hacer la ropa ni menos alquilarán los indios” (Everything about clothes making is given to the cacique leaders, because one makes the deal with them, and if this were not done through them, the caciques would not command clothes to be made nor would they even rent out the Indians).33 Accordingly, the Quechua confession manual and sermons from 1585 attempted to regulate the contractual aspects of colonial economies. A separate category of questions for kurakas pinpoints Spaniards’ payment obligations for the labor activity of the ayllu’s rented out workers. By this date, labor abuses were ferreted out by the church: Viracochacuna runacta quepicta rinayta, apachispa, ymactapaslla[n]cachispa, collq[ue] coscanta, quiquij quipacñachu chasquicuc ca[n]qui? The people who carry the quepi backpacks, the bearers, those sent out to anywhere, money given [by the Spanish], do you receive that money?34

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At the same time, with this confessional query, the leaders were reminded that this money was not for their own coffers and that it was a mortal sin to collect it.35 Quechua-­Spanish confession manuals are replete with mention of the economies of the market, buying and selling, loans, and “just price,” as we saw in chapter 5. Similarly, the topic of labor and wages is extensive, as cited in the confessional of 1585 in an address to the kurakas: “Has pagado los jornales a los que trabajan en tu hazienda? Casa? O Chacra?” (Have you paid the wages of those who work on your estate? House? Or planting fields?).36 The jornal (daily wage) sums up the straightforward question in the Spanish, just as the Quechua translation calls on the Spanish loan verb pagar to reference the payment of wages. But the reference to labor, on the other hand, is written with the precise Quechua concepts of minca- and llamca- and one more verb stem, paylla-­: “Runacta payllaypac mincaspa, huaçijquita, chacrayquita llamcachispa, chaycamachu pagarac cangui?” (The laborer, getting him to work for you by giving food and beverage in a minca relationship, obligating him to work in your house, work in your fields, do you pay for that [work]?).37 How would a kuraka answer this question? He was compelled to differentiate between the two categories of labor. In this instance, minca- is specifically coupled with paylla-­, which designates a form of payment in food and drink. One colonial dictionary provides a definition: “Payllani Pagar a el jornalero, dar de comer y beuer en paga” (Payllani To pay the worker, giving the worker food and drink in payment).38 While a worker might be drawn in to work by strong social pressures from the community, there is the implied benefit of being satiated by food and drink. As Bruce Mannheim explains, “Work that is organized in mink’a can involve ayni relationships between individual workers and the person organizing the mink’a. Thus, although the overall organization of work in mink’a is hierarchical, individual participants can be recruited into it in ayni, among other ways.”39 Llamca-­, in the clause of this query, now appears primarily confined to the context of payment, a witness to the emergence of a wage-­centered society. Confession also turns to address a particular class of workers—the yanacuna (variant of yanacona)—when the priests ask the kurakas about those persons attached to the elite Incas. The characteristics of these persons, often deemed “servants,” are the subject of much research. For instance, John Rowe cautions that these persons are not to be considered of lower-­class status; they were “personal retainers who performed honorable service and might be rewarded with responsible administrative posts.”40 Some yanacuna workers might have been captured as prisoners, while others inherited the position from their fathers. Often these persons became unattached from their original

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ayllus, as they were brought into the households for yanacuna service. Kurakas had access to these highly regarded workers, as noted in the 1585 confessional: “Has pagado a los que te siruen en tu casa, o Chacras, o a tus pastores, o a los que embias a diuersas partes? Yanayquicunacta, Chacrayquita llamcacta, llamayquita michicta maymampas cachacuscayquita, pagaracchu canqui?” (Your lifelong servants called yanacuna, for work in the chacra fields, for herding llamas, for going wherever you send them, do you pay them?).41 The Spanish text reads quite innocently; the Quechua reveals the special class of workers, the yanacuna, attached to elite households. The confessor was encouraged to persist in asking if these workers had been paid. By 1631, however, this class of workers seems no longer prominently singled out and is not mentioned in the penitential text.42 The sermons written in 1585 specifically describe the toil and suffering shouldered by the native peoples, especially the poor (huaccha runa): “Corregidorpas Curaccunapas, pimaycan runapas, huaccha runacunacta llamcachinquichic, ñacaricuchinquichic, mana pagaraspa” (The corregidores, the kurakas, whoever, who make the poor people work, who make them sweat and toil hard, not paying [they sin]).43 This statement is nuanced by the oft-­noted observation in the Andes that a person is deemed “poor” if he or she cannot count on any kin to carry out obligations or help out. The use of llamca-­, and not the other verbs for work, is purposeful; it denotes the hard labor inflicted by officials and indigenous leaders beyond the constraints of kin relationships (where minca- would better serve). Also embedded in the passage is a strong Christian concept (ñacaricuchini), which is defined as “Hazer padeçer a otro o martirizar, dar tormentos, o castigos” (To make someone suffer or to martyr someone, to torment, to punish).44 Such heavy toil, full of suffering and punishment, was endured by the postconquest “poor,” and the Quechua speakers would have heard it in the context of Christianity. For the Spanish and for the indigenous kurakas, the focus of this passage is that work should be compensated with a wage set forth by Spanish decree. Frequently, wage compensation for work is hammered home by the clergy, who also speak directly to the kurakas in the sermons: Chaymantam Pimaycan runapas, runacta mincaspa, llamcachispa mana pagaracca, pagaraspapas, huaquillanta pagaracca huchallicunmi: Diospa cay simintari pampacha[n]mi: Curaccunap huchayquichicmi cay. So whoever calls someone to work, doesn’t pay for that work, or paying for it, paid just a little, sins. God’s commandment is broken. Kurakas, this is your sin.45

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Very different is Juan Pérez Bocanegra’s 1631 confession manual, which augments, in both Spanish and Quechua texts, the number of questions for the priest to ask the kurakas. There are thirty-­three separate queries. Gone is the earlier initial question regarding the rightful claim to status as a kuraka; that is settled now, fifty years later. Instead, the priestly investigation for confession focuses on the collection of tasa (tribute), with fifteen questions on this specific topic. Indigenous leaders, as penitents in the seventeenth century, were asked about work obligations to fulfill the tribute, primarily translated using the generic llamca-­. One question, however, focuses on mit’a obligations: “Runaiquicunacta mittacucchecchu canqui? llamanhuan, cachunhua[n]? yamtanhuan, imalla[n]huampas[?]” (Your Indians, do you cause them to work for you in mit’a, benefitting from it? With animals, with fodder, with firewood, with whatever[?]).46 Certainly, under Spanish authority, it was agreed that the community would provide the kuraka with goods and labor. A kuraka principal was paid a small salary by the Spanish, gleaned from the tribute money of the community, thus tying the kurakas to largesse from the colonial state and breaking their reciprocal ties with the community. In addition, he also received four fanegadas of corn, four of potatoes, and two of wheat from his community. Significantly, he was provided access to labor, with eight women and eight men, in addition to six boys for personal service, to be assigned in the rotational mit’a.47 Kurakas and Tribute Disputes Indigenous understanding of and recourse to Spanish legal institutions also is conveyed in these penitential queries from 1585 and 1631. Enmeshed in the colonial economic system, native Andeans, especially the kuraka leaders, learned to negotiate Spanish law. We see a hint of this in the very first question of the 1585 confessional. Pointedly, the kurakas immediately were asked if they had instigated lawsuits and paid for them with their ayllu’s money: “Llulla pleytohua[n] quechupuca[n]q[ui], caypacri runacunap collque[n]tachu tantachircanqui?” (Do you set up false lawsuits, causing community money to be gathered up [collected] for that purpose?).48 In 1631, addressing the kurakas in confession, the priests asked about the costs for litigation and whether these costs were paid for by the community: Runaiquicunamanta, collquecta huñuchecchu canqui, mana camanta cama, llulla ñinacuipac? cairi, padre; corregidor huampas, ñinacuncaiquipac? haica cutim? haica chicatac?

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From your people, do you round up money, not your own, in order to tell lies, lying, talking for your benefit [in litigation]? Against the priest, the Spanish official, in order to benefit, do you falsely talk [litigate]? How many times? How much [money]?49

Now, in 1631, the priest and the corregidor are specifically marked as the targets of litigation, and that was often the situation in the colonies as the natives became a knowledgeable, litigious people. Some indigenous cases were brought regarding the number of workers allocated for mit’a demands; yet others questioned ownership of land. Often ayllu was pitted against ayllu in land disputes, but many times the priest was accused, as were Spanish officials. Five letters in Quechua between a primary kuraka and “his” ayllu community vividly bring to life these same queries of the confessional. The few surviving pages of texts written by a Quechua speaker in the early seventeenth century, originally found in the Dominican convent in Lima by Juan Bautista Lessegue and transcribed by César Itier in 1991, reveal how the primary kuraka, Cristóbal Castillo, berated and cajoled his indigenous communities. Castillo, a powerful Quechua leader, gives a prose account in Quechua that allows a glimpse at the configuration of the indigenous language in contact with Spanish. Castillo’s main themes are governance (before and after the Spanish invasion) and the code of law. He wrote the regional kuraka that there would be constant lawsuits if the residents of Mungui did not desist in their petition to be included in another district, under another corregidor: “Chika uillacos kasqallaykiraykum pleytospi kawsasun” (Because you are being bad people, we will live in lawsuits [pleytos]).50 These letters reveal the tension and the anxieties inherent in the change to the Spanish colonial system. The use of pleyto reveals his experience of the court system; the written pages also record how Quechua speakers adopted and adapted Spanish concepts. The apu Castillo reminds Juan Puma what happened to disobedient subjects under the laws of the Incas: Mana ruranki kay kamachisqayta chayqa, awqahina ñuqapas awqataqmi kasaq. Ñawpamanta pachapas apup kamachisqan “wañuyman yuyakuy” ñiptinpas, “allin” niqkunaqa allillam ima chikimantapas qispimuq kasqa. Mana alli sunquwan “allim” ñiqqa, ima mana allimanpas urmaykuqmi kasqa. If you do not obey my orders like a traitor [nonmember of the ayllu], I will be a traitor [like a nonmember of this community] also. In the old days when the apu commanded [he implied] “Think about [your] death,” those that said “Fine” [“We agree to your command”] were all right and no harm befell

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them. Those who halfheartedly said “yes” had all sorts of bad things befall them.51

He adds that if he (Puma) does not obey, there is no escape; his son (Castillo’s son) will be the next kuraka and insist just as fervently on absolute obedience.52 In Quechua prose that embeds Spanish lexical borrowings, Castillo also reprimands Juan Puma, claiming that he has neglected his duties: “Kuraka kamachikuqpa churinmi kanki ñawpamantapas” (You are a son from a long line of kurakas who knew how to govern).53 What are Juan Puma’s obligations? Here they are clearly presented and closely match those written up in the confessionals. He must organize and designate persons for the Spanish mit’a service. He will be “named” (or appointed); he will go as a “captain” in charge of the mitayos (mit’a workers): Ñuqa apuykim kamachiyki, nonbrayki: kay mitapi capitanmi rinki. Chaypaqmi kuraka churin kanki. Mana sutillanchu “kurakap churinmi kani” ñinaqa. Imallaktapas ruraspataqmi. I as your kuraka command you, I appoint you, you go to this mit’a as a “captain.” For that reason you are a son of a kuraka [and inherit the position]. Do not jeer at this, saying: “I am the son of a kuraka.” You have to do a lot of things [duties].54

Castillo, the principal kuraka, writes of the specifics of tribute payment, both in kind and in money, which the community is obligated to turn in to him and which is overdue. While the agricultural production and weavings may be delivered at any time that is convenient, payment in silver is urgently requested: Hermanos, taça faltaykita apakumuy qulqipi. Ña yachakunkichik faltaykita. Sara, trigo, llama, pacha, wallpa, chaykunakta huntasqata apamuy, maypacha pagarayta munanki. Brothers, the overdue tribute [that you owe] bring it to me in coin specie. You all know your lack [of tribute]. Corn, wheat, llamas, clothing, chickens, gather it up and bring it to me, whenever, when you want to pay it.55

These Quechua letters scolding Juan Puma are laden with Spanish loan words. To describe tribute payments, the Spanish leaps out from the page: tribute (taça/tasa) and wheat (trigo, a European crop). The Spanish verb “to

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be lacking” ( faltar) is incorporated into the Quechua prose, although there are constructions in Quechua that would convey this thought. Although mit’a is used, the “turn at work” now represents Spanish demands in the rotational system, with a Spanish lexeme, capitán, designating the indigenous boss. Castillo peppers his Quechua letters with ample instances of Spanish vocabulary such as juicio (court trial), orden (command), corregidor (Spanish official), obligación (obligation), agravio (insult), honra (honor), trabajo (work), anejo (annex), and provisión (supply). The numerous Spanish words indicate the far reach of Spanish governance at the time of the consolidation of villages into major Christian settlements, the reducción. The indigenous leader Castillo urges his community to pay the overdue tribute. Most anxiously, he awaits the coins and money; the remainder of the tribute items are not as urgent. Information regarding traditional Inca labor demands of an indigenous community was eagerly sought by the encomenderos, who wanted to justify their own (sometimes excessive) tribute demands. In 1549, there was an attempt at regulation, but it was Viceroy Francisco de Toledo who enforced the specific levies based on contributions of all able-­bodied men between the ages of eighteen and fifty. With laws enforced by Toledo in the 1570s, indigenous Andeans were brought into the money economy with tribute demand now in pesos and silver: “Toledo converted much of the tribute assessed in kind into specie, a mechanism that was specifically intended to force the native Andeans to offer their labor in the Spanish market in order to obtain the precious metal demanded of them.”56 Generally, tribute was collected twice a year by the state; crops harvested by indigenous farmers were sold at a fixed price to meet the fixed tribute amounts demanded by the state. The kurakas, as traditional leaders, collected the tribute items, and officials of the royal treasury in provincial districts collected commodities and ore. A fixed price was used to value the tributary assessments, and each tributary under Toledo owed about four pesos ensayados (usually three in silver or gold and the rest in kind).57 To pay off these debts, communities would be forced to participate in the colonial work economy. As Karen Spalding notes, “the legal and extralegal levies imposed upon the Indians by the colonial state and its representatives makes it clear that these levies functioned to force the Indians both to offer their labor to the European sector and to orient a considerable portion of their own internal production to the European sector.”58 There were few Spaniards living in Mungui, an indigenous settlement in the region of Cuzco, where the apu Castillo was in charge. Yet, in addition to the official mit’a service, there is reference in the letters to service that the indigenous Cotahuasi must undertake for the resident Spaniard, the Dominican priest. These tasks are specified. The apu kuraka [Castillo] mentions sowing

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two topus/tupos of land for the Dominican and watering the crops: “Padrepaqri iskay tuputan tarpukunki. Trigota qarpachiy” (For the priest, plant two topus. Have the wheat watered).59 Religious obligations also weighed heavily on the Christian indigenous leaders in the village. The apu berates Juan Puma and his friends about their un-­Christian actions. For example, Lorenço Guaya begged them to take him to Cotaguaçi; they did not, and he died without confession. The apu Castillo rebukes them: “ ‘Apaway Cotaguaçi llaktanchikman, confesakusaqmi’ ñispa chika rrogasurqankichik. Qankunaqa upya-­machay chakra kinraypi saksapukuyllakta huchaptiykihinaña mana confesasqa wañun (“Take me to your town of Cotaguaçi,” saying that he begged you. You all drunk alongside the planting fields, satiated in food and drink, you sin, unconfessed, he dies).60 Not only does Castillo chastise the leaders for allowing a community member to die unconfessed, he also alludes to their sins of drunkenness and gluttony in this letter. Indigenous Laborers Categorized in the 1631 Confession Manual Juan Pérez Bocanegra’s confession manual illuminates the very means by which native peoples entered the monetary world of markets and mines. His knowledge of working conditions, market practices, and malpractice attests that he was an accurate observer of the commercial intricacies of the local area of Cuzco, with attention to the economics of the mining sector. Reading the seventh commandment interrogatory, in many ways, provides us with a walk through the colonial market. Pérez Bocanegra’s many queries enumerate the occupations available for enterprising indigenous peoples. His translations to Quechua show that, in the Cuzco region, where he served as a priest, indigenous people were engaged in the market economy. He moves beyond addressing the regional kuraka—although he lists thirty-­three questions for that class of natives—and provides multiple questions for the individuals who hawk their wares in the market plaza or streets. The categories are many and describe indigenous sellers: merchants and itinerant salesmen; shoemakers and cobblers; saddlemakers; tailors; bread bakers; butchers; wax makers; silversmiths; locksmiths; sellers of grain; those selling hot peppers and coca leaves; scribes; church officials holding minor office; muleteers and drivers in llama caravans; and, last, those workers in the mining profession. He delves into the multiple manners of deceit in the marketplace by means of their occupations. He asks Quechua-­speaking shoemakers if they sew footwear with local cabuya thread instead of thread imported from Castile; he questions candlemakers about whether they hide used black wax under new white wax; he wonders if

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the tailor charges a customer when he has badly cut the cloth out of incompetence. For the bakers of bread and sweets, he questions whether they have used spoiled flour or mixed in some other unclean substance. Indigenous merchants are separated out for interrogation in confession in accordance with the traditional medieval format that queries the commercial practices of each specific profession. Significantly, five questions for merchants are written into the pages immediately following those for the kurakas, thus attesting to the sellers’ important status. This section is made up of general questions about buying and selling good items for bad, or buying at too low a price, and with reference to the “just price” (as discussed in chapter 5). In these questions, though, we also see instruments imposed by Spanish-­ oriented market practices, such as the widespread use of weights for sales. By the seventeenth century, commercial measurement was widespread. Thus, a system of trading in which exact measurements were used entered into the penitential text: “Traes pesos falsos, uno para recebir, y otro para vender?” (Do you bring with you illegal weights, one to receive [buy] and another set to sell?).61 The Quechua phrasing of this same question is peculiar in that the general (often ambiguous) rantini of selling and buying is avoided (discussed in chapter 5). Instead, the market transaction is made more explicit with verbs of receiving and giving: Llulla huarcucta, apaicachacchu canqui? hucta chazquicuncaiquipac, huctari concaiquipac, chazquichincaiquipac? Untruthful weights do you bring? One set to receive [to buy] and another to give [to sell], to cause them to receive [that weight]?62

Market measurements, indeed, contributed to a variety of sins according to the confession manual. The bread maker was asked if bread conformed to the legal weight. The meat seller was asked pointedly if the meat had been (unnecessarily) weighed down with hidden bones. The corn vendor must say whether the corn was watered down, causing it to swell in size and fill up the measure better. The lack of systematic weight equivalencies among the native people selling goods vexed the priest Bartolomé Álvarez when he contemplated commerce in Potosí. For him, the use of false weights was deceitful and, more important, a question of conscience: Así en Potosí como en todas las partes de todo el reino hay poca cuenta con las medidas y pesos de los indios. . . . Las medidas y pesos viejos, de falsa [fialidad] y sin sello de república, era justo que se las quemasen y las man-

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dasen tener otras nuevas; porque al fin es negocio de conciencia, y no les es lícito ir contra justicia distributiva, por el bien común. Thus in Potosí as in all parts in all the territory there is little attention regarding the measurements and weights of the Indians. . . . It was correct to burn the measurements and false weights, with incorrect values and without the seal of the government, and to order them to possess new ones, because in the end this is a matter of conscience, and it is not legal to go against distributive justice, for the common good.63

European measuring instruments often were required in the market, yet Quechua translations by churchmen show that traditional indigenous assessments of measure were also found. Native measures were in use and are cited by Pérez Bocanegra. Although the Incas knew the properties of the Roman-­type balance (called a huarcu), they had not developed a set of standard weights.64 Weights were used with a queui ayça (twisted rope–type balance) in the hands of indigenous merchants, as cited by Pérez Bocanegra;65 they also had a pan balance (aysana).66 In the colonial market, corn vendors continued to mete out their merchandise with a cullu tupu (Incan wooden measure used for grain, equivalent to twenty-­six quarts).67 Pérez Bocanegra’s confessional query affirms the cullu tupu’s use for grain: “Rantissac ñiscaiqui çaracta, unupi pu[n]quichecchu ca[n]qui, pissicta cullu tupupi, tupuncaiquipac?” (Do you intend to buy corn, putting water, to make it less [corn] in the corn measure, in order to have it meet the measurement?).68 Although we find references to Inca measurements scattered throughout colonial documents, the Incas generally “seemed to have avoided use of commodities that combined the functions of media of exchange and standard of value.”69 However, coca soon functioned as a medium of exchange in the colonial period.70 In 1588, the priest Álvarez, heartily condemning the use of coca, also tells us how it was used for commodity exchange among the native Andeans: Dicen algunos que es plata. . . . Verdad, verdad es que con ella se contrata al modo antiguo, que no olvidan su uso de trocar unas cosas por otras; y es así, en todas partes se vende coca por menudo, de suerte que por un puño de coca dan un puño de maíz o de cecina—que llaman charque—, o de otra cualquiera cosa. Y por esta manera de contratación dicen que la coca es plata. Some say that it is money. . . . It is true, true that with coca they do business in the old way, they do not forget their tradition of exchanging some things for other things; and thus it is that everywhere coca is sold in bulk, so that

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for a fistful of coca they give a fistful of corn or of dried meat—which they call charqui—or of any other thing. And because of this kind of commerce they say that coca is money.71

Coca was measured by a specific basket size, runcu (a basket of coca), with adjectival descriptors for a half basket, sillcu runcu, checta runcu.72 Pérez Bocanegra includes a separate section of three long questions devoted to quizzing the coca and chili pepper vendors who sold by the measured basket: “Uchu runcucta, chaupichacchu cangui, izmusca uchuhuan, chaupintari, allin uchuhuan? caihinacta ruractacchu canqui, cuca runcupi?” (The basket of ají hot peppers, do you fill half of it with moldy ají, the other half with good ají ? Do you do the same thing with the basket of coca?).73 Smaller quantities could be dispensed in less precise measurements, by fistfuls, writes Pérez Bocanegra, exactly as Bartolomé Álvarez had noted: “Cairi uchucta, cucacta, haptascacta ranticupuspa, maquihunta, haptachinachu haptanqui, chassac manachayaquenta, çapa ranticocman cospa?” (Selling hot pepper and coca by the handful, swelling up one handful, do you get people to not grasp it completely as you give it to each buyer, keeping some for yourself as the seller [and cheating the customer])?74 With the coca trade in the hands of indigenous Andeans until the end of the eighteenth century, the baskets were a familiar sight in the market.75 Although some scholars assert that the southern Andes lacked markets before the arrival of the Spanish (see chapter 5), there is no doubt that cities were crowded with consumers and goods after the invasion of the Europeans. The numerous plazas for the exchange of goods were cause for exuberant colonial descriptions of commercial activity. The description of Potosí in the Relación geográfica of 1603 mentions the considerable indigenous commerce taking place throughout the city. Just as Pérez Bocanegra observes in his manual, various trades were practiced by indigenous peoples: “Demás de la plaza principal de comercio y contratación del pueblo, tienen los indios otras muchas, y particularmente una que llaman del Carbón, donde los indios venden todas las comidas y el rescate de los metales” (In addition to the main business and hiring plaza in the town, the Indians have many others, and particularly one that is named ‘the Carbon plaza,’ where the Indians sell all manner of food and the trade in ore).76 In the text of the Relación manuscript, page after page sums up the numerous small stores providing the goods found to nourish and clothe the residents. There are twenty-­five indigenous stores where hats, manufactured in Lima, Spain, or locally, are sold; because these merchants were indigenous peoples, the report notes that there were few records of sales or quantities.77 More details abound in this report, accurately describing indigenous occu-

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pations: 320 indigenous persons used llamas to bring metal down from the mines; 1,180 brought salt for refining; 2,000 indigenous merchants (men and women) carried wood for the mining process as well as for construction of buildings; 700 indigenous men and women gathered llama dung for the mining process; and 200 persons were candlemakers.78 One thousand women and boys sifted through the ore lying on the slopes of the mining area (pallar); this ore was sorted according to its quality, and thus the price was determined. Most youths and women earned no less than one peso per day in this occupation.79 Many native Andean women were prostitutes. In all, some 30,000 indigenous workers were involved in supplying the needs of the huge city of Potosí, which included numerous llama caravans of fruit, corn, wheat flour, fodder, fresh fish, and vegetables.80 The Ritual formulario confessional of 1631 provides rich detail regarding Quechua speakers’ participation in the colonial economy. The categories that follow those of the merchants include query by type of trade almost as detailed as the reports from Potosí. Most tradespeople merited only four or five questions. However, certain categories of indigenous jobs demanded very intricate interrogations: minor church officials had to answer eleven queries about their activities, and the indigenous scribes and notaries bore another fourteen items of cross-­examination by the priest. These confessional accusations describe major sins linked to mismanagement of the church: collecting fees and pocketing the money; renting out the cross or the religious banners; buying supplies such as wax for the church and keeping the change. The fees for burial are a matter for confession: “Ayap huacin sepoltura raicu, limosna cuyascanta, asinta, huassanchacchu canqui, cai chicallactam coan ñispa, huaquin huan queparispspa?” (In the dead person’s house, the grave, because of [that burial] fee given [to you], a little of it, do you hide it behind your back, saying, “Too little they gave,” with somebody afterward?).81 Given the preference of Andean natives to bury their family in special caves and not church grounds, the precise nature of the burial space is demarcated clearly in Quechua (ayap huacin) and in Spanish sepoltura (alternate spelling, sepultura) to encourage Christian burial practices. There is a section that also examines the goings-­on in the cofradías (community structures of lay brotherhoods introduced in the late sixteenth century).82 A minisermon is introduced in regard to treatment of a minor official of the cofradía by the mayordomo in charge. Ostensibly, the priest asks about an event, yet also counsels how to improve the matter: As despidido algun veinte y quatro, ó algun Cofrade sencillo de la Cofradia, leuantandole algun testimonio, ó no auerigua[n]do la verdad? ó por

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enemistad que le ayas tenido? á quien echaste? Mira, hijo, si no tiene culpa, que mereciesse ser despedido, bueluele a recebir, pues cobraste la limosna de la entrada, y no te vengues de tu enemigo en esso, ni en otra cosa; antes le corrije, y le perdona, si hizo algo mal hecho? Have you fired a twenty-­four [one of the twenty-­four assistants in the brotherhood] or a brother member, giving testimony against him, or not seeking the truth? Or because of animosity that you have toward him? Whom did you throw out? Listen, my son, if he was not to blame, for which he might deserve to be thrown out, return to welcome him back, because you have received his entry fee, and do not make an enemy of him about this, or in any other matter; correct him before anything is done, and pardon him, if he made a mistake?83

Notarial scribes deserved just as much scrutiny. We examine their importance in the last chapter. Nothing escapes the all-­seeing eye of this zealous priest. His interrogations are loaded with descriptive details of the marketplace. With the tailors, the seven questions of his priestly commentary ostensibly ask about theft by overcharge, but here we also glimpse the materials entrusted to an indigenous tailor: “Seda caitu, seda collque, cori, pasamanos niscacta, yallintahuanchu mañac canqui huanllaiman nispa?” (Silk thread, silver silk cloth, gold cloth, for cuffs as they are called, do you ask for too much, intending for yourself [the leftovers]?).84 Candymakers were asked about the sale of mizqui rumpu rumpu (lit., sweet round rounds): Was bad-­quality sugar hidden under the white?85 Meat sellers were asked about sinful practices particular to their trade. Did they claim to sell one meat when it really was another kind: “Cabra aichacta, vuijap, aichanmi ñispa, ranticupocchu canqui? cairi, aichacta pantachispa, miuyoc aichacta rantecchu canqui?” (Goat meat, saying it is lamb meat, do you sell? This meat, deceptive, poison-­laden meat, do you sell it?).86 Pantadoes not merely mean deceptive practices; the 1608 dictionary emphasizes that the root means “pecar en todos los pecados” (to sin all sins).87 Similarly, the llama herders and llama caravan drivers were asked about their occupation and possible sinful actions. In carrying coca, for instance, did they deceive the Spanish or their indigenous kinsmen: “Maican viracochap runap cucantapas, caiman, chaiman, chacnapuspa, cuca runcucta çuapocchu canqui?” (Carrying coca belonging to any Spaniard or any Indian, going here, going there, tied to the llama, do you steal the baskets [runcu] of coca?).88 We also glimpse the material possessions of the Spanish in the question directed to the herders and mule drivers:

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Arreando tus carneros, cauallos, ó mulas, de vn tampu a otro, ó alquilandote algun arriero, para ayudarle a llevar sus cargas, cama, ó petacas, ó caxa de algun Español, as le abierto el almofrex, y hurtandole dinero, sabanas, cuellos, metales, platos ó cualquier pieça de plata, o abriendole la caxa, petaca, ó fardo, as le sacado algo? Herding and driving your sheep, horses, or mules, from one way station to another, or hiring yourself out to another driver, in order to help him carry his loads, bed, or leather chest, or the trunk belonging to a Spaniard, have you opened the portable bed structure for him and stealing money, sheets, shirt collars, metal items, dishes or anything made of silver, or opening the trunk, the leather chest, or a large bundle, have you taken something out?89

Recognizing women’s importance to commerce, Pérez Bocanegra uniquely inserts in his confession manual a question addressed strictly to women sellers (cateras), asking: “Are you a seller [catera] in the public space? What do you sell in the catu? How long have you been a catera? Or what job do you do? What is your specialty?”90 The Quechua translation in the text is not gender-­specific, as in the rules for Quechua noun formation, gender is not marked: “Caturacchu ca[n]qui? haica vnaiñam catu canqui?” (Do you sell in the catu plaza? How long [is it] that you sell in the catu plaza?).91 From the Spanish version of this question, however, a woman penitent is clearly what Pérez Bocanegra has in mind. Returning to the Spanish, perhaps it is understood, in context, that catu vendors are women. In the 1620s, women sellers were referred to as cateras (spelled gateras in this text), which points to Quechua lexemes entering the vocabulary of daily life among the Spanish. Apparently, these gateras were fierce businesswomen in their own right, according to one letter written by a Spanish businessman who complained about them: “[Matheos] se queja que muchas eran ‘gateras conocidas y anme negado a fieros y como veo que salen con ello y ban a otra parte [. . .] que son temerarias rregatonas’ ” (Matheos complains that many of them are well-­known ‘gateras and they fiercely have denied to sell to me, and I see that they leave [with the item] and they go somewhere else . . . and they are fear-­inducing bargainers’).92 Evidence of women’s participation in commercial activities often is gleaned from colonial accounts. A detailed look at Father Bernabé Cobo’s description (cited in chapter 5) reveals the Spanish observation that multitudes of women were engaged in the process of exchange. In this case, the women silently offered their mounds of chili peppers or corn—adding to the mounds until the correct ratio of food was attained for the benefit of each woman. However, indigenous women were not involved in the trade of foodstuffs merely on a small scale.93 Witnesses attest to women’s participation in the lucrative

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metal markets, particularly in Potosí. Luis Capoche, writing in 1585, gives lengthy descriptions of the metal market in which women (and men) lined up to trade, seated in specifically ordered positions. Those with the richest ore (called de guaira ore, refined in the wind smelter) sat closest to the plaza, then those with ore smelted by the mercury process, then those with the common metals, and finally those with ore to be traded for coca leaves.94 In the large urban complex of Potosí, the Thursday, Friday, and Saturday market days were filled with indigenous people, especially women, well versed in the new ways of buying and selling, using ore as the preferred value system. It is evident in descriptions of Potosí that women sellers entered into the bustle of commerce and that they were successful. Jane E. Mangan’s research in Potosí explores the activities of women who sold bread, coca, and corn flour, those who traded in silver, as well as women who ladled out quantities of chicha (beverage). She cites a report of a cabildo member in 1615 complaining about the women sellers: “In this villa there is a great quantity of regatones of partridges and chickens and roosters, and however many enter this republic, they cut them off and buy going out to the roads, to obtain them outside only then turn and resell them.”95 Mangan gives an idea of the profits: “The market women purchased partridges outside the city at eight or nine reales and then sold them for two pesos (sixteen reales); they bought chickens for four or five reales and sold them for eight.”96 So well did these women learn their trade that, although the town council members tried to fix prices, the women vendors hiked prices by buying vast quantities of goods to resell in the city. Pérez Bocanegra is keen on exploring the extent of women’s sinfulness in questions of market manipulation: buying, selling, and buying in bulk to resell. The disparaging remarks aimed at women regatonas (fierce bargainers) parallel those uttered against the market merchants discussed in chapter 5. Miners: Queries Regarding Wages for Work In Pérez Bocanegra’s twenty-­six entries regarding mine workers, we read of the commerce in ore, particularly, we might imagine, regarding Potosí. Although there were other sites of mining activity in Porco early on and in Huancavelica later on, certainly the Potosí area is referred to by the priest. A passage from Pérez Bocanegra’s confessional focuses on the procurement of indigenous workers, always a difficult task in light of the shortage of laborers. In the queries for miners we read of common practices in the early seventeenth century: “Chai runahuan ranticupuncaiquipac? viracochama[n] mincanquipacpas? hinaspa chai mincascaiqui runap chayaque[n]ta, ca[n]pac ña apan-

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caiquipac?” ([As captain of the rented Indians] do you sell those villagers? Do you make them into mink’as for the Spanish? In order to carry off that mink’a person’s hire fees?).97 This question refers to the difficulty of obtaining workers, a situation addressed by the Spanish in requiring Andean natives to work in the mines, the mit’a. By the seventeenth century, the Spaniards controlled mining. However, in the early phases of silver mining in Potosí, native peoples, significantly, had the upper hand in the processing of the metals. Yanacuna Indians, some of whom were attached to Spanish masters and others who were runaways, were skilled in mining. Seven thousand yanacunas are recorded as working in the early years of silver production there.98 Proficient in the use of huayras, basically, a tall chimney with holes, the yanacunas let the whistling wind do the work of smelting the dense precious metal at the bottom. The magistrate of La Plata, Juan Matienzo, acknowledged that native Andeans controlled silver production, especially refining, even though Spaniards held title to the veins of ore. Thus, in the early years of mining (1545–1570), Europeans were in a weak bargaining position: “To get the Indian smelters to take their crude ore, Europeans sometimes had to sell it to them, at prices representing only a fraction of the value of the ore’s metallic content.”99 Yet the Spanish profited from the arrangement as well, receiving a fixed weekly quota of refined silver from “their” yanacunas even if they, the Spaniards, were not the mine owners. Thus, these encomenderos with indigenous mine workers received a good return, in contrast with those encomenderos who merely depended on agricultural or textile profits from indigenous labor. And the yanacunas profited also; after fulfilling the weekly quota they were entitled to keep the rest of the ore mined that week.100 However, with the use of mercury in the extraction process by 1576 and the need for large refineries to crush the ore, native miners were beholden economically to European investors, who possessed the necessary capital to finance the industry. With this transition to mercury smelting, the traditional meaning of mink’a and mit’a in Quechua was significantly altered to describe the labor force and adapted to Spanish usage. Mit’a retained much of its traditional meaning as rotational labor, work assignments designated by their regional indigenous communities at the request of the Incas and, later, the Spanish. The break with past practice occurred with the arrival of Francisco de Toledo, who decreed that daily cash wages were to be paid for a mitayo rotational designated worker, 3.5 reales.101 Mitayos also had access to bonus ore that they could sell in the market.102 While this appears to be a step toward better compensation for indigenous work, Luis Capoche, demonstrating his knowledge of mining, wrote in 1585 that these “jornales” (daily wages) were not sufficient to guarantee sub-

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sistence.103 Thus, wage-­earning mitayos called on their village kin to supply them with food, herds, and clothes. Furthermore, they rented themselves out as free laborers during their assigned weeks of rest in order to maintain themselves and their families.104 The semantic field of mit’a had changed under the Spanish to encompass the realities of wage payment for these rotational work shifts in the mines, formerly unpaid labor required by the Inca. Mink’a (spelled minca/minka in the colonial texts) also reflected these new market realities. Mink’a, as we saw earlier, was defined as reciprocal labor (usually not paid), bound up with kinship obligations, common to Quechua cultural patterns. However, now under the Spanish, mink’a had shifted contextually to designate a hired wage-­earning worker (minga). The first use of the new semantic term indio minga (as indigenous free wage worker) is found in Luis Capoche’s 1585 description of the mining center of Potosí.105 Mingas, volunteer workers who made up half of the laboring miners, were paid 4 reales each day in 1585. These minga native peoples received a higher wage than the assigned mit’a workers and labored mostly in the refinery as well as in the mines. They were very much in demand, as the mit’a quota did not supply enough bodies for labor in the mines and refineries. Mingas also could earn good money from kurakas, who sometimes contracted them to buy out a mitayo worker.106 More important, as an incentive to work in the mining industry, the indigenous minga workers were allowed to keep and sell surplus ore (corpa), often from the richest veins: Los indios mingas tienen algunas ventajas y son mejor tratados, porque como se conciertan con libertad la tienen para llevar alguna corpa de metal, que es como decir un pedazo grande, de su jornal, porque si en esto se les pusiese limitación no volverían a las minas. The minga Indians have some advantages and are better treated, because, since they freely hire themselves out, they are allowed to carry out a corpa lump of ore, which is to say, a big piece, in their daily work schedule, because if they limited them in this, they would not return to the mines.107

Although carrying corpa is legal, Pérez Bocanegra intends to ferret out theft in the mines in his confessional: “Collque coyapi llamcaspa llamascaiquip chaninta chazquispatac collanan, cairi pactascalla[n] llincta, coyamanta, çuacchu canqui?” (Working in the silver mine, receiving pay for your work, do you steal any type of metal found in the mine?).108 As a priest, he emphasizes payment for the work and considers any additional ore carried out to be a sin. The topic of stolen or legally procured ore was the subject of many interro-

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gations. In fact, the very first question about mining posed by Pérez Bocanegra in his penitential plunges headlong into the problem of stealing ore; the priest well knew how some ore was smuggled out, and thus he begins with this query and later belabors the point with additional queries: Chichi coricta, viracochap ayticunampi aytispa, chichi coricta çuacchu canqui? cairi, çarayasca coricta tarispa, millpuspatac, acascaiquipi maçcacchu ca[n]qui? coricta, cori mamactapas, pacacchu ca[n]qui? quepamanta ña horcospa apancaiquipac? Washing the gold dust in the Spanish-­owned vats, do you steal it? Or finding some gold nuggets, swallowing it, do you look for it in your excrement? Gold, or the best of the vein of gold, do you hide it? Afterward, do you extract it, so you can carry it away?109

Pérez Bocanegra’s pages in the last section of commandment seven, on confession of theft, reveal an extensive knowledge of the mining industry. He describes the process beginning in the labyrinthine tunnels right up to the smoky refining mills. However, before returning to the penitential, we should pause to understand the mining process as a whole, described by Peter Bakewell in Miners of the Red Mountain. In the colonial period, a mine beginning at 70 meters long eventually would become a workplace some 200 meters deep. Adit openings intersected with these long galleries so that air circulated, so there was drainage, but leather ladders were the means of descending to work and later the means of ascending with ore. The metal was accumulated at the mouth of the mine and carried to the mills. In these refineries, huge amounts of ore were pulverized, strained, and then placed in tanks where water, salt, and mercury were stirred in. The mass was heated to draw out the metal, and the next step, washing the mass, allowed the silver and mercury to fall to the bottom of settling tanks. Any remaining mercury was squeezed out of the steaming pella (the mass of ore after the mercury process), and it was shaped into conical pieces called piñas. These cones were heated in ovens that further distilled the mercury, leaving pure silver.110 Each step of the mining process was a potential site for theft of ore, and Pérez Bocanegra is vigilant in his interrogations about each aspect of the amalgamation process. His abbreviated Spanish query mentions only pellas, but his Quechua version details the very steps to reach the pella state of the ore: “Azogueyoc mama, turuchascacta, azoguenta chuyarcoc apaspa, chai azogueyoc turucta asinta, cairi, achcactapas, çuacchu cangui?” (The amalgam mass of mercury and ore, the muddied stuff, carrying it to the mercury-­ clarifying place [after refining], that refined muddy mass of mercury, do you

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steal a lot?).111 Even more detail regarding refining—the stage of mixing in salt and mercury—appears in a later question in the list: Cachihuan, azoguehua[n]pas, ña tacusca mama chacrusca captin, cai hina turucta manarac aitiscacaptin, aitisca ña captintac çuacchu canqui? With salt, with mercury, too, now mixed in, with the ore mixed in, that processed mud mass, still not washed or washed, do you steal it?112

This intimate knowledge of mining—seen in both Spanish and Quechua passages—is supplemented by extensive Quechua mining vocabulary. Pérez Bocanegra knew how to interrogate in the native language and get answers for every theft of property or ore using specialized lexemes: huairachina (artisan smelter), huatianancuna (holes in the ground), azoguep callana (veins of mercury), quellai taclla (barreta/small metal crowbar), quellai checona ( pico/ pickax), quellai tacarpu (cuña/wedge), cutama (carrying sack), and huaçca (the rope to tie the sacks). His persistence is seen in the long query about theft in the mercury mines: Llimpi coyapi llamcaspa, vchpanta maillaspa, huairachina, huatianacunacta pacchaspa, cairi, azoguep pitinta huacaichaspa, azoguep callanantapas, tucui llimpi coyapi llamcanacunactapas, cauçac collque, azogue ñiscacta, azoguep callananta, quellai tacllacta, quellai checonacta, quellai tacarpucta, quellai queminacta cutamacta, huaçcacta, caicunamanta, ima cacllactapas çuacchu canqui? caicunamanta, imactam çuarcanqui? cai çuascaiquictaca, haicamanmi ranticurcanqui? Working in the mercury mines, washing down the ashes, opening the artisan wind smelters, the holes, the oven melt spilling out, here in the broken-­ bits-­of-­mercury place, in the mercury room, working in all the mercury veins also, the live silver, what is called “azoque/mercury,” a vein of mercury, a small metal crowbar, a pickaxe, a wedge, the carrying sack, a rope, from all of this, what, do you steal? From all this, what did you steal? The stolen stuff, how much did you sell it for?113

Catechismal Crisis: Sinful, Stolen Ore Why the excessive commentary and clauses about theft of ore? The stealing of ore was always a heated subject in the Andean colonies because, with decreased production in Potosí, some mineowners turned against policy estab-

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lished by Viceroy Toledo that allowed minga miners to “harvest” the mines for their own benefit. Because the salaries were set at such a low level, Toledo at first allowed the right of kapcha (also called corpa and corpu), for the mitayos, which “permitted the mitayos to work in the mines for their own benefit from Saturday evening to Monday morning.”114 As noted above, the minga workers fared even better and were allowed daily allotments of ore as a bonus. The agreement in the contracts allowed native Andeans to sell this metal in the catu/qhatu, the plaza controlled by native Andeans and carefully regulated by Spanish officials. Kapcha or corpu/corpa, the legally designated ore which miners were allowed to carry out from the mine in their off-­hours, often brought in more revenue than their wages. Carlos Sempat Assadourian notes that this concession gave native Andeans 80 percent higher earnings because it amounted to 10 percent of the metal mined in Potosí.115 We have seen abundant clerical interrogations regarding theft by indigenous Andean miners in the confessional of 1631. Frequently, Potosí mineowners were intent on limiting the amount of theft from the mines. Often, high-­ quality corpa/corpu/kapcha ore was sold by indigenous workers. Viceroy Toledo himself had decreed the legitimacy of these sales; he knew salaries were not sufficient for the maintenance of the indigenous workers and their families. Nevertheless, the mineowners petitioned and called for a review of the legislation. Eventually, theologians and other learned men would be called on to examine the morality of the indigenous possession of ore and the sale of this ore. Luis Capoche, writing to Viceroy Hernando de Torres y Portugal, Conde de Villar, in 1585 narrates the history of the mineowners’ protests and also reproduces the opinions of learned intellectuals (including José de Acosta) regarding the “un-­Christian behavior” of the Andean indigenous miners. Capoche begins with a description of the traditional right granted to the native Andeans to mine and to sell ore: Desde el descubrimiento y fundación de este asiento y villa de Potosí, ha sido costumbre muy guardada . . . entre los naturales, de tratar y contratar con libertad en los metales que sacan del cerro, vendiéndolos en plaza pública, . . . en la cual se junta gran concurso de indios e indias a vender lo que han adquirido y sacado, y otros a comprarlo. From the time of the discovery and the founding of this site of Potosí, it has been a custom dearly held . . . by the indigenous people to deal and contract freely those metals that they take out of the mountain, selling them in the public plaza, . . . in which place are gathered a great number of Indians and Indian women to sell what they have acquired and taken out, and others [there] to buy it.116

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Though there had been dissension regarding the rights of indigenous Andeans to corpa/kapcha for some five to six years, the situation heated up in 1579, when the mineowners, with the help of Corregidor Martín García de Loyola and the council, issued a decree forbidding the sale of metal by the indigenous people. With the ensuing indigenous unrest provoked by this decree, Diego Núñez Bazán, named Protector of the Indians, looked for irregularities involving theft in the mines and ultimately found in favor of native peoples and against the mineowners.117 This decision brought forth a contrary opinion from the locals, framed in terms of moral justice. A Jesuit priest, Diego de Baena, took to preaching against this decision, claiming that those who sold the ore as well as those who bought it committed a mortal sin and would go to hell. Baena was learned; as noted in the Jesuit records, he was good at confessing and preaching to both the Spanish and the native peoples, and he knew the indigenous language well.118 Heavily influenced by the mineowners, Baena preached with fiery words. According to Protector Núñez, Baena “quería tratar de predicar en público contradiziendo este comercio y mercancía, poniendolo por escrúpulo y afirmando ser pecado mortal y obligación de restitución, por dezir que los yndios hurtauan todo o lo más dello y que los compradores absolutamente se yban a los ynfiernos” (Baena wanted to preach in public against this business and merchandise, scrupulously examining it and affirming that it was a mortal sin and under obligation to be restituted, because the Indians stole all of it [the ore] or the greater part of it, and the buyers absolutely were going to hell).119 Protector Núñez contacted Father Baena, firmly reminding him that this surplus ore was part of a payment system promulgated by Toledo. In light of this reprimand, Baena stopped preaching for a few days. Later, it seemed as if he had acquired a new perspective; Toledo’s ordinance was “fair and just” he now preached in the plaza of Potosí. Yet, in the same sermon, he introduced a serious perspective regarding a Catholic “matter of conscience” with grave consequences for the salvation of the soul: “Todos los metales que bendían los yndios en el gato y otras partes heran hurtados e que por serlo los españoles que los comprauan pecauan mortalmente y estauan en los ynfiernos” (All the metal ore that the Indians sold in the gato plaza and in other places was stolen, and, because of that, the Spaniards who bought the ore sinned mortal sins and were in hell).120 Thus, with this proclamation, buying and selling ore in the markets became a matter of canon law. Those Spaniards who bought and sold the supposedly stolen ore were equally liable for committing mortal sins and thus condemned to hell. In Núñez’s report to Viceroy Toledo dated November of 1579, we see the warring factions described. He candidly opines that the Jesuits, in opposing the sale of ore by native peoples, reflect the viewpoints of the rich and thus

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curry favor in the town: “[Los teatinos] por el aplauso del pueblo y ganar la voluntad de los ricos, de quien se muestran grandes amigos, [han] hecho esto y porque pretenden ser opósito o contrapuesto del Señor Vissorey” (The Jesuits gain favor in the town and gain the good graces of the rich, of whom they are close friends, because they strive to oppose or be against the viceroy).121 Not all clergy were of the opinion of the Jesuits. A Dominican (Francisco Vázquez) weighed in on the side of the native miners, proclaiming in his own church and in the Iglesia Mayor (main church) that buying ore in good faith (believing that it was not stolen) was permissible. However, he added, if the purchaser knew it was stolen, the purchase was considered a mortal sin and required restitution.122 The plaza became a scene for violence as the preachers voiced their opinions about the sinful theft of ore. Father Francisco Vázquez was physically threatened there for uttering his opinions, as was the Jesuit Baena. Andean natives forcefully were stripped of their ore as they came down off the mountain by one irate mine overseer, Oruño, according to Núñez. Tempers flared and harsh words rang out in the streets and churches of Potosí when the Jesuits were joined by like-­minded clergy: Vicar Bartolomé Alonso, secular priest Herrera (a Portuguese in the doctrinal parish of Santa Bárbara), a so-­called Fray Gerónimo, jurist Baltazar Sánchez from San Sebastián doctrinal parish, and others. As had Las Casas years earlier (see chapter 1), these churchmen, who threatened to not absolve those who supported Toledo’s decree allowing corpa/ corpu, wielded the instrument of confession like a sword. This group of clergy warned that when Lent rolled around for the obligatory annual confession, the Spanish buyers of corpa/corpu metal would regret their actions. Núñez, alarmed, wrote Toledo that this group of clergy were “poniendo temores a los que los [metales] compran, diziendo que los aguardan a la Quaresma e que no an de ser absueltos y otras cosas, porque dan a entender ser caso de la fe y que sienten mal della” (frightening those who buy the metal ore, saying that during Lent they await them, and that they will not be absolved and many more things, because they have them understand that it is a matter of faith and that they feel bad about it).123 After receiving Protector Núñez’ report, Viceroy Toledo brought the matter before a group of learned persons assembled in Lima to investigate the charges. Capoche reproduces these opinions ( pareceres) in his long manuscript; he copies the texts of eight opinions from Inquisitors, university professors, an Augustinian friar (the head of the university in Lima), and the Jesuit José de Acosta. In the end, all of these intellectuals sided with Toledo and supported the right to corpa/corpu and the right to sales in the gato plaza. Acosta, for his part, acknowledged that some portion of the ore sold might be illegal,

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although he was content to believe that the majority of the metal was not stolen. However, ever fearful for the souls of the natives, he urged that they be clearly told that stolen material could not be sold in the gato plaza and that they would be punished for that sin. He also pleaded for peace: “[Que] cesen las alteraciones y contradicciones que causan perturbación y escándalo” (All these altercations and disputes that cause unrest and scandal must cease).124 Acosta also weighed in on the consequences for confession and said that few should be denied absolution: Pueden muy seguramente los particulares comprar y rescatar metales del gato sin ningún escrúpulo y sin inquirir más. Y los confessores no deben poner escrúpulo y negar la absolución, excepto si en particular el penitente hubiese comprado o rescatado de quien sabía o creía que lo hubiese hurtado. . . . El trato y comercio . . . no sólo es permitido, pero aprobado y confirmado, como cosa lícita en conciencia y útil a la república. People very assuredly can buy and trade metal ore in the gato plaza, without any need for scrutiny and no more inquiries. And the confessors should not have scrupulous hesitation and deny absolution except in the case of a penitent who might have bought or traded from someone whom he or she knew or believed might have stolen it. . . . The trade and the business [of this ore] not only is permitted, but approved and affirmed, as licit in matters of conscience and useful for the republic.125

But the illustrious commentary of learned scholars did not deter the mineowners and some members of the cabildo. By 1583, with a new corregidor appointed in Potosí, they again pressed their case. Part of their argument focused on the fact that mineowners now paid their indigenous workers and overseers in specie; therefore, the abundance of ore found in the metals plaza must be stolen material. United, they drew up a petition in which they offered the Crown one million pesos in return for new rules prohibiting corpa/corpu sales.126 Local clergy were brought in to bolster the argument against the native peoples and signed the petition. In this new debate of 1583, numerous penitential manuals were consulted again to resolve the matter. Juan de Valençuela, a Carmelite friar in Potosí, was well informed and strengthened his argument with citations from Medina’s De rebus restituendis, Hostiensis’ De Poenitentia, Mercado’s penitential, and Soto’s De Iustitia et Iure. Convinced by these texts, he concludes that indigenous miners should return all earnings derived from “stolen” ore: “Para el remedio deste trato como para que se buelua todo el metal que hasta aquí se a

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comprado de los yndios a los señores de minas cuyos son, y esto es lo que siento después de auerlo estudiado con cuidado” (The solution to this business is to return to the mineowners who own [it] all the ore that has been bought up to this time from the Indians, and this is what I opine after having studied it carefully).127 Father Valençuela singles out the mingado native peoples, those willing to hire themselves out for 4 reales a day. Since they are “free to pick up and go,” he says, owners had allowed them to carry out a corpa rock ore to supplement the 4 reales. But, he insists, they carried out much more ore to sell both publicly in the gato plaza or secretly from their own houses. He uses a well-­worn argument: he fears for the souls of the newly converted native Andeans and also cautions the Spanish about their complicity in sin. Theft is so rampant, he says, that Spaniards can dictate from which of the mines they wish to buy ore. He laments that it has come to this, that indigenous converts believe that stealing is permissible: “Que es harta lástima que en una gente nueuemente conuertida se aya introducido por nuestra causa tal error. Remédielo Dios” (It is a great pity that a newly converted people have been presented with such an error because of us. God remedy this).128 His conclusion states clearly that no indigenous native should be allowed to carry out ore, nor should any Spaniard purchase ore from them. Bundled with this text is one from the Franciscan friar Pedro de Oré, in agreement with Valençuela’s assessment. He also provides sources drawn from his research: Videtiam Siluestris, Armilla Usura, Medina’s manual on restitution, and various chapters from Naba.129 All these pronouncements were in vain, however, as the newly appointed corregidor decided to permit the sale of ore in the plazas of Potosí, with no repercussions in the confessional. Negative opinions spurted forth from many documents in Potosí that described the laziness and the greed of the indigenous laborers. Yet, embedded within texts that argue for the right to corpa, that ore that compensated for the sweat and tears of the native peoples in the mines, is also found a text of another, more expansive theme—questions concerning the right of the Spanish to claim the riches of the Indies. José de Acosta, affirming the right to corpa, goes beyond that restricted matter of theological scrutiny. He embellishes his opinion with a more expansive argument. He refers to the native Andeans as “free men and vassals of the king” and urges treatment of them in a favorable manner, since “viviendo nosotros en su tierra y enriquecernos de ella y de sus trabajos” (we live in their land and we enrich ourselves from their land and from their labor).130 Likewise, Luis Capoche, summarizing this case, dares to introduce an opinion much debated in Spain. He almost questions Spanish claims of a just war; he asserts that the native peoples have a right to enrich themselves and to prosper from their circumstances, according to natural law.

Confessing Work and Laborers 219

He and a few others who wrote to the appropriate Spanish officials affirm that the Andean people are proprietors of the riches found in the Andes: El descubridor de este cerro fué indio natural de este reino, y todas las vetas y minas las han descubierto y dado noticia de ellas indios, y los españoles se las han usurpado y defraudado en los registros que de ellas han hecho y en las visitas, y al presente tienen muchas minas. Y conviene al servicio de Su Majestad y bien y aumento de este reino, que estos miserables sean bien tratados y gocen de las franquicias que se conceden a los demás vasallos, pues tan particular cuidado tiene Su Magestad en encargarlos y que se mire por ellos, como cosa que tanto importa a su real conciencia. The discoverer of this mountain [Potosí] was a native Indian from this territory, and all the veins and mines have been discovered and made known by the Indians, and the Spanish have usurped the mines and defrauded [them] by means of registering the accounts that they have made of the mines and in the surveys, and currently they have many mines. And it behooves Your Majesty for your good service and for the well-­being and the prosperity of this land that these poor [indigenous] be well treated and enjoy the exemption from taxes that you grant to your other vassals, because Your Majesty carefully must commend them and look after them, as something that burdens your royal conscience.131

This matter of conscience—of theft and of restitution—was a theological battle over the fruits of labor; however, this consideration of workers and worker benefits also included reference to more important questions. Las Casas’ polemic once again surfaced years after his death. Did the Spanish have legitimate claim to the riches of the mines and the treasures? Should the Spanish carry out wholesale restitution? Was it a mortal sin for Andean natives to carry ore out of the mines of the Spanish owners and later sell in the plazas? This question of conscience troubled many men of the church. They feared for their Spanish parishioners as well as for their indigenous converts. All were in danger of burning in hell: from the lowly coca seller sitting in the streets surrounded by her baskets, to the grandest of all the encomenderos, right up to the Crown in the imperial court. They must be well instructed regarding labor practices, then confessed thoroughly, with admonitions compelling restitution for sins of labor, and thus begin to settle their accounts—listing debits and credits for disposal of their material goods and going through the same accounting process to assess the salvation of their souls.

CONCLUSION

Wills as Quasi-­Confession: Testamentocta Quellca

Ma ñihuay, maycanmi ashuan yupay? Animayquichu, cayri chay çuacuscayquichu? Animayquiracmi Potocchi orcomantapas ashuan yupay, tucuy cay hinanta pachapi, collque cacmantapas, cori cacmantapas ashuan yupayracmi, yma raycutac, animayquita çupayta hatallichicunqui piñaschachicunqui? Chay çuacuscayq[ue] rayculla? Tell me, which has more value? Your soul or what you have stolen? Your soul for sure, Potosí Mountain also is worth a lot, like all the things in the world, because of the silver, because gold is worth a lot, for what reason do you let the devil grab your soul? Because of stolen goods? 1 This sermon of 1585, so Andean in its reference to the riches gathered in Potosí, warns against the sin of theft. Theft is very recognizable: as deception in buying and selling; bringing a suit against another for no reason; illegally grazing animals in another’s fields; not paying a laborer for work. Sheep rustled from a pasture, wax candles swiped from the altar, sips of wine swallowed furtively in transporting a jug—these actions should be confessed as stealing from a rightful owner. If not confessed, the devil himself would predominate, and God would not pardon the sinner. However, there was one more step beyond confession leading to forgiveness of theft and eventual salvation: restitution. The concept of restitution, a prerequisite for absolution, is central to the sacrament of confession: “As justice between man and man requires that what belongs to another should be rendered him, justice is violated by keeping from another against his reasonable will what belongs to him, and by willfully doing him damage in goods or reputation. . . . This obligation [for restitution] is identical with that imposed by the Seventh Commandment, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ . . . Restitution signi-

Figure 7.1. The indigenous notary appointed by the Crown. From Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, Nueva corónica y buen gobierno (codex péruvien ilustré) (Paris: 1936). The Institut d’Ethnologie 1936 edition is based on the original manuscript El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno GkS 2232, 4to, Royal Library of Denmark, Copenhagen.

222  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

fies not any sort of reparation made for injury inflicted, but exact reparation as far as possible.”2 The priests had to clearly explain the concept to their indigenous converts, and thus we find the Quechua sermon continues with an introduction to simple reparation, return of the stolen item: “Chay çuacusca‑ q[u]yta, hucpa yma[n] hacallipuscayquita chayñiocman cutichipunqui, chayracmi çupaypas animayquicta cutichipussunqui, mana cutichipuptijquica, animayqui çupayam canca” (Those stolen goods, possessed by somebody, restitute the stolen items, thus the devil will return your soul; if you do not restitute, the devil possesses your soul).3 Bartolomé de Las Casas made full use of this theological tenet in the sixteenth century. Basing his argument on canon law, he concluded that no single conquistador or encomendero or merchant should be absolved of their actions in the Americas. All of these persons had stolen from the indigenous peoples because the conquest was not legitimate; all lands and excess tribute should be returned—as an act of restitution—to those native peoples, who were the true owners of the riches of the Americas (see chapter 1). While Las Casas dictated cases for restitution by the Spanish Christians, native Andeans also were expected to recognize the concept of reparation and to act accordingly as part of their indoctrination. In direct and simple language free from complex metaphors, the parameters of restitution were laid out in the Andes for the indigenous converts. The talking points are not drawn from Bartolomé de Las Casas on the subject of heaps of treasure; this sermon of 1585 gives examples from everyday life, simple cases of theft: “You know, my brothers, like when someone has stolen or deceived someone or stolen something from somebody or done them harm, God doesn’t forgive—even if you repent and you confess this—unless you give back the sheep that you stole or stolen clothes or money or an item that is worth the same amount.”4 The lexeme chosen from Quechua to express this theology in translation is similarly plain and simple: cutichipu- conveys the meaning of restitution by taking the basic concept of “to return” (cuti-­) and adding verbal supplements of chi (a causative) and pu, to perform an act on behalf of or at the expense of another.5 Thus, in the translation of this passage, cuti- appears prominently: “Mana cutichipuptinca, mana pampachancachu” (If you do not restitute, it is not forgiven).6 Sometimes an indigenous penitent, ashamed, might not want to return a stolen item in person. Provisions were made for this in the confession process. He or she could confess, give the item to the priest, who then could give it to the owner without revealing who was responsible for the theft: “Dile tu confessandote lo que passa y él te dara remedio para que tu alma se salve restituyendo y no te venga a daño a tu cuerpo ni a tu honra” (Tell him, confess-

Conclusion: Wills as Quasi-­Confession 223

ing what occurs, and he will give you a cure so that your soul is saved through restitution and neither your body nor your honor is harmed).7 In Quechua this same statement is twice rendered, once depending on the simple verb “to give,” cu-­, and once by means of the codified word for “restitution,” cutichipu(also spelled cutichi ): Ricuy churi, chay çuacnscayquicta Padreman conqui, padreñam chayniocman cutichipunca, manam paymi coarcan ñincachu payman confessacuspachay huchayquicta villacuy, payñamanimayquicta huchamanta quispichipussunqui, ucuyquictapas pencaymanta quispichissunqui. Look here, son, what you have stolen, give to the priest, he [the priest] restitutes it [to the person], he does not say anything about the returned item, confessing to him, inform him of your sin, you will free your soul from any kind of sin, you will be free from utmost shame.8

A promise of future restitution also is acceptable, according to the explanations of the “Exhortacion o platica despues de oyda toda la confession: Para los que no restituyen” (Exhortation or conversation for after hearing confession: For those who do not restitute), appended to the Confessional, especially if one is without funds to make amends immediately.9 All of the confessionals of the early colonial period stress the return of the stolen item (chaynioc, the possessed thing) under the rubric of theft. For instance, Luis Jerónimo de Oré’s 1598 text includes an explicitly worded question about returns: “Çuascayquicta confessorniiqui Padre, chayniocman cutichipuy, ñiscanta cutichipurcanquichu?” (The stolen item that your priest said to restitute, did you restitute it?).10 Diego de Torres Rubio’s later confessional follows suit and uses two Quechua verbs to make sure his idea gets across to the convert: cutchipu- (to restitute) and copu- (to give). “Collquiyoc caspa, ymayoc caspapas chay çuascayquicta [cayri chaninta] cutichipu[n]qui .1. copunqui” (If you are the possessor of [stolen] money or whatever you possess, that stolen item (or its worth) restitute .1. give).11 Later versions of this same manual insert words of advice on secretly restituting the item, instructions not found in the 1619 manual.12 Prado’s manual also advocates secrecy in restitution: “¿Cutichipurcanquichu? . . . cutichipui, pacallamanta (Did you restitute? . . . Restitute, secretly).13 Juan de Pérez Bocanegra’s 1631 confession manual also includes advice about restitution and guides the indigenous penitent to return the stolen item to the owner immediately, the moment he or she gets up from kneeling at the feet of the priest for confession. If the owner is unknown, then this priest sug-

224  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

gests giving money to the poor: “Mana reccespari, huaccha uscari coccunapac coi” (Not knowing the owner, give to the orphaned beggars [the poor]).14 The Quechua-­speaking penitent is told that without restitution, no matter how many times he confesses, he will not be absolved, “manam asllapas paçcascachu” (not even a little absolved).15 Pérez Bocanegra resemanticizes a traditional verb, paçca- (to untie, unlink, to let go), to signify absolution.16 In the complete passage below, Pérez Bocanegra depends on the 1585 verbs to translate the concept, a straightforward verb of “to give” (co-­) and the more complex cutichi-­, to emphatically denote restitution: Mana copuspa ari, huchaiquicta Dios, manam pampachapussunquichu, huarancacta confessacuptijquipas, yma haycayoc caspa ari, mana cutichispa, mana copuspa, huachaiqui, manam asllapas paçcascachu. If you do not give it [up], God will not bury [forgive] your sin, even if you confess one hundred times, however many times, if you do not give back [restitute], if you do not give [it], you are not released, even a little [absolved].17

The interrogations regarding the seventh commandment are related in many instances to real items and concrete occasions of theft. Yet, in another section of his manual, Pérez Bocanegra describes restitution owing to an act of sacrilege: Pues como hija mia, estas ama[n]cebada, con este clerigo, ordenante, ó religioso. No ues la gravedad de esse pecado, pues le quitas a Dios su ministro de su Altar, y hazes que el que deue ser tan limpio, como los angeles, sea sucio, y asqueroso delante los ojos de Dios, y de los ho[m]bres, por essas torpezas que cada dia comete contigo? Well, since you are a lover of the priest, the ordenante [ecclesiastical authority], or the friar, don’t you see the seriousness of this sin, because you deprive God of his minister at the altar, and he, who should be so clean, like the angels, you make him dirty and despicable in the eyes of God and of men through these dirty acts that each day he commits with you?18

Thus, the sin of sacrilege is compounded not merely in the corruption of the young woman’s body by the priest (commandment six), but in the fact that she in effect is robbing the populace because of the gifts that the fornicating priest handed over to her (commandment seven):19

Conclusion: Wills as Quasi-­Confession 225

Todo quanto te á dado, y tienes de este Religioso, estas obligada a restituyrlo a su Perlado, o Conuento, por que no era suyo, ni te lo pudo dar, y que para dartelo lo pide de limosna, a vnos, y a otros; y esta limosna, la quitó a los verdaderos pobres, y la hiziste tuya, por tus torpezas. Everything he has given you, that you have from this priest, you are obliged to restitute this to his provincial or his convent, because it was not his, nor was he able to give it to you, and to be able to give it to you he begged for alms, from some and from others; and these alms he took from the truly poor, and you made it yours, for your sinful actions.20

In this passage, in a tweaking of penance, the female offender also is compelled to restitute beyond her carnal pleasure with the cleric. She is obliged to relinquish and restitute whatever goods she obtained from the carnal encounter. Restitution was a binding agreement between the priest and the sinner for the theft of a valuable item, or for sinful behavior that harmed another. Generally, this confession concerned theft of concrete items, a llama or a silver pitcher, for instance, yet there is another class of sins, verbal sins, those of “committing false testimony.” In this case, words were a sinful weapon to destroy a reputation, or to lessen the material wealth of another member of the community. The confessional of 1585 centers on sins of defamation and murmuring, as does that of Oré in 1589. Similarly, both texts introduce another grave sin, that of silence. Covering up for a known idolater must be confessed, especially when the witness is brought before a church official (visitador) and sworn to truthfulness: “Sabes que alguno sea hechizero, o enseñe contra la ley de los Christianos, o viva mal? Y sabiendolo has dexado de manifestarlo al Padre, o al Visitador, o a quie[n] puede remediarlo?” (Do you know of someone who is a shaman-­priest, or who teaches against Christian beliefs, or who lives a bad life? And knowing this have you not brought it before the priest, or the visitador, o someone who can remedy it?).21 Last Words: Wills As Confession These confessions and suggestions for restitution in the penitential manuals were part of the quotidian encounters between the priest and his indigenous flock. However, the confession of a lifetime, when death was imminent, was the moment to repent, to admit all sins, correct any actions, and seek salvation. Exhortations which address the need to die a “good death” are included

226  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

in most confessionals, one for the sinner who is barely alive and drawing a last breath, and a longer version for a person who is gravely ill but has a chance to recover. In the longer version, the sinner is called on to remember all of his sins and to say each one of them without fail. Guided by the priest’s trained interrogation about sin, the confessant was expected contritely to spin out a narrative that would lead to a purified state of the soul. Often, composing a will became an act of penance in itself, a form of confession: “At the end of one’s life, even after one had departed from this world, when others read the will—or, more likely, had it read to them—one could confess one’s faith, acknowledge one’s sins, and attempt to redeem them by making certain statements and arranging for certain liturgies and public gestures.”22 If the penitent had property, he or she would be encouraged to leave it properly to the children or to a mother or a father by means of a will. And, of course, the priest recommended writing into the will clauses regarding masses or prayers to best aim this soul heavenward. Or the ill person might pass on some wealth to the poor. In all instances, these decisions were to be freely given, not forced on a confessant by the church. The penitent also was instructed to carry out restitution for debts owed or infractions committed. The theological team of 1585 wrote guidelines for drawing up a will, with the priest as witness, as seen in the “Exhortacion para ayudar a bien morir” (An exhortation to aid in dying a good death), an Andean text: Tambien os aviso hijo mio, que si haueys hurtado o teneys algo ageno lo declarys, y mandeys se le buelua a cada uno lo que es suyo: y si hizistes algu[n] daño a vuestro proximo lo digays, para que el padre vea como se satisfara, por que no podeys ser sauo sin restituyrlo que deues. Y si teneys alguna hazienda, aueys la de dexar a vuestros hijos, o padre o madre si lo teneys: pero bien podeys de alguna parte della hazer bien por vuestra anima, mandando se os digan algunas missas e otros suffragios, o que se den a pobres, esto ha de ser a vuestra voluntad, q[ue] nadie os fuerça a ello y si no teneys hijos ni padre o madre, podreys hazer de vuestra hazienda lo q[ue] q[ui]sierdes mirad que sea en servicio de Dios. Likewise I advise you to declare, my son, that if you have stolen something or have something belonging to another in your possession that you order it returned to each owner. And if you harmed your neighbor you declare it, so that the priest sees that it is carried out, because you cannot be in good standing without restitution of what you owe. And if you have any property, you have to leave it to your children, or your mother or father if you have one [them]. But you can also use some of it to benefit your soul, ordering that they say masses or some other services to redeem souls from purgatory, or

Conclusion: Wills as Quasi-­Confession 227

give to the poor. This has to be done freely, that no one forces you [to do it]. If you do not have children or father or mother, you can do with your property as you wish, just seeing that it be in the service of God.23

While requiring the gifting of property to family, this passage also suggests bequests to the church to enhance one’s opportunity for salvation. Thus, theological doctrine was conjoined with economic principles when, in confession, the spiritual estate was assessed along with material possessions. So important was this act of confession that burial could be denied to those who did not write out specific directives. Thus, another figure—the scribe—was just as important as the priest in settling matters before death. In this “last confession,” the notary was summoned to write the will, listen to the details of a lifetime, and record the legal procedures for the division of property. In a study of Andean sources, Kathryn Burns opens up the archives to present a vivid portrait of these escribanos, persons empowered to transfer property, draw up labor contracts, and write wills. Burns provides us with a description of the categories of notaries: public notaries (públicos y del número), who served in a specific town or city; and notaries of the king (escribanos de Su Majestad or escribanos reales), who could serve in any part of the realm, yet respected the privileges of the escribanos públicos.24 In Cuzco, as noted by Burns, there were separate pages for recording native Andean legalities, and they and their records were marginalized, kept at the very back of the books, although this was not always the case. These Cuzco notebooks of the registro de indios (Indian accounts) recorded labor agreements, sales, rentals, and wills and were written by nonindigenous notaries.25 Of course, the church had its own ecclesiastical notaries, who often apprenticed with escribanos públicos. Sometimes these scribes were indigenous. John Charles mentions the numerous “denunciations, petitions, records of witness testimony, empowerments, census rolls, and sacramental registries” written by indigenous agents of the church.26 These indigenous scribes, as seen in the earliest wills, were bilingual and learned the requisite legal phrases to craft a will. However, as Gabriela Ramos notes, occasionally, the legal syntax and semantics were distorted in these documents as the indigenous scribe had imperfectly mastered the discourse. For instance, in Francisca Colloc’s will of 1586, the Quechua-­speaking scribe wrote, “Additionally, I instruct the company with the high cross to pay the offering as customary.” Ramos cautions us that the text should have read, “Additionally, I instruct that my parish priest accompany my body with the high cross and that the customary offering be paid.”27 The confession manuals also record the presence of these testamentary records of life and death. Pérez Bocanegra’s manual prompts the priest to ad-

228  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

minister to the ill and to encourage them to write a testament while they are “wholly understanding and thinking clearly.”28 This is the time to restitute, as well as the moment to provide for one’s estate. In the Quechua texts of confession, we also see multiple queries to indigenous legal clerks, titled “Preguntas que se an de hacer a los Indios escriuanos” (Questions that must be asked of Indian notaries), encompassed in commandment seven. As there is no similar concept in Quechua for a “testament,” the Spanish loan word (testamento) is pressed into service in all of these queries. Occasionally, testamento is accompanied by the Quechua word for written or drawn inscription (quellca-­), thus indicating the importance and permanence of this legal entity. The indigenous Christians were expected to write accurate and truthful wills with the help of Spanish or indigenous notaries. Pérez Bocanegra’s Quechua manual includes fourteen items addressed to indigenous legal clerks in order to determine their sins—mostly the result of manipulative, self-­interested record keeping. Pérez Bocanegra begins with “Llulla testamentocta quellcacchucanqui?” (Do you write a false testament?).29 Perhaps the clerk sinned by having the will leave everything to him, the notary: “Oncocta villapayacchu, cunacchucanqui, ñocapac ima haicaiquicta haquehuai ñispa, yayayoc, mamayoc, churiyoc, runamaciyoc captintac?” (Do you talk with the sick person, do you say give me whatever there is, what is left behind, even though the testator has a father, mother, children, relatives [to inherit]?).30 Pérez Bocanegra also delves into another infraction: “Have you written an illegal document? Did you write it because the priest or the corregidor told you to do [it]?”31 And he continues asking the more practical details: “Do you take money, clothing, llamas, or other goods in addition to the fee you are paid by the community?”32 Many more of the interrogations allude to coercing a testator to leave funds for masses and vigils and bell-­tolling in honor of the dead. Pérez Bocanegra’s queries regarding restitution as stipulated in the wills reveal the merged jurisdictions of civil and church authority. Specifically, the indigenous notary, as he came forward to confess his sins, was asked if he added or deleted phrases, if he eliminated matters of debt and restitution in the will: Testamentocta quellcachec, ña huañuptin, testamentocta . . . ima llactapas yapaspa: pissipachispapas? . . . manucascantari, manachu quellcarcanqui? . . . cutichipuiñiscanta, manatacchu quellcarcarqui? The will written, the testator deceased . . . adding to it, and taking away [some items]? . . . The debts, did you not write them down? . . . The restitutions, did you not write them down?33

Conclusion: Wills as Quasi-­Confession 229

Attention to debts again surfaces in the last question regarding commandment seven, in which the priest asks if the indigenous notary hid the testament or tore it up, causing debt and restitution directives to be ignored: “Maican testamentoctapas, pacacchu, lliquecchu canqui? . . . ima manucacpas, mana cutichisca cancampac?” (Do you hide the testament, destroy the testament? . . . not restituting the debts?).34 Pérez Bocanegra’s pointed queries about payment of loans and debts, infractions of legal and ecclesiastic procedures, clearly indicate that indigenous Andeans were active participants in the “lettered” activities of the colony. And it is this section of the manual that reveals the precariousness of the written word. If the scribe did not write the will correctly, if he did not know how to write to the testator’s specifications, then many suits would occur, and the heirs might have to spend much of their funds in costly legal petitions: Testamentocta, manalli quellcaita yachascaiquimanta, cairi, testamento quellcacchecpa, munai nin, mana chaicama quellcascaiquimanta, ima huchapas hatarircanchu, checan chazqueccunacac ninta vçuchinca[n]cupac haica testamentoctam, cai hinacta quellcarcanqui? The testament, because of your not knowing how to write it well, or the testator’s wishes written well, because of your written testament, how many lawsuits were brought? The [true] legitimate heirs in order to help them out, how many wills did you write?35

Pérez Bocanegra in his confession manual thus concentrates our attention on the foibles and inconsistencies of the indigenous scribe: improper form; incorrect designation of rightful heirs; caving in to the wishes of unscrupulous priests or government officials. Pérez Bocanegra’s emphasis in his confession manual on native Andean notaries reflects the increased number of legal actions brought by Andean indigenous leaders and their communities to the Spanish courts. Indeed, the Spanish often objected to training the indigenous peoples to read and write, as it led to frequent legal obfuscations, as noted by Bartolomé Álvarez: Para conocer su [malintencionado] intento no es menester mirar más que al indio—que quiere ser letrado para poner pleitos, sin haber estudiado, qué pretende y que, si lo examinasen, no sabría la ley de Dios; y si sabe la doctrina, no lo sabe entender ni declarar, . . . y trata de criar un hijo ladino que no sepa leer y escribir, y trastornará [a] Monterroso y las leyes de La[s] Partida[s] para sólo hacer mal.

230  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

To know [the Indians’] bad intentions, you do not have to look further than at the Indian who wants to be a knowledgeable, literate person in order to pursue legal suits, without having studied, what he intends, and if he is questioned, he does not even know God’s law; and if he knows the doctrine, he does not know how to understand it or explain it, . . . and he tries to raise a ladino son [fluent in the Spanish language] who does not know how to read or write, and he will twist the Monterroso [legal manual] and the Partidas to do harm.36

Not surprisingly, Álvarez mentions Gabriel de Monterroso y Alvarado’s Practica civil y criminal e instruccion de escrivanos (1566), a notarial manual, along with Alfonso X’s legal document, the Siete partidas (c. 1265), both widely disseminated legal references. Quasi-­Confession: Last Words in Guaman Poma One literate native Andean—Felipe Guaman Poma—knew how to write and illustrated his Corónica with scenes of indigenous scribes in action. He was acutely aware that indigenous communities benefited from having Andean natives serve as scribes in the notation of tribute collections. He also advocated that native scribes be present for the drawing up of wills. One illustration forms part of his section titled “Justice for Indians.” His black-­and-­white drawing depicts an indigenous notary (escribano de cabildo) appointed by the king (see figure 7.1). Seated at a table covered with a fringed cloth, the notary is surrounded by the instruments of his trade: an inkstand, the quill, the blotter, a book, and the quill case. Behind him, a shelf is brimming with books for consultation. This native Andean scribe is actively recording in Spanish the will of a certain Don Pedro. Guaman Poma completes the sketch by meticulously writing a legal formulary on the sheet of paper lying on the table: “In the name of the Holy Trinity, I draw up the last will and testament of Don Pedro.”37 Guaman Poma, with this heading, properly writes the formulaic opening for documents of legal inheritance and cancellation of debts required by the church. As noted by Sarah Cline, churchmen advocated the writing of wills as a religious act, as “part of the Spaniards’ evangelization of the Indians by the mendicant orders, especially the Franciscans, the Dominicans, and Augustinians.”38 In fact, a model testament in both Nahuat and Spanish is included in the confession manual written by Friar Alonso de Medina (1569). The heading found in his manual is exemplary; the first words must be “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I begin to make my testament.”39

Conclusion: Wills as Quasi-­Confession 231

Guaman Poma’s legal expertise could well be derived from the legal manual written by Gabriel de Monterroso y Alvarado; indeed, the Corónica specifically mentions this book.40 Some two hundred pages after this drawing of a native scribe, Guaman Poma follows up on this theme and actually dictates the format for writing a testament. He pens an extensive sample text of a will made out on behalf of Cristóbal de León, an indigenous leader, who, Guaman Poma tells us, was exiled in 1612 for the numerous petitions and protests he wrote against the priest and the local government officials.41 He cautions the reader that although it is an abbreviated format, the standard language and considerations commonly used in the early colonial period are contained within it. The heading differs slightly from the model suggested by Fray Medina: “La Sanctícima Trinidad, a un solo Dios entriego mi ánima y a la Uirgen María y a todos los sanctos y sanctas ángeles, amé[n], encomiendo mi ánima, amén” (To the Holy Trinity, to One God only I hand over my soul and to the Virgin Mary and to all the saintly male and saintly female angels, Amen, I commend my soul, Amen).42 Thus, the testator “delivers” his soul first to the Trinity, then to the one true God; he “entrusts” his soul to Mary and then to the male and the female angels. The exemplary will then outlines specific wishes in the legal terminology of the day: Primeramente mando que mi cuerpo sea sepultado en esta yglecia de San Pedro de Tanbopata: Yten: Mando por mi ánima que se me diga una misa cantada con su uigilia y rresponso. Y dejo de limosna para ello tres patagones y por una misa rrezada, un patagón. Yten: Mando a mi hijo lexítimo o natural o uastardo que rreparta toda mi hazienda, casas y solar, chacaras de taza y de lucre [rucri ] en tales citios tantos topos. Y se partan ygualmente mis hijos Juan Camasca, Diego Puri, Francisca Chunbima, Juana Uauay y lo gozen con la dicha mi muger entre todos. Yten: Dejo a la madre de Dios o a tal santo un carnero o a la yglecia. Yten: Digo que debo a Alonso Chuntalla dies patagones; que se lo pague de mis bienes. Y declaro que me deue Domingo Aucanto, platero, deue ueynte patagones, que lo cobre, y un carnero, mi muger Teresa Yanyama. Fecha en este pueblo de San Pedro de Tanbopata a 2 de agosto de 1612. Testigos: Pedro Taquire, Juan Camasca. Y lo firmó don Cristóbal de León. Ante mí, escriuano de cabildo, Juan Antay Llamoca. Pase en todo el rreyno.

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First, I declare that my soul be buried in the San Pedro de Tanbopata Church: Item: I declare for the [good of ] my soul a mass with hymns and with its vigils and songs with a chorus. And I leave as alms for this three patacones and for a mass with prayer one patacón. Item: I order my son (legitimate or recognized or bastard) to divide up my property, lands, houses, and plot in town, fields that are assessed for tribute and fields cleared in such and such a place and in such and such a size [topo]. And that this be divided equally among all my children, Juan Camasca, Diego Puri, Francisca Chunbima, Juana Uauay, and that they share this in good faith with my designated wife, between [all of ] them. Item: I leave to the Mother of God or such and such a saint a llama/lamb, or for the church. Item: I declare that I owe to Alonso Chuntalla ten patacones and that it be paid from my property. And I declare that Domingo Aucanto, the silversmith, owes me a debt of twenty patacones, and a llama/lamb and that it be recovered by my wife, Teresa Yanyama. Dated in this town of San Pedro de Tanbopata, 2 August 1612. Witnesses: Pedro Taquire, Juan Camasca And signed by don Cristóbal de León, before me, the notary for the civil government, Juan Antay Llamoca. To be accepted in all the viceroyalty.43

Notable is the first item,44 Cristóbal de León’s desire to be buried in the church, as evidence that he accepted the Christian practice and repudiated the pre-­Hispanic custom of placing the body in the niche of a cave, or even being reburied after rescuing it from the church.45 Similarly, his next request proclaims his Christian faith and describes his wish to leave money in coins for masses for his soul (three patacones and one patacón). Only then does the will turn to the material goods to be passed on to the family; the houses and city plots [solares] around it,46 the fields to pay the tribute with, fields that are cleared,47 and measured out in Quechua topos (equivalent to a league).48 These goods are to be parceled out equally among his sons and daughter, who will share with his wife. A return to religious considerations designates a llama or lamb to be given to the Virgin Mary or a saint or to the church. Finally, the debts owed and debts to be collected are written down. Money owed to Alonso Chuntalla should be paid from the estate, and money owed to de León should be collected from the silversmith by his wife. The four directives of partible inheritance take up few lines in the model will. The legitimacy of heirs is well specified in Fray Molina’s exemplary text

Conclusion: Wills as Quasi-­Confession 233

of 1566: “If a man had no legitimate children, then the estate was to be divided between sons and daughters equally. But if the testator had both legitimate and illegitimate children, then the illegitimate child was to receive no more than a fifth of the goods.”49 Guaman Poma here slides out from under the codified Spanish legal format to emphasize inheritance patterns among indigenous Andeans. Thus, he provides legal status as executor for a son born out of sacred wedlock, recognized or unrecognized, and advocates equal inheritance among all the children. Typically for a bastard child, only one-­fifth of property could be inherited, and only if there were no legitimate heirs.50 This deviation from church-­sanctioned proscription is augmented by Guaman Poma’s running commentary on rules for inheritance, written prominently in the middle of the listed “items” of the will. In this aside, he suggests inheritance patterns for those with no children: he advises the gift of property to grandchildren or siblings of the testator, nephews and nieces, near relatives, the servants, or even an orphan girl or boy who has aided the family; if that fails, then leave money for masses and the rest for the community of Indians. He warns against including greedy priests in the will: “Y que no le dé lugar al dicho padre porque lo querrá tomallo todo y consumillo. . . . Y se lo quitan [las] eredades [de los pobres] porque en este rreyno los padres lo quitan y se las uende” (And do not give any power to the aforesaid priest because he will take it all and use it. . . . And they take the inheritance of the poor because in this viceroyalty the priests take it and sell it).51 Three hundred pages later, Guaman Poma takes up the topic of testaments again. Appalled by the poverty of indigenous people who have lost their lands, he champions the making out of a will. Again confronting Spanish inheritance rules, in this passage he stipulates that the legitimate child may be disinherited, favoring a child (boy or girl) born out of wedlock (illegitimate and recognized or bastard): Ci dexare al uastardo o natural o lexítimo sus haziendas o su gouierno, lo dexe porque en toda su uida el lexítimo no le da un xarro de agua. Antes le aporrea y el uastuardo le cirue como negro esclabo y cumple lo que manda Dios en los dies mandamientos: le quiere y ama, obedese a su padre y madre, le dexe todo. Al que no lo guardó, le castigue Dios y su padre. Y ací no le sea estoruado. Y el testamento le hace firmar al cacique prencipal, protetor de la prouincia. If he leaves his estate or his right to govern to the bastard or to the recognized out-­of-­wedlock child or the legitimate child, he leaves it [like that] because all his life long the legitimate child has not given him even a mug of

234  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

water. Instead he beats up on him [treats him badly] and the bastard child serves him like a black slave and carries out what God says in the Ten Commandments; he loves him and cares for him, he obeys his father and mother, he [the father] [should] leave him everything. The child who does not act correctly [as a Christian], God and his father punish him. And thus let him [the bastard] not be obstructed. And the principal indigenous leader, the protector of the province, should be made to sign the will.52

Thus, the church and Guaman Poma agree that, in writing a notarized testament, the testator is facing a moment of truthful assessment of his actions. He should “unburden his conscience and declare everything of his own free will.”53 This sample text stresses the voluntary nature of the act, prescribes the disposition of worldly goods, and emphasizes restitution within the confines of confession. This written text gives the testator a voice to clearly proclaim his conversion to the Christian faith and evidence his knowledge of the doctrinal teachings. At the same time, through this last “quasi-­confession,” now written and not merely spoken, the testator can declare his sins for the last time and also, perhaps more important, dispose of worldly goods in a manner that protects indigenous property from the acquisitive Spanish invaders.54 With the insertion of this model legal text in his long handwritten manuscript, Guaman Poma supplements his critique of the corrupt governance of the colonies. Trained by the colonial state, by dint of his service as assistant to Cristóbal de Albornoz and Martín de Murúa, Guaman Poma advocates the use of literacy—and legal texts—as a means by which native peoples could claim place and space in the tumultuous collision of two cultural worlds.55 He cries out to procure a written record for the indigenous petitions submitted to the church: “Jamás haga justicia de palabra, cino que sea de letra, para que le conste al dicho corregidor. Ci uiniere de palabra, no le oyga y pida escrito” (Never do justice by means of the spoken word, but the written word, so that the corregidor accepts it. If it comes back to you as “spoken” justice, don’t listen to it and ask for the written version).56 His inclusion of a sample testament presents the very words with which to challenge the encroachment of the Spanish on the extensive landholdings of the native peoples. Ostensibly, this pronouncement by the learned and practical ladino Felipe Guaman Poma privileges the literate systems of Spanish authority. However, if we break through the primacy accorded the written tradition and return to the sample testament, we see that native Andean patterns of identity, possession, and distribution are specified precisely in this document that is composed with Spanish legalistic phrasing and rules for legitimacy. Reading closely, we can, as Karen Graubart suggests, interpret more fully the dis-

Conclusion: Wills as Quasi-­Confession 235

course beyond the formulary manuals: “While we must make allowances for the mediations of the state and its agent the notary, wills and other notarial documents can give us access to parts of the social structure not otherwise open to view.”57 Significantly, this testament speaks to us about Andean native patterns that persisted despite Spanish coercion in the early seventeenth century. Reading again, we see that the children, wife, debtor, silversmith, witnesses, and notary all bear Christian given names and thus reveal their baptized state. However, we also note that reference to Andean lineages and origins is preserved in the use of Quechua family names, such as Camasca, Taquire, and Puri. Moreover, Quechua priorities similarly are embedded within the Spanish text, as seen in the disposition of money and land. The testament pointedly gives only coins ( patacones) to the church for mass or payment for restitution or for debt collection in deference to the newly imposed monetary and theological systems of the conquest. However, in designating disposition of the lands—whether they be in urban spaces or in faraway cleared fields—the testator is adamant that they be given to heirs and passed down within the indigenous family. In this way, this testator assures a legacy that provides for the material existence of future generations. In this manner, Guaman Poma, by writing this model testament and appending directives to it, also steps beyond the specifics of this family in Tanbopata and extends his concepts of land transfer to the immense territory of the viceroyalty. His advice is strident: “Y que no teniendo nengun eredero, no dexe ni pueda dexar casas y solares y chacaras a nadie ni para su ánima, cino que dexe a la comunidad para el multiplico que adonde an de cieruir los pobres de los yndios” (And not having any heir, do not leave nor should one leave houses and city plots and planted fields to any person, or for [masses] for his soul, instead he should leave [them] to the community to increase, where the Indian poor can benefit [from them]).58 In this last testamentary document, this quasi-­confession, the results of an intense evangelical campaign to convert the indigenous peoples of the Andes are evident. Belief in one true God, the Holy Trinity, and the Virgin is proclaimed in the heading using Spanish lexemes for these heavenly entities. Likewise, the Quechua concept of a “deindividualized” spirit, one that is “not the seat of essential individuality and will,” has been altered to conform to the Spanish concept of ánima, or soul.59 The new modes of communication and the new modes of an individualized self reveal the success of the Catholic “crusade” in the Andes. The testator commends his soul and commands the burial of his body in the regional church, following the prescribed doctrinal instructions regarding the flesh and the spirit. And through the implemen-

236  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

tation of a European monetized economy, this legal instrument can perform additional Christian acts: to restitute and collect on debts through the use of coins in circulation. The confirmation of cultural transformation on the part of this cacique leader is made manifest by means of a written document. The vocabulary of vigilias (religious vigils), patacones (minted coins), and deuda (debt) represents the postconquest introduction of Catholic religious practices, a market economy, and a mercantile system based on wage labor and credit. Yet, also scrawled on this page are Quechua lexemes that reveal Andean traditional landholding practices regarding fields (chácaras) and measurements (topos). Thus, these final words of this last “confession” attest to the integration of native populations into the religious and political economy of the colony. These last words also emphasize, however, the terms under which the Andean natives could dispose of their property and arrange for its transfer within the family or community. In reading this quasi-­confessional document, we, along with the notary and gathered witnesses, validate the transcultural nature of the lived experience of the postconquest native Andeans as they struggled to define themselves, their ancient words, and their world.

Notes

Introduction 1. Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality. Vol. 1: An Introduction, 58. 2. Michel Foucault, “Christianity and Confession,” 213. This passage is also cited in Chloe Taylor’s excellent study, The Culture of Confession from Augustine to Foucault: A Genealogy of the “Confessing Animal,” 21. 3. C. Taylor, The Culture of Confession, 21. 4. Pierre J. Payer, Sex and the New Medieval Literature of Confession, 1150–1300, 9. 5. Thomas N. Tentler, Sin and Confession on the Eve of the Reformation, 5. 6. C. Taylor, The Culture of Confession, 46. 7. Tentler, Sin and Confession, 141–142. 8. Payer, Sex and the New Medieval Literature of Confession, 12. 9. Ibid., 144. 10. Ibid., 15. 11. Ibid., 16. 12. Foucault, History of Sexuality, 1:60. Payer, Sex and the New Medieval Literature of Confession, 21, thinks Foucault overstates this point, as confession had been around hundreds of years. 13. Payer, Sex and the New Medieval Literature of Confession, 22. 14. Ibid., 28. 15. Goebel cited in Abigail Firey, ed., A New History of Penance, 227. 16. W. David Myers, “Poor Sinning Folk”: Confession and Conscience in Counter– Reformation Germany, 95–96. 17. See W. David Myers, “From Confession to Reconciliation and Back: Sacramental Penance.” Pages 244–248 define and discuss attrition, contrition, and satisfaction. 18. Tentler, Sin and Confession, 111–112. 19. Henry Charles Lea, A History of Auricular Confession and Indulgences in the Latin Church, vol. 2:235–236. 20. Payer, Sex and the New Medieval Literature of Confession, 61. 21. Ibid., 62. 22. Stephen Haliczer, Sexuality in the Confessional: A Sacrament Profaned, 8–9.

238  Notes to Pages 6–11

23. Tentler, Sin and Confession, 135. 24. Payer, Sex and the New Medieval Literature of Confession, 63. 25. Ibid., 64. 26. Ibid., 64–65. 27. Tentler, Sin and Confession, 145. 28. Ibid., 144–145. 29. Arthur Charles O’Neil, “Sin.” 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid. 32. A number of Spanish theologians fled Spain to become prominent participants in the European Reformation over the matter of confession: Cipriano de Valera, Casiodoro de Reina, Antonio de Carro. See Haliczer, Sexuality, 13–14. 33. Annemarie S. Kidder, Making Confession, Hearing Confession: A History of the Cure of Souls, 104–105. 34. Myers, “Poor Sinning Folk,” 65. Myers cites Luther’s “Verahnung an die Geistlichen, versammelt auf dem Reichstag zu Ausburg” (1530). 35. Haliczer, Sexuality, 12. 36. Ibid., 18. 37. Myers, “Poor Sinning Folk,” 136. 38. Haliczer, Sexuality, 10. Haliczer provides a guide for frequency of confession in Spain by looking at records of defendants who came before the Inquisition. In 1564 to 1580, 75 percent of such persons in the Cuenca region claimed they had confessed at Easter; there is more compliance by the last part of the century, for 85 percent had confessed (27). 39. Ibid. 40. Myers, “Poor Sinning Folk,” 119, 141. 41. Catechism of the Council of Trent for Parish Priests, 283. Also cited in Myers, “Poor Sinning Folk,” 118. See Pedro Rodríguez and Raúl Lanzetti’s study of the original manuscript: El manuscrito original del catecismo romano: Descripción del material y los trabajos al servicio de la edición crítica del catecismo del Concilio de Trento. 42. Anthony Low, Society and Individuality from the Middle Ages to Shakespeare and Milton, 37. 43. Michael Haren, Sin and Society in Fourteenth-­Century England: A Study of the Memoriale Presbiterorum, 163. 44. Rodney Wilson, Economics, Ethics, and Religion: Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Economic Thought, 82. 45. Ibid., 21. 46. Ibid., 41. 47. Ibid., 120. Wilson cites Sura 17:35. 48. James Alfred Aho, Confession and Bookkeeping: The Religious, Moral, and Rhetorical Roots of Modern Accounting, 45. Aho’s argument is drawn from John Noonan Jr.’s classic work, The Scholastic Analysis of Usury. 49. Ibid.; original emphasis. 50. Marjorie Grice–Hutchinson (Economic Thought in Spain: Selected Essays of Marjorie Grice-­Hutchinson) studies the 1542 version published in Seville. There is also a later version, of 1546. 51. Grice–Hutchinson (Economic Thought in Spain) cites the Medina de Campos

Notes to Pages 11–18 239

version of 1544. A modern version is available: Luis Saravia de la Calle, Instrucción de mercaderes. 52. A modern version of the 1546 text exists in microfiche: Tractado d’ los prestamos que passan entre mercaderes y tractantes, Goldsmiths’–Kress Library of Economic Literature 37 (New Haven, Conn., 1974). An earlier version is found in Luis de Alcalá, Tractado en que ala clara se ponen y determinan las materias de los prestamos que se usan entre los que tractan y negocian (Toledo, Spain: Juan de Ayala, 1543). 53. Grice–Hutchinson (Economic Thought in Spain) studies the 1569 (Salamanca) version of Thomás de Mercado’s Summa de tratos y contratos as well as the revised 1571 text (Seville). A modern edition is found edited by Restituto Sierra Bravo: Tomás de Mercado, Tratos y contratos de mercaderes. 54. Martín de Azpilcueta, Repertorio general y muy copioso manual de confessores, y de los cinco comentarios para su declaracion compuestos. . . . 55. Joel Kaye, Economy and Nature in the Fourteenth Century: Money, Market Exchange, and the Emergence of Scientific Thought, 9. 56. Ibid., 244. Again, I draw on Kaye’s analysis of this process. 57. Luis Resines, Catecismos americanos del siglo XVI, 1:23. 58. Antonio García y García’s study well delineates the functions of the three Lima councils; see “La reforma del Concilio Tercero de Lima” and Juan Villegas, Aplicación del Concilio de Trento en Hispanoamérica, 1564–1600. 59. Jeremy Mumford, “The Taki Onqoy and the Andean Nation: Sources and Interpretations,” 152. 60. El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, Comentarios reales de los incas, vol. 1:67–69. 61. Diego González Holguín, Vocabulario de la lengua general de todo el Perú llamada quichua o del inca, 165. 62. For a detailed analysis, see “The Provincial Organization of 40,000 Families and the Calendar of 328 Days,” in R. Tom Zuidema, Inca Civilization in Cuzco, 67–78. 63. See the insightful comments by both Gabriela Ramos and Jaymie Heilman regarding Taki Onqoy: Jaymie Heilman, “A Movement Misconstrued? A Response to Gabriela Ramos’s Interpretation of Taki Onqoy”; Gabriela Ramos, “Política eclesiástica, cultura e historia: Cristóbal de Albornoz y el Taki Onqoy, otra vez.” 64. Juan Polo de Ondegardo, “Instrucion contra las cerimonias, y ritos que usan los indios conforme al tiempo de su infidelidad [1561–1571],” 253–254. 65. Roberto Moreno de Arcos, “New Spain’s Inquisition for Indians from the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century,” 31. 66. Pierre Duviols, La destrucción de las religiones andinas: Conquista y colonia, 95. 67. I have been influenced and inspired by William F. Hanks’ Converting Words: Maya in the Age of the Cross. 68. Ibid., 6. 69. Francisco Patiño, “Carta [14 October 1648],” 76r. Nicholas Griffiths uses this quotation in The Cross and the Serpent: Religious Repression and Resurgence in Colonial Peru, 263. 70. Polo de Ondegardo, “Instrucion,” 261–262. 71. Kenneth Mills, Idolatry and Its Enemies: Colonial Andean Religion and Extirpation, 1640–1750, 251. 72. Polo de Ondegardo, “Instrucion,” 262. 73. Ibid., 282.

240  Notes to Pages 18–27

74. Here I follow the “lived experience” analysis suggested by Mills, Idolatry, 245. 75. “Proemio,” in Confessionario para los curas de indios, 201. 76. Confessionario para los curas de indios, 208. 77. Iris Gareis, “Repression and Cultural Change: The ‘Extirpation of Idolatry’ in Colonial Peru,” 248n30. For an ample review of idolatry, see Carmen Bernand-­Muñoz and Serge Gruzinski, De la idolatría: Una arqueología de las ciencias religiosas. 78. J. Jorge Klor de Alva, “ ‘Telling Lives’: Confessional Autobiography and the Reconstruction of the Nahua Self,” 138. An earlier version of this article appeared as “Contar vidas: La autobiografía confesional y la reconstrucción del ser nahua.” 79. Ibid., 139. 80. Antonio Cusihuamán G., Gramática quechua, Cuzco–Collao, 196. 81. Terence N. D’Altroy, The Incas, 237. Yet, see Karen Spalding, who notes that a local kuraka leader could expect labor in lands designated “his” fields, as well as expect a flow of “goods” to him in return for his maintaining social order: De indio a campesino: Cambios en la estructura social del Perú colonial, 36–37. 82. Vicente L. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism: Translation and Christian Conversion in Tagalog Society under Early Spanish Rule, 21. 83. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 227. 84. Margot Beyersdorff, Léxico agropecuario quechua, 60. 85. John V. Murra, “Derechos a tierras en Tawantinsuyo,” 301. Chapter 1 1. See my summary regarding teaching this topic in “Teaching Restitution: Las Casas, the Rules for Confessors, and the Politics of Repayment.” 2. Thomas Slater, “Restitution.” 3. Ibid. 4. Juan Friede, “Las Casas and Indigenism in the Sixteenth Century,” 224. 5. Encomienda was a grant for Spanish beneficiaries to the tribute and services of a group of native Andeans. See Brooke Larson, Olivia Harris, with Enrique Tandeter, eds., Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration in the Andes: At the Crossroads of History and Anthropology, 392. 6. Ibid., 185. Francesca Cantú similarly considers the problems of restitution: “Evoluzione e significato della doctrina della restituzione in Bartolomé de Las Casas con il contributo di un documento inedito.” 7. Charles Gibson, ed., “New Laws,” 109. 8. David Frye, “Glossary,” 364. 9. Gibson, ed., “New Laws,” 111. See David Thomas Orique’s “Confesionario: Avisos y reglas para confesores by Bartolomé de las Casas” for legal implications. 10. Bartolomé de Las Casas, [Avinos y reglas] “Aquí se contienen unos avisos y reglas para los confesores, . . .” 235–249. This work was eventually published in Seville in 1552, after being circulated in manuscript form. 11. Friede, “Las Casas,” 189. 12. Las Casas, Avisos y reglas, 236–237. 13. Ibid., 239. 14. Ibid., 241.

Notes to Pages 27–33 241

15. Ibid., 237–241. 16. Ibid., 238. 17. Ibid., 248. 18. Ibid. 19. Motolinía [Toribio de Benavente], “Carta de fray Toribio de Motolinía al Emperador Carlos V., enero 2 de 1555,” 259. 20. Ibid. 21. See the numbers suggested for the disparity between wealthy and poor Spaniards in the early colonies in James Lockhart, “Encomenderos and Majordomos,” 12. 22. Henry Raup Wagner, with Helen Rand Parish, The Life and Writings of Bartolomé de Las Casas, 220. 23. Domingo de Santo Tomás, “Carta a S.M. en el Consejo de Indias, 1 de julio de 1550,” 1:191. 24. See Teodoro Hampe Martínez, “Fray Domingo de Santo Tomás y la encomienda de indios en el Perú (1540–1570),” 83, for an excellent summary of Santo Tomás. 25. Hidefuji Someda, “Fray Bartolomé de Las Casas: El problema de la perpetuidad de la encomienda en el Perú,” 266. A more recent study of the encomienda is found in his “Las Casas y el problema de la perpetuidad de las encomiendas en el Perú.” 26. Santo Tomás, “Carta a S.M,” 203. The earnestness of this plea may refer to a plan sketched out to obtain more funding for the royal coffers by extracting “restitution” payments from the encomenderos. Thomas Abercrombie cites recommendations to the king from his councilors that he increase the collection of payments on excess tribute, as Judge Estopiñan had done in Peru. This restitution was not slated to be parceled out to the indigenous communities, which had willingly paid the excess. See Abercrombie, “Tributes to Bad Conscience: Charity, Restitution, and Inheritance in Cacique and Encomendero Testaments,” in Dead Giveaways: Indigenous Testaments of Colonial Mesoamerica and the Andes, 259. 27. Tomás de San Martín, “Parecer sobre el escrúpulo de si son bien ganados los bienes adquiridos por los conquistadores, pobladores y encomenderos de Indias [1553],” 2:649. 28. See Isacio Pérez Fernández, Bartolomé de Las Casas en el Perú: El espíritu lascasiano en la primera evangelización del Imperio Incaico (1531–1573), 264. 29. San Martín, “Parecer sobre el escrúpulo,” 650–655. 30. Ibid., 650. 31. Bartolomé de Las Casas, “Respuesta al obispo de Las Charcas sobre el anterior parecer,” 2:660. 32. Ibid., 660–661. 33. Ibid., 664. 34. Ibid., 661–662. 35. See the text transcribed by Augusto Barinaga, “Documento nuevo sobre casos morales de Indias.” The text is found in the National Library in Madrid, but the dating is not resolved. Pérez Fernández offers a date of pre–1560; Barinaga suggests the years 1550–1567. 36. Ibid., 560. 37. Ibid., 566, 588, 570. 38. One passage that stands out from the rest concerns women and their spendthrift ways, a theme also present in Las Casas’ Avisos y reglas. In a passage citing canon

242  Notes to Pages 33–40

law (the summas of Clavasio and Silvestre de Prieras), wives of encomenderos are admonished to desist in “pomp and vanities” and to postpone the purchase of jewels and gowns in order to determine the means by which they can save their husband’s soul through restitution. See ibid., 566–568. 39. Ibid., 569. 40. The document is transcribed by Rubén Vargas Ugarte in Pareceres jurídicos en asuntos de Indias. While the document has not been conclusively dated, it probably was written around 1560, according to Guillermo Lohmann Villena: “La restitución por conquistadores y encomenderos: Un aspecto de la incidencia lascasiana en el Perú,” 58. See also Pérez Fernández, Bartolomé de Las Casas, 342n63. 41. Vargas Ugarte, Preguntas, 8. 42. Ibid., 8–9. 43. It was this document that was approved by the Second Lima Council in 1567– 1568; see Lohmann Villena, “La restitución,” 57. 44. Las Casas, Avisos y reglas, 246. 45. “Instructions for the Confessors of Conquistadores Issued by the Archbishop of Lima in 1560 [Avisos breves],” 524–525. 46. “Instructions for the Confessors,” 530. 47. Certainly, as Wagner and Parish suggest, in Las Casas’ former provincial chapters, his brother Dominicans saw the encomienda in a favorable new light that acknowledged legislation diminishing heavy tribute demands. See Wagner and Parish, The Life and Writings, 221n27. 48. “Instructions for the Confessors,” 519. 49. Las Casas, “Avisos y reglas,” 248. 50. Marcel Bataillon, “Las ‘doce dudas’ peruanas resueltas por Las Casas,” 305. 51. Bartolomé de Vega, “Memorial,” 227–240. 52. Bataillon, “Las ‘doce dudas,’ ” 304. 53. Ibid., 313. 54. Rolena Adorno, “Fray Bartolomé de Las Casas, Polemicist and Author,” 68. Adorno skillfully summarizes historical studies of this polemic. 55. Bartolomé de Las Casas, Tratado de las doce dudas, 535. 56. Ibid., 536. 57. Francisco de la Cruz, “Carta de Fr. Francisco de la Cruz a S.M., 25 de enero de 1566,” 2:306. 58. Francisco de Toledo, “Carta de Francisco de Toledo al Presidente del Consejo de Indias, 8 de noviembre de 1574,” 5:450. 59. Bishop Alonso de la Peña Montenegro, writing his Itinerario para parrochos de Indios (Itinerary for Indian Proto–Parishes) in 1771, fine-­tunes the findings of Archbishop Jerónimo de Loayza and his learned theologians in regard to the guilt of the conquistadors. As far as restitution, if Spaniards engaged in conquest and did not think the war to be unjust—in their good faith—then they were not liable for restitution and could be absolved in confession. Especially if they followed the king’s orders, they were protected in their conquests and should not fear confession. 60. Marvin Goltwert, “La lucha por la perpetuidad de las encomiendas en el Perú virreinal, 1550–1600,” 343–344. 61. Goltwert’s discussion is useful for the background history of the grants; see ibid., 340–341.

Notes to Pages 40–46 243

62. Ibid., 342–343. 63. Ibid., 345. 64. Ibid., 346. 65. Someda, “Fray Bartolomé de Las Casas,” 278. 66. Lewis Hanke, “Poder legal dado por indios peruanos,” in “Un festón de documentos lascasianos.” 67. Bartolomé de Las Casas, “Memorial del Obispo Fray Bartolomé de Las Casas y Fray Domingo de Santo Tomás, en nombre de los indios del Perú,” 110:466. 68. Ibid., 466–467. 69. Ibid., 465. 70. Domingo de Santo Tomás, “Carta a D. Alonso Manuel de Anaya de Guamanga, 23 de marzo de 1562,” 2:202. 71. Domingo de Santo Tomás, “Carta sobre trabajo de los indios en las minas, 5 de abril de 1562,” 2:203. 72. Domingo de Santo Tomás, “Carta a Su Magestad, Felipe II, 10 de diciembre de 1563,” 2:250. 73. Thomas A. Abercrombie, “La perpetuidad traducida: Del ‘debate’ al Taki Onqoy y una rebelión comunera peruana,” 94. 74. See David A. Brading, The First America: The Spanish Monarchy, Creole Patriots and the Liberal State, 1492–1867, esp. 89–93. 75. Las Casas, Tratado de las doce dudas, 531. 76. Bartolomé de Las Casas, “Cláusula del testamento que hizo el obispo de Chiapa, don fray Bartolomé de Las Casas (1564),” 540. 77. Francisco Falcón, “Representación hecha por el Licenciado Falcón en Concilio Provincial, sobre los daños y molestias que se hacen a los indios, 1567,” 453. 78. Ibid., 460. 79. For the Spanish text, see Rubén Vargas Ugarte, Concilios Limenses (1551–1772), 1:239; for the Latin text, see 153. The best discussion is found in Lohmann Villena, “La restitución,” 53. 80. John Charles, Allies at Odds: The Andean Church and Its Indigenous Agents, 1583– 1671, 191. 81. Sabine MacCormack, Religion in the Andes: Vision and Imagination in Early Colonial Peru, 242. 82. Helen Rand Parish, Bartolomé de Las Casas: The Only Way, 53. 83. Ibid., 243. 84. See Daniel Castro, Another Face of Empire: Bartolomé de Las Casas, Indigenous Rights, and Ecclesiastical Imperialism. 85. Lohmann Villena, “La restitución,” 36. 86. Ibid., 37. 87. Ibid., 42. 88. Las Casas, “Respuesta del Obispo D. Fr. Bartolomé de Las Casas al Obispo de Charcas, 1553,” 370. 89. Lohmann Villena, “La restitución,” 43. Also noted by Abercrombie, “Tributes to Bad Conscience,” 260. 90. Lohmann Villena, “La restitución,” 43. 91. Ibid., 59–62. 92. Ibid., 38–39.

244  Notes to Pages 47–53

93. Ibid., 48. 94. Ibid., 63–64. 95. Ibid., 70. 96. Ibid. 97. Abercrombie, “Tributes to Bad Conscience,” 262. 98. Ibid., 287. 99. See Abercrombie’s meticulously detailed analysis of the case in ibid., 249–289. 100. Juan Polo de Ondegardo, “Testamento, November 4, 1575,” 175. 101. Ibid., 179. 102. Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno; see website, 540. Also see Rolena Adorno’s early study of this theme, Writing and Resistance in Colonial Peru. 103. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno. 104. Ibid., 1. Chapter 2 1. This illustration uses de Bry’s depiction of confession in Japan. See Johann Ludwig Gottfried, Newe Welt und americanische Historien (Frankfurt: 1655). 2. José de Acosta, Historia natural y moral de las Indias, 170. 3. Ibid., 169. 4. Karen V. Powers, “The Battle for Bodies and Souls in the Colonial North Andes: Intraecclesiastical Struggles and the Politics of Migration,” 122. 5. Brading, The First America, 235. Also see Johannes Meier, “The Religious Orders in Latin America.” 6. Pedro Borges Morán, ed., Historia de la iglesia en Hispanoamérica y Filipinas (siglos XV–XIX), 2:209–245. Borges Morán’s studies well illuminate this period of missionary activity. See El envío de misioneros a América durante la época española, Métodos misionales en la cristianización de América, siglo XVI and Misión y civilización en América. 7. Fernando de Armas Medina, Cristianizacíon del Perú, 1532–1600, 147. 8. Ibid., 143–144. 9. Duviols, La destrucción, 108. 10. Antonine Tibesar, Franciscan Beginnings in Colonial Peru, 71. 11. Duviols, La destrucción, 105. 12. Ibid., 108. See El corte de la roca and Agustinos, “Relacion de idolatrías en Huamachuco” for additional commentary. 13. Marie Timberlake, “Provincial Councils of Lima: Texts and Images,” in Guide to Documentary Sources for Andean Studies, 1530–1900, 1:197. For an orientation to church hierarchy, see William Taylor’s exhaustive Magistrates of the Sacred: Priests and Parishioners in Eighteenth-­Century Mexico. For the Andes, Eric Deeds, “Church History: Institutions and Archives,” suggests many sources, as does Kenneth Mills for a later period in Idolatry and Its Enemies: Colonial Andean Religion and Extirpation, 1640–1750. 14. Tibesar, Franciscan Beginnings, 47. 15. Francesco L. Lisi, ed., El tercer Concilio Limense y la aculturación de los indígenas sudamericanos: Estudio crítico con edición, traducción y comentario de las actas del concilio

Notes to Pages 54–59 245

provincial celebrado en Lima entre 1582 y 1583, 42. For additional commentary on the Third Lima Provincial Council, see Enrique T. Bartra, “Introducción.” 16. Alan Durston, Pastoral Quechua: The History of Christian Translation in Colonial Peru, 1550–1650, 77–79. 17. Josep M. Barnadas, “The Catholic Church in Colonial Spanish America,” 1:518. 18. Brading, The First America, 135–136. 19. Pedro de Quiroga, Libro intitulado Coloquios de la verdad, trata de las causas e inconvinientes que impiden la doctrina e conversión de los indios de los reinos del Pirú, y de los daños, e males, e agravios que padecen, 128. For stylistics of the Andean sermon, see Henrique Urbano, “La invención del catolicismo andino: Introducción al estudio de las estilísticas misioneras. Siglo XVI,” and Rolena Adorno, “Íconos de persuasión: La predicación y la política en el Perú colonial.” 20. Quiroga, Libro intitulado Coloquios de la verdad, 128. 21. Ibid., 128–129. 22. Ibid., 129. 23. Vargas Ugarte, ed., Concilios Limenses, 1:29–31. Also see the edition by Francisco Mateos, “Constituciones para indios del Primer Concilio Limense.” 24. Ibid., 77. Juan Carlos Estenssoro Fuchs similarly comments on this theme; see Del paganismo a la santidad: La incorporación de los indios del Perú al catolicismo, 1532–1750, 51. 25. Duviols, La destrucción, 95. 26. Juan G. Durán, “Los catecismos limenses,” in Monumenta catechética hispanoamericana: Siglos XVI–XVIII, 2:376. 27. Acosta, Historia natural, 166. 28. Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la santidad, 36–37. 29. Polo de Ondegardo, “Instrucion,” vol. 26, no. 2, 260. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid., 268. 32. Ibid., 269. 33. Ibid., 268. 34. Ibid., 269. 35. Fray Martín de Murúa, Historia general del Perú, chap. 24, 399–401. 36. Marco Curatola Petrocchi, “La función de los oráculos en el imperio inca,” 30–35. The Inca Garcilaso, however, claims that confession did not exist before the arrival of the Spaniards. 37. Bartolomé Álvarez, De las costumbres y conversión de los indios del Perú, Memorial a Felipe II (1588), 100. 38. Ibid., 100–101. 39. Ibid., 101. 40. Pierre Duviols, ed., Procesos y visitas de idolatrías Cajatambo, siglo XVII, con documentos anexos, 228. Cultura andina y represión: Procesos y visitas de idolatrías y hechicerías, Cajatambo, siglo XVII is an earlier edition of these texts, which have been modified for the 2003 edition. For additional regional texts, see Lorenzo Huertas Vallejos, La religión en una sociedad rural andina siglo XVII and Ana Sánchez, Amancebados, hechiceros y rebeldes: Chancay, siglo XVII. 41. Ibid., 240.

246  Notes to Pages 60–66

42. Ibid., 242. 43. Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la santidad, 209. 44. Durán, “Los catecismos limenses,” 380. 45. Nicanor Domínguez Faura, “Juan de Betanzos y las primeras cartillas de evangelización en la lengua general del Inga (1536–1542),” 65–74. 46. Resines, Catecismos americanos, 204. 47. Domingo de Santo Tomás, Grammatica o arte de la lengua general de los indios de los reynos del Perú, 189. 48. Durán, “Los catecismos limenses,” 400. 49. Ibid., 403. 50. Ibid., 406. 51. Javier L. Castillo Arroyo, Catecismos peruanos en el siglo XVI, 25. 52. Catecismo breve para los rudos y occupados, 45. 53. Catecismo mayor para los que son mas capaces, in Doctrina christiana y catecismo para instrucción de Indios, 78. 54. Confessionario, 208–209. 55. Margot Beyersdorff, “Oré, Luis Jerónimo de (1554–1630), 3:472. 56. Luis Jerónimo de Oré, Symbolo catholico indiano, 440. 57. In contrast to the sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century confessions analyzed in this chapter, the 1700 publication of Torres Rubio’s text adds a general “Confiteor” that is noteworthy in its appeal to many saints in addition to God and the Virgin Mary (47v): “Noca huchaçapa llapa taripac Diosman confessiacuni, Viñai Virgen Santa Mariaman, San Miguel Archangelman, San Juan Baptistaman, Apostolcuna, San Pedroman, San Pabloman, llapa Santocunaman, cam Padremanpas ancham huchallicurcani yuyaihuam, rimaihuam, ruraihuanpas. Huchaimi, ancha hatun huchaimi. Chairiacu(m) muchaicuni viñai Virgen Santa Mariacta, S. Miguel Archangelta, S. Juan Baptistacta, Apostolcuna San Pedrocta, San Pablocta, llapa Santocunacta, cam Padrectahampas, apuchinc Diosta muchapahuancaiquichicpac. Amen.” Saints Michael, Peter, Paul, and John are mentioned with regard to begging for forgiveness for sins in the first sentence and are mentioned again in the declaration of worship in the second. All the saints as well as the local priest are addressed, of course, but now the only sin admitted generally is that of thought (yuyaihuam). Interestingly, apu (an Andean deity; also spelled appo) still precedes the name of God, another indication of the acceptance of Quechua terminology for designating the substance of religious doctrine. 58. Diego de Torres Rubio, “Confessionario breve en Quichua,” 7r; see commandment five. 59. Confessionario, 208. 60. Torres Rubio, “Confessionario,” 4r, 3v; see the first commandment. 61. Ibid., 4v. Note that in the Quechua translation he inserts another commonly used word for curer, layca, in addition to the standard “uma.” 62. Ibid., 6v. 63. Juan Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, e institucion de Curas, para administrar a los naturales de este Reyno los Santos Sacramentos del Baptismo, Confirmacion, Eucaristia, y Viatico, Penitencia, Extremauncion, y Matrimonio, con advertencias muy necessarias. 64. Bruce Mannheim, “Pérez Bocanegra, Juan,” 3:516–519; idem, The Language of the Inka Since the European Invasion.

Notes to Pages 66–71 247

65. Diane E. Hopkins, “The Colonial History of the Hacienda System in a Southern Peruvian Highland District,” 186–187. 66. The authorities were the bishop of Cuzco (license approved in 1622), the general visitor and treasurer of the cathedral of Cuzco (1626), the Jesuit head of the Colegio in Cuzco (1627), the archdeacon of Cuzco (1628), and a Dominican friar in Lima (1628). 67. Pérez Bocanegra. Ritual formulario, 126, incorrectly numbered as 146. 68. Ibid., 129. 69. Pablo de Prado, Directorio espiritual en la lengua española y quichua general del Inga, “Al letor,” n.p. The Directorio espiritual was originally published in 1641. 70. Michael T. Hamerly, Artes, Vocabularios and Related Ecclesiastical Materials of Quichua/Quechua, Aymara, Puquina, and Mochica Published during the Colonial Period: A History and a Bibliography, 57–58. 71. Gerald Taylor has reprinted one of his bilingual texts from the Directorio espiritual, including exempla that would stimulate attendance at mass; see Sermones y ejemplos: Antología bilingüe castellano-­quechua, siglo XVII, 19–41. 72. Prado, Directorio espiritual, 100. 73. Ibid., 104. 74. Oré, Symbolo, 183–187. 75. See Xavier Albó, “Jesuítas y culturas indígenas, Perú 1568–1606: Su actitud, métodos y criterios de aculturación (primera parte),” and idem, “Jesuítas y culturas indígenas (segunda parte).” Also see Norman Meiklejohn, “Una experiencia de evangelización en los Andes: Los Jesuitas de Julí (Perú), siglos XVII–XVIII.” 76. Meiklejohn, “Una experiencia de evangelización,” 123–124. 77. Domingo de Santo Tomás, Lexicon, o vocabulario de la lengua general del Perú, 18. 78. Ibid., 47. 79. Ibid., 235. 80. Gerald Taylor, ed., El sol, la luna y las estrellas no son Dios . . . : La evangelización en quechua (siglo XVI), 30. 81. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 336. 82. Alan Durston, in his excellent study, notes this word, tazqui, yet does not acknowledge its wider semantic relevance for boys and girls and with resonance beyond a limited translation of “unmarried.” See Pastoral Quechua, 214. 83. A. Fortescue, “Confiteor.” 84. See Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 214, for additional commentary on this change. 85. Confessionario, 208; my emphasis. 86. See my study of Quechua verbs for “speaking”: “The Language and Rhetoric of Conversion in the Viceroyalty of Peru.” 87. Confessionario, 204. 88. Doctrina christiana y catecismo para instrucción de Indios [1584], 16. 89. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 81. 90. The brief Quechua confession of 1560 avoids the “tainted” hichuni (also ychuni) of “confession with straw.” Durston also notes this when he discusses the Quechua word hucha (Pastoral Quechua, 214). 91. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 299. 92. Vocabulario y phrasis en la lengua general de los indios del Perú, llamada quichua, 91. 93. Ibid., 126. 94. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 456.

248  Notes to Pages 71–79

95. Ibid., 366. 96. Torres Rubio, Arte [1619], n.p. 97. A discussion of hocha (alternate spelling, hucha), chosen by the priests to represent “sin,” will be the subject of the next chapter. Yet it is exemplary of the difficulties in translation in the Andean colonies. Pressed into action in Santo Tomás’ early confessional, this noun remained constant in Christian translations, although it had resonance in Quechua traditions that rivaled Catholic teachings. 98. J. Acosta, Historia natural, 144. 99. Confessionario, 212. 100. Sabine Dedenbach–Salazar Sáenz, “La terminología cristiana en textos quechuas de instrucción religiosa en el siglo XVI,” 202. 101. César Itier, “La littérature quechua d’évangelisation (XVIe et XVIIe siècles) comme source ethnologique,” 326. 102. Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 212. 103. Xavier Albó, “Entrecruzamientos lingüísticos en los rituales qullas,” 272. 104. Santo Tomás, Grammatica, 164. 105. Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la santidad, 148–149. 106. Ibid., 153. 107. Confessionario, 200. 108. Álvarez, De las costumbres, 205. 109. Ibid., 317. 110. Rubén Vargas Ugarte, Historia de la iglesia en el Perú (1511–1568), 1:114. Of course, Sabine MacCormack has studied this theme profusely in “The Heart Has Its Reasons.” 111. Rubén Vargas Ugarte, ed., Concilios Limenses (1551–1772), 1:19. 112. Ibid., 19–20. 113. Ibid. 114. Tercero cathecismo y exposición de la doctrina christiana por sermones, 487. 115. Confessionario, 223. 116. Ibid. 117. Antonio Acosta, “Francisco de Ávila,” 585. 118. Tercero cathecismo, 512. 119. Ibid., 508. 120. Juan de Matienzo, Gobierno del Perú: (1567), 120. Estenssoro Fuchs emphasizes that Matienzo promoted confession as the means to salvation; see Del paganismo a la santidad, 163–165. 121. Lisi, ed., El tercer concilio limense, 207. 122. Ibid. 123. Confessionario, 201. 124. Tercero cathecismo, 561. 125. Ibid., 554–555. 126. Confessionario, 216. 127. Tercero cathecismo, 630–641. 128. Ibid., 632. 129. Fidel de Lejarza, “Las borracheras y el problema de las conversiones en Indias,” 265.

Notes to Pages 79–88 249

130. Ibid., 266. 131. Ibid., 247. 132. Tercero cathecismo, 482–483. 133. Ibid., 675. 134. Ibid., 678. 135. Ibid., 478. 136. John H. Rowe, “Inca Culture at the Time of the Spanish Conquest,” 2:314. 137. Tercero cathecismo, 484–485. 138. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 112. For more detailed analysis of khipu and confession, see Regina Harrison, “Pérez Bocanegra’s Ritual Formulario: Khipu Knots and Confession,” and idem, “Confesando el pecado en los Andes: Del siglo XVI hacia nuestros días.” 139. Ibid., 117. 140. Peña Montenegro, Itinerario, Book V, Treatise III, Section I:514. 141. C. F. Voegelin and D. H. Hymes have contributed to our understanding of this process in “A Sample of North American Indian Dictionaries with Reference to Acculturation.” 142. Irene Silverblatt, Modern Inquisitions: Peru and the Colonial Origins of the Civilized World, 24. Chapter 3 1. All textual references refer to the corrected pagination of the digital version of Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala’s El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno, 615. I use George Urioste’s transcription for this Quechua text, but my emphasis. 2. James Axtell, “Babel of Tongues: Communicating with the Indians in Eastern North America,” 23. 3. For further commentary on this anecdote, see Sabine MacCormack, “Atahualpa y el libro”; Regina Harrison, Signs, Songs, and Memory in the Andes: Translating Quechua Language and Culture; Patricia Seed, “ ‘Failing to Marvel’: Atahualpa’s Encounter with the Word”; and Gonzalo Lamana, “Of Books, Popes, and Huacas; Or, The Dilemmas of Being Christian.” 4. Anthony Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man: The American Indian and the Origins of Comparative Ethnology, 92. 5. See book VI in José de Acosta’s Historia natural, 182–208. 6. Santo Tomás, Grammatica, 10–11. 7. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 197. 8. José Luis Rivarola, “Contactos y conflictos de lenguas en el Perú colonial,” 97. 9. José de Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute: Educación y evangelización, 65. 10. See the decrees of 1580, 1603, 1605, 1622, 1627, and 1628 in Robert D. Wood, Teach Them Good Customs: Colonial Indian Education and Acculturation in the Andes, 37, 47. 11. There was a precedent in the edict of 1526, reissued in 1566 and 1567, that forbade the use of Arabic in conversion. 12. Mannheim, The Language of the Inka, 69.

250  Notes to Pages 89–93

13. Rivarola, “Contactos y conflictos,” 97. For detailed studies of language policy, see Mannheim, The Language of the Inka and “ ‘Una Nación Acorralada’: Southern Peruvian Qucchua Language Planning and Politics in Historical Perspective.” For additional comparative commentary, see Shirley Brice Heath and Richard Laprade, “Castilian Colonization and Indigenous Languages: The Cases of Quechua and Aymara.” 14. Wood, Teach Them, 47. 15. Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 115. 16. Ibid., 118. 17. G. A. Padley, Grammatical Theory in Western Europe 1500–1700, 162. 18. Nebrija’s influential grammar and his orthography of the Spanish language were complemented by his widely disseminated studies of Latin, Introductiones latinae (1481) and Introductiones in latinam grammaticem (1540). 19. Antonio de Nebrija, Dictionarium latino-­hispanicum (1492); idem, Vocabulario español-­latino (Salamanca 1495?). The latter was expanded in 1516. 20. Frances Karttunen, “The Roots of Sixteenth-­Century Mesoamerican Lexicography,” has documented Nebrija’s importance for the lexicography of the Mesoamerican region. Walter Mignolo’s excellent study “Teorías renacentistas de la escritura y a colonización de las lenguas nativas,” is useful for a global perspective. 21. See Santo Tomás’ comments in Lexicon, 12. 22. Extensive references to colonial and contemporary publications in Quechua and Aymara are provided in Paul Rivet and George de Créquit-­Montfort’s bibliography, Bibliographie des langues aymará et Kiçua. 23. Sabine Dedenbach-­Salazar Sáenz, Un aporte a la reconstrucción del vocabulario agrícola de la época incaica. 24. Sabine Dedenbach-­Salazar Sáenz, “Dictionaries, Vocabularies, and Grammars of Andean Indigenous Languages,” 1:235–265. 25. Raymond Williams, Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society, 17. 26. Dedenbach-­Salazar Sáenz, Un aporte, 15. 27. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 14. 28. Mannheim, The Language of the Inka, 140. 29. Alfredo Torrero, “Entre Roma y Lima: El Lexicon quichua de fray Domingo de Santo Tomás [1560],” 284. 30. Ibid., 287. 31. Some say that it could have been written by Juan Martínez, Blas Valera, or Alonso Barzana. 32. Dedenbach-­Salazar Sáenz, “Dictionaries, Vocabularies,” 240. 33. Vocabulario y phrasis, 179. Alonso de Huer­ta’s grammar of 1616 closely followed the grammar presented in this Vocabulario [1586]. See also the facsimile edition, Arte breve de la lengua quechua. 34. Ibid., 179. 35. Ibid., 18, 30. 36. Ibid., 15. 37. Ibid., 124. 38. Ibid., 182. 39. Ibid., 91. 40. Ibid., 127.

Notes to Pages 93–98 251

41. Dedenbach-­Salazar Sáenz, “Dictionaries, Vocabularies,” 240. 42. Diego de Torres Rubio, Arte de la lengua quichua [1619]. All Spanish dictionary entries are printed without page numbers while the Quechua entries are paginated. 43. Ibid., 13r, 4v. 44. Ibid., 15v, 7r. 45. Ibid., 2r, 5v, 2r. 46. Ibid., 8r, 4r, 12r. 47. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 10. 48. Mannheim, The Language of the Inka, 145. 49. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 627. 50. Ibid., 325. 51. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 184. 52. Ibid., 293. 53. Vocabulario y phrasis, 169. 54. Torres Rubio, Arte [1619], n.p. 55. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 47. 56. Ibid., 199. 57. Ludovico Bertonio, Arte de la lengua aymara, 160. 58. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 187. 59. See Taylor’s masterly “Camay, camac et camasca dans le manuscrit quechua de Huarochirí.” For Zuidema, consult “At the King’s Table: Inca Concepts of Sacred Kingship in Cuzco” and “Bureaucracy and Systematic Knowledge in Andean Civilization.” 60. Ritos y tradiciones de Huarochirí, 331. 61. Ibid., 30. 62. Carmen Bernand, “Ni péché ni maladie: À propos des notions de hocha et de onkoy,” 158–159. 63. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 293. 64. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 200. 65. Ibid., 199. 66. Ibid., 200. 67. Margot Beyersdorff, “The Meeting of Two Imperial Languages in the Quechua-­ Spanish Vocabulario of Diego González Holguín,” 270. 68. Gary Urton, “Sin, Confession, and the Arts of Book- and Cord-­Keeping: An Intercontinental and Transcultural Exploration of Accounting and Governmentality.” 69. “Annotaciones, o scolios, sobre la traduccion de la Doctrina christiana,” 170–171. 70. Gerald Taylor, Camac, camay y camasca y otros ensayos sobre Huarochirí y Yauyos, 6–7. 71. Frank Salomon, “Introductory Essay,” 16. 72. Ibid. 73. G. Taylor, Camac, camay, 7. 74. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 48. 75. Vocabulario y phrasis, 21. 76. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 47–48. 77. Gerald Taylor, El sol, la luna, 52. 78. Doctrina christiana, 173.

252  Notes to Pages 99–110

79. Confessionario, 204. 80. César Itier, “Apéndice: Textos quechuas de los procesos de Cajatambo,” 792– 794; my emphasis. The transcription by César Itier is accompanied by a Spanish translation. I have made a few adjustments in my English translation to highlight the use of both cama and hucha. 81. Bruce Mannheim’s masterly study of this concept is presented in “Poetic Form in Guaman Poma’s Warisqa Arawi.” 82. Juan Polo de Ondegardo, “Instrucion,” 269. 83. Bartolomé Álvarez, De las costumbres, 243. 84. See the text in Duviols, ed., Procesos y visitas, 716–717. 85. Álvarez, De las costumbres, 112. 86. Bernand, “Ni péché ni maladie,” 159. 87. Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la santidad, 209. In these rites, often a camelid was sacrificed, and the shaman-­confessors looked at the multiple lines of veins and colors found in the heart, or they observed the entrails or lungs of a guinea pig to see if there was to be a positive or a negative outcome to the ceremony. 88. See Duviols, ed., Procesos y visitas, 229. 89. Ibid., 270. 90. Ibid., 229. 91. Ibid., 246. 92. Ibid., 500. 93. Álvarez, De las costumbres, 144. 94. Glyn P. Norton, The Ideology and Language of Translation in Renaissance France and Their Humanist Antecedents, 13. 95. Ibid., 10. 96. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism, 25. 97. Santo Tomás, Grammatica, 14. 98. Juan Guillermo Durán, ed., El catecismo del III Concilio Provincial de Lima y sus complementos pastorales (1584–1585), 403. 99. Doctrina christiana, 17. 100. “Annotaciones,” 171. 101. Ibid., 167. 102. Ibid., 172. 103. Ibid., 174. 104. Mannheim, The Language of the Inka, 131. 105. Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 216. Delocutive verbs are “verbs derived from a base X which mean ‘by saying or uttering “X” (to someone) to perform an act which is culturally associated with the meaning or force of X,’ where X is a variable ranging over types of things that can be said or uttered,” according to Frans Plank, “Delocutive Verbs, Crosslinguistically.” 106. Durston discusses a similar argument in Pastoral Quechua, 218. 107. “Annotaciones,” 170. 108. Ibid. 109. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 294. 110. G. Taylor, El sol, la luna, 32; my emphasis. 111. Ibid., 51. Another text of the Platica is found in Gerald Taylor, “La ‘Platica’ de Fray Domingo de Santo Tomás (1560).”

Notes to Pages 110–117 253

112. Doctrina christiana, 107; my emphasis. 113. Ibid.; my emphasis. 114. Joseph Pohle, “The Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist.” 115. Bernabé Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 155. 116. Álvarez, De las costumbres, 156. 117. Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la santidad, 132. 118. Ibid., 121. 119. Ibid., 129. 120. Tercero cathecismo, 768. 121. Ibid., 769. 122. Álvarez, De las costumbres, 145. 123. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 246. Gerald Taylor cautions that we are not to confuse camaynin with çamaynin. Taylor’s opinion refers to the vital force—a breath—that has been transmitted. 124. G. Taylor, Camac, camay, 4–5. 125. Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 216, notes the translator’s designation of camaquen as “soul”; yet an attempt was made to distance it from the Andean ideology of “double,” a reference to the essential spirit on earth that represented an ideal celestial form similar to a Platonic essence. 126. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 84. 127. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 328. 128. Xavier Albó, “Preguntas a los historiadores desde los rituales andinos actuales,” 414. Sonqo in contemporary usage also means entrails (often used for divination), can specify an upset stomach, or can designate temperament or human qualities, positive and negative, depending on the adjectives attached. See Jürgen Golte, “El concepto de sonqo en el runa simi del siglo XVI,” 213–214. 129. Golte, “El concepto de sonqo,” 215. 130. G. Taylor, Camac, camay, 33. 131. Vocabulario y phrasis, 10. 132. Gabriela Ramos, Death and Conversion in the Andes: Lima and Cuzco, 1532– 1670, 72. 133. Ibid., 74. 134. Tercero cathecismo, 759. 135. Catherine J. Allen, The Hold Life Has: Coca and Cultural Identity in an Andean Community, 44–45. 136. See Sabine MacCormack, On the Wings of Time, 182, for an example of “Christian doctrine [accommodated] to correct Quechua usage,” in which these very terms are pressed into service, with little reference to broader semantic fields. Chapter 4 1. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica y buen gobierno, 590. All textual references refer to the website edition and the corrected pagination. 2. Pierre J. Payer, The Bridling of Desire: Views of Sex in the Later Middle Ages, 8. 3. Ibid. 4. Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, 19.

254  Notes to Pages 117–126

5. Ibid. 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid., 11. 8. Asunción Lavrin, “Sexuality in Colonial Mexico: A Church Dilemma,” 50. 9. Serge Gruzinski, “La ‘conquista de los cuerpos’ (cristianismo, alianza y sexualidad en el altiplano mexicano: siglo XVI),” 188. 10. Louise Burkhart, The Slippery Earth: Nahua-­Christian Moral Dialogue in Sixteenth-­Century Mexico, 150–151. 11. Payer, Sex and the New Medieval Literature of Confession, 105–106. 12. Ibid., 122. 13. Monica Barnes, “Catechisms and Confessionarios: Distorting Mirrors of An‑ dean Societies,” considers the details of authorship, the committee, and the possible ultimate authority of José de Acosta. 14. Martine Azoulai studies the confessionals from the Meso-­American region, in addition to those written in the Andes; see “Manuales de confesión americanos: Prácticas y costumbres amorosas de los indígenas, siglos XVII–XVIII”; idem, “Para la historia de la evangelización en América: Los confesionarios”; and idem, Les péchés du nouveau monde: Les manuels pour la confession des Indiens, XVIe–XVIIe siècle. 15. Confessionario, 217, 218; my emphasis. 16. Asunción Lavrin, “Introduction,” 10. 17. Fernando Avendaño, Sermones de los misterios de nuestra santa fe catolica, en lengua castellana, y la general del Inca, 128v. 18. Ibid.; my emphasis. 19. Frank Salomon, “Introductory Essay,” 32. 20. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 308. 21. Sabine Dedenbach-­Salazar Sáenz, “Point of View and Evidentiality in the Huarochirí Texts (Peru, 17th Century),” 152, emphasizes the intertwined nature of the reportatives in spaciality: “But the reportative mode is not only used in narratives of mythical character; it also serves to relate events that happened in a not very remote past connected with historical persons, but which were not witnessed by the narrator. Thus . . . the account of the appearance of a huaca in the past [with si-­], then changes to the immediate historical past and to the present [mi] in order to introduce the person who experienced what the narrator then tells in the reportative mode [si-­] as he has been told about these events.” 22. Rosaleen Howard-­Malverde, “Talking about the Past: Tense and Testimonials in Quechua Narrative Discourse,” 129. 23. Dedenbach-­Salazar Sáenz, “Point of View,” 152–153. 24. In this narrative about confession, we cannot be certain if the Quechua version was a collaboration with native Andean translators or is merely a product of Avendaño’s considerable skill in translating from Spanish to Quechua. 25. Polo de Ondegardo, “Instrucion,” 269. 26. Agustinos, “Relacion de la religión y ritos del Peru hecha por los primeros religiosos agustinos que allí pasaron por la conversión de los naturales,” 42. 27. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 339. 28. Ibid. 29. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 351. 30. Procesos y visitas de idolatrías, Cajatambo, siglo XVII con documentos anexos, 229.

Notes to Pages 127–133 255

31. Alejandra Osorio, “Seducción y conquista: Una lectura de Guamán Poma,” 307. 32. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 308. 33. Ibid., 310. 34. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 230. 35. Confessionario, 217. 36. Ibid., 218. 37. Torres Rubio, “Confessionario,” 8r. 38. See chapter 6, “The Metaphysics of Sex,” in Harrison, Signs, Songs, and Memory. 39. Rolena Adorno, “Don Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala: Author and Prince,” 33, 39. 40. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 630. 41. Joseph Delany, “Sacrilege.” 42. Lavrin, “Sexuality,” 51. 43. Pierre J. Payer, “Confession and the Study of Sex in the Middle Ages,” 12. 44. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 630. I refer to George Urioste’s modern text for the Quechua passage. 45. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 369. 46. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 332, 27. 47. Vocabulario y phrasis, 93. 48. Ibid., 82. 49. Ibid., 37. 50. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 114. 51. Ibid., 275. 52. Ibid., 527. 53. Ibid., 169. 54. Ibid., 391. 55. Ibid., 19. 56. Ibid., 527. 57. Diego González Holguín, Gramatica y arte nueva de la lengua general de todo el Peru, llamada lengua qquichua, o del Inca, 113r. 58. Antonio Cusihuamán, Gramática quechua, Cuzco-­Collao, 196. 59. Ritos y tradiciones de Huarochirí, 96, 238. 60. Frank Salomon and George L. Urioste, eds., The Huarochirí Manuscript: A Testament of Ancient and Colonial Andean Religion, 183, 187. 61. Ibid., 161. 62. Ibid., 57n118. 63. Foucault, The History of Sexuality, 19. 64. Confessionario, 218. Spanish text: “Has tenido cuenta con alguna parienta suya?” 65. Torres Rubio, “Confessionario,” 8r, sixth commandment. Spanish text: “Has peccado con alguna pariente tuya? q[ue] parentesco tenias? era muy cercano o muy lejano? Has peccado co[n] madre y hija? o con dos hermanas.” 66. Vocabulario y phrasis, 95–99. 67. Willem F. H. Adelaar with Pieter Muysken, “The Inca Sphere: The Quechuan Language Family,” 235. 68. Ibid. 69. Irene Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches: Gender Ideologies and Class in Inca and Colonial Peru, 221.

256  Notes to Pages 134–140

70. Vocabulario y phrasis, 98. 71. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 211. 72. Ibid., 228–229. 73. Tercero cathecismo, 653. Irene Silverblatt’s Modern Inquisitions comments on the making of Hispanicized native peoples. See “Globalization and Guinea Pigs.” 74. Confessionario, 218. 75. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 218. 76. Ibid., 242. 77. Ibid. 78. Ibid., 229. 79. Ibid., 256. 80. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 246. 81. Gary J. Parker, Ayacucho Quechua Grammar and Dictionary, 71. 82. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 256. 83. Ibid., 258. 84. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 336. 85. Ibid., 144. 86. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 230. 87. Ibid., 258. 88. Payer, The Bridling of Desire, 76. 89. Tentler, Sin and Confession, 189–190. 90. Ibid. 91. Payer, The Bridling of Desire, 77. 92. Ibid., 78. 93. Ibid., with Payer citing Albertus Magnus as his source. 94. Pierre J. Payer, Sex and the Penitentials: The Development of a Sexual Code, 550– 1150, 29. 95. Torres Rubio, “Confessionario,” 8v. 96. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 231. 97. Oré, Symbolo, 440. 98. Confessionario, 220. The Spanish text: “Has tenido pollucion voluntaria? tocamientos suzios contigo mismo?” The Quechua text: “Yumayniquita hamuchicchu canqui? pencayniquita llamcaycuspa cussicuchu canqui?” 99. Torres Rubio, “Confessionario,” 8v. 100. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 241–244. 101. Ibid., 258–259. 102. Ibid., 218. The Spanish text: “As tenido polucion entre sueños, por auer visto estando despierto algunas mujeres a quien as deseado ó por auer comido algunas cosas demasiadamente calientes, que te provocassen a este pecado? o por auer comido, ó bebido, ó dormido demasiado?” 103. Ibid., 245. 104. Ibid., 246. 105. Confessionario, 219. 106. Prado, Directorio espiritual, 101v. 107. Polo de Ondegardo, “Instrucion,” 258. 108. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 166. 109. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 222.

Notes to Pages 140–147 257

110. Ibid., 249. The Quechua text is on page 249. 111. Silverblatt, Modern Inquisitions, 168. 112. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 222. The Spanish text: “As vendido, dado, ó enseñado a Indios, Indias, Españoles o Españolas, estas cosas para que co[n] ellas ofenden a Dios?” 113. José Toribio Medina, Historia del tribunal de la inquisición de Lima. 114. Sabine Hyland, The Jesuit and the Incas: The Extraordinary Life of Padre Blas Valera, S.J., 188. 115. Ibid., 187. 116. Vargas Ugarte, Concilios Limenses, 1:329–330. 117. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 590. 118. Myers, “From Confession to Reconciliation,” 249–250. 119. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 591. 120. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 227. The Spanish text: “Con quantos padres de Missa, ó que no sean de Missa, y que traigan habito de clerigos? ó con quantos religiosos, de qualquier orde[n] as pecado?” 121. Ibid., 254: “Haica Missa rurac padrehuanmi, mana Missa rurac padrehuampas, Clerigo hina pachayoc purijcachachuampas? cairi, haica Frailes, huc Religiosos ñiscahuampasmi huchallicurcanqui?” 122. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 872. 123. Ibid., 580. 124. Ibid., 869. 125. Osorio, “Seducción y conquista,” 317. 126. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 920. 127. Ibid., 508. 128. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 194. 129. Ibid., 196. 130. Sebastián de Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española, 894. 131. James A. Brundage, “Sex and Canon Law,” 44. 132. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 246. 133. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 202. 134. Tercero cathecismo, 651. 135. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 424. 136. Tercero cathecismo, 651. 137. Confessionario, 220. 138. Ibid.; my emphasis. 139. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 184. 140. Oré, Symbolo, 449. 141. Ibid. 142. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 230. 143. Ibid., 257. 144. Lavrin, “Sexuality,” 52. 145. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 257. 146. Oré, Symbolo, 449. 147. Torres Rubio, “Confessionario,” 8v. 148. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 244. 149. Ibid.

258  Notes to Pages 147–154

150. Prado, Directorio espiritual, 106v. 151. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 239. 152. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 137–138 (corrected pages should be 117–118). 153. Michael Horswell, Decolonizing the Sodomite: Queer Tropes of Sexuality in Colonial Andean Culture. (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005), 76. Horswell’s discussion of chronicles and myths is insightful regarding this trope. He also acknowledges Richard C. Trexler’s pioneering study of sodomy. 154. Ibid., 78–79. 155. Ibid., 79. 156. Peña Montenegro, Itinerario, 117. 157. William A. Percy, “Review of Inquisición y represión sexual en Valencia by R. Carrasco,” 158. 158. William Monter, Frontiers of Heresy: The Spanish Inquisition from the Basque Lands to Sicily, 280. 159. Ibid., 293. 160. Pedro de Cieza de León, La crónica del Perú, 222, chap. 44. Horswell, in his Decolonizing, makes good use of Cieza’s and Santo Tomas’ texts to extend the notion of ritual practice; see 102–113. 161. Álvarez, De las costumbres, 304. 162. See Monter, Frontiers of Heresy, 304–305. There was also persecution of this sin in Europe, as bestiality was a sin equally abhorred in the Kingdom of Aragon. Frenchmen were often singled out for persecution, as were shepherds (291). In Paris, Parliament issued fifty-­five death sentences for acts of bestiality in the years 1564–1640 (291). In Sweden, the executions resulting from bestiality amounted to six hundred or seven hundred males (1630–1778), along with the hundreds of animals slaughtered because of their defilement. See Jonas Liliequist, “Peasants against Nature: Crossing the Boundaries between Man and Animal in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-­Century Sweden,” 394. Statistics for persecution for the sin of sodomy are not readily available for the Andean region, although Ward Stavig has located a late colonial court case in the Cuzco area: “Political ‘Abomination’ and Private Reservation: The Nefarious Sin, Homosexuality, and Cultural Values in Colonial Peru.” 163. Pierre Payer quotes John Noonan in Sex and the Penitentials, 4. 164. Polo de Ondegardo, “Instrucion,” 261. Chapter 5 1. Contrataciones is defined by Covarrubias especially relating to matters of the New World: “Este gran trato de comprar vender se llama el mesmo acto contratación.” See Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española, 353. 2. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 8–9. See this text also in G. Taylor, El sol, la luna, 19. 3. Francisco de Vitoria, “De los indios recientemente descubiertos,” 648. 4. Ibid., 706; original emphasis. 5. Ibid., 708. 6. Robert A. Williams Jr., The American Indian in Western Legal Thought: The Discourses of Conquest, 102.

Notes to Pages 154–161 259

7. Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man, 76. 8. Ibid., 77. 9. Grice-­Hutchinson, Economic Thought in Spain, 12. 10. Robert Williams, The American Indian, 103. 11. Pierre Vilar, A History of Gold and Money, 1450–1920, 158. 12. Mercado, Tratos y contratos, 149. 13. Ibid., 152. 14. Grice-­Hutchinson, Economic Thought in Spain, 133. 15. Confessionario, 221. 16. Roswith Hartmann, “Mercados y ferias prehispánicos en el área andina,” 215, esp. note 3. 17. Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española, 800. 18. Confessionario, 221. 19. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 252. 20. Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española, 589. 21. Ibid. 22. Grice-­Hutchinson, Economic Thought in Spain, 15. Also see Elvira Vilches, New World Gold: Cultural Anxiety and Monetary Disorder in Early Modern Spain, 154–155. 23. Grice-­Hutchinson, Economic Thought in Spain, 15. 24. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 252. 25. Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española, 101. 26. Hartmann, “Mercados y ferias,” 217–219. 27. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 312. 28. Ibid., 312–313. 29. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 80, 221, 224. 30. Ibid., 345–346. 31. Vocabulario y phrasis, 77. 32. Thomas Abercrombie (“La perpetuidad traducida”; “Tributes to Bad Conscience”) also ponders the meaning of commerce in Quechua and Aymara vocabulary in a discussion of legislation on perpetuity of the encomienda system. Tristan Platt examines Aymara attitudes toward money and cites the Aymara vocabulary for “to sell” and “to buy”: “Pensamiento político aymara.” 33. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 587. 34. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 294. 35. Vocabulario y phrasis, 23. 36. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 138. The Spanish version: “revendedor, regaton y catero, el que vende caro o da poco.” 37. Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española, 900. 38. Garcilaso de la Vega, Comentarios reales, 2:108. 39. Brian S. Bauer, Ancient Cuzco: Heartland of the Inca, 114. 40. Juan de Betanzos, Suma y narración de los incas, 52. 41. Ibid., 63. 42. Ibid., 111: “mandó que ninguna persona fuese osado a tomar cosa de las que allí trujesen a vender si no fuese pagándolo y con voluntad de la persona que lo vendiese so pena de que el que ansi forciblemente tomase cosa alguna públicamente fuese allí donde lo tomase azotado” (he decreed that nobody dare to take anything that

260  Notes to Pages 161–173

was brought to sell unless it was paid for and with the goodwill of the seller, with the punishment that he who forcibly took something would be taken and beaten in that public space). 43. Garcilaso de la Vega, Comentarios reales, 2:110. 44. Murúa, Historia general, 489–490. 45. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 313. 46. Cusihuamán G., Diccionario quechua, 87. 47. See Benjamin S. Orlove, “Barter and Cash Sale on Lake Titicaca: A Test of Competing Approaches.” Enrique Mayer’s analysis of reciprocity and barter forms a major part of my thinking on this subject; see The Articulated Peasant: Household Economies in the Andes. 48. Charles J. Fillmore, “Frames and the Semantics of Understanding,” 223. 49. Charles J. Fillmore, “Frame Semantics,” 116. 50. Ibid., 129. 51. This discussion depends heavily on John Murra’s descriptions of the Andes. See a good summary in “Did Tribute and Markets Prevail in the Andes before the European Invasion?” Another source for these observations is found in Carlos Sempat Assadourian, “Exchange in the Ethnic Territories between 1530 and 1567: The Visitas of Huánuco and Chucuito.” 52. See D’Altroy, The Incas, for an excellent discussion of Incan practice, esp. 281. 53. See the discussions regarding pre-­Hispanic markets in Larson and Harris with Tandeter, eds., Ethnicity, Markets, and Migration. See also Frank Salomon, Los señores étnicos de Quito en la época de los incas. 54. María Rostworoski de Diez Canseco, Etnia y sociedad: Costa peruana prehispánica. 55. Carlos Sempat Assadourian, “Agriculture and Land Tenure,” 1:292–293. 56. Charles Stanish and Lawrence S. Coben, “Barter Markets in the Prehispanic Andes,” 423. 57. Salomon and Urioste, eds., The Huarochirí Manuscript, 230; my emphasis. 58. Ibid., 133; original emphasis. 59. Gerald Taylor’s translation uses “buying” for all three instances; see Ritos y tradiciones de Huarochirí, 427. 60. David Murray, Indian Giving: Economies of Power in Indian-­White Exchanges, 9. 61. This passage is cited in Hartmann, “Mercados y ferias,” 215. 62. Susan Ramírez, “Exchange and Markets in the Sixteenth Century: A View from the North,” 143. Her “Lost—and Found—in Translation” further elaborates the problems encountered in preconceived conceptual categories. 63. Cobo, Historia del nuevo mundo, 92:25; original emphasis. 64. Ibid. 65. Ibid. 66. Kaye, Economy and Nature, 51. 67. Ibid. 68. Odd Langholm, The Merchant in the Confessional: Trade and Price in the Pre-­ Reformation Penitential Handbooks, 235. 69. Ibid. 70. Marjorie Grice-­Hutchinson, Early Economic Thought in Spain, 1177–1740, 85. 71. Tercero cathecismo, 658. 72. Oré, Symbolo, 449.

Notes to Pages 173–181 261

73. Ibid., 444. The brief Spanish version: “Has engañado a otros vendiendo o comprando alguna cosa?” 74. See Parker, Ayacucho Grammar and Dictionary, 71–72. 75. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 294. 76. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 587. Alan Durston considers these two verbs a dialectical pair, where rana- refers to the coastal dialect near Lima. He notes that ranais found in Santo Tomás’ coastal Quechua dictionary of 1560. However, our interest is in noting that González Holguín’s 1608 dictionary seems to particularize this selling as of foodstuffs, a specific kind of market practice, as seen in the definition. See Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 198. 77. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 309. 78. Olivia Harris, “The Sources and Meaning of Money: Beyond the Market Paradigm,” 55. 79. Steve Stern, “The Variety and Ambiguity of Native Andean Intervention in European Colonial Markets,” 76. 80. See Karen Spalding, Huarochirí: An Andean Society under Inca and Spanish Rule, 134. 81. Ibid., 130–135. 82. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 312. 83. Ibid., 274; literal translation from the Quechua. 84. San Martín, “Parecer sobre el escrúpulo,” 2:654–655. 85. Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española, 906. 86. José Enrique López de Coca Castañer, “Institutions on the Castilian-­Granadan Frontier 1369–1482,” 135–150. 87. Frye, “Glossary,” 366. 88. Spalding, Huarochirí, 162–163. 89. Steve J. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples and the Challenge of the Spanish Conquest: Huamanga to 1640, 81. 90. Mercado, Tratos y contratos, 217. 91. Matienzo, Gobierno del Perú: (1567), 144. 92. Ibid., 85. 93. Nicolás del Benino, “Relación muy particular del cerro y minas de Potosí y de su calidad y labores (1573),” 1:366. 94. Carlos Sempat Assadourian, Transiciones hacia el sistema colonial andino, 71. He cites Pedro de Entrena. 95. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 109. 96. Ibid., 137. 97. Vocabulario y phrasis, 58. 98. Ibid., 125. 99. Tercero cathecismo, 657. 100. Ibid., 658; my emphasis. 101. Ibid., 659. 102. Confessionario, 221. 103. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 227. 104. Cusihuamán, Diccionario quechua, 85. “Manuy. Prestar dinero o artículo consumible (productos alimenticios) que cuando se devuelve ya no es el mismo objeto sino su reemplazo o equivalente.”

262  Notes to Pages 181–189

105. Ibid., 85–86. “Mañay. Prestar una cosa no consumible (prenda de vestir, herramienta, instrumento, animal de servicio, libro, útiles de escritorio. etc.) para ser devuelta exactamente la misma cosa.” 106. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 296. 107. Ibid., 262. 108. Krista E. Van Vleet, Performing Kinship: Narrative, Gender, and the Intimacies of Power in the Andes, 156–157. 109. Mercado, Tratos y contratos, 182. 110. See Grice-­Hutchinson, Economic Thought in Spain, 133–134. 111. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 334. 112. See César Itier, “Pacha Yachachiq.” As Itier has noted, the semantic range often was much broader. He traces how a derivation of this verb becomes “the power of the Andean deities to bring to full existence items such as corn, food, and waterfalls” (158). 113. Mannheim, The Language of the Inka, 92. 114. Brooke Larson, Cochabamba, 1550–1900: Colonialism and Agrarian Transformation in Bolivia, 63. 115. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 268. 116. Ibid., 303. 117. Tercero cathecismo, 719. 118. It will be centuries before manu is pressed into service as Christian “debt” in this prayer. 119. Tercero cathecismo, 719. 120. Parker, Ayacucho Quechua Grammar and Dictionary, 26. 121. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 227. 122. Parker, Ayacucho Quechua Grammar and Dictionary, 62–63. 123. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 230. 124. César Itier, “Las cartas en quechua de Cotahuasi: El pensamiento político de un cacique de inicios del siglo XVII,” 62; original emphasis. 125. Ibid., 68; original emphasis. 126. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 312. Chapter 6 1. Michael Uebel and Kellie Robertson, “Conceptualizing Labor in the Middle Ages,” 7. 2. Jacques Le Goff, “Trades and Professions as Represented in Medieval Confessors’ Manuals,” 110. 3. Ibid., 114; original emphasis. 4. Ibid., 119. Le Goff cites Bk. 5, chap. 17 of the Summa Astesana. 5. Ibid. 6. Ibid., 112. 7. Joan Corominas with José A. Pascual, Diccionario crítico etimológico castellano e hispánico, 5:571. 8. Ibid., 3:545.

Notes to Pages 189–196 263

9. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 682. 10. Mannheim, “The Language of Reciprocity,” 267. 11. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 40. 12. George Dumézil, “Catégories et vocabulaire des échanges de services chez les Indiens Quechua: Ayni et Mink’a,” 5–6. As noted by Dumézil, ayni, especially in a relationship between mestizos and Quechua speakers in the contemporary period, may require a more complex reciprocity, such as the native Andean working as an agricultural laborer for the mestizo in return for legal protection. 13. Ibid., 11. 14. Jean-­Didier Urbain, “Le système quechua de l’échange: Développements métaphoriques et adaptation d’un ‘vocabulaire de base.’ ” 15. Antoinette Fioravanti, “Reciprocidad y economía de mercado en la comunidad campesina andina: El ejemplo de Yucay,” 123–125. 16. Tercero cathecismo, 660; my emphasis. 17. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 604–605. 18. Ibid., 605. 19. Cusihuamán G., Diccionario quechua, 89. 20. Santo Tomás, Lexicon, 321. 21. Vocabulario y phrasis, 165. 22. Confessionario, 226. 23. Oré, Symbolo catholico, 450. 24. Steve Stern, “The Social Significance of Judicial Institutions in an Exploitative Society: Huamanga, Peru, 1570–1640,” 308. 25. Ibid. 26. Confessionario, 226. Spanish version: “El Cacicazgo que tienes vuistelo de herencia de tus Padres, desde el tiempo del Ynga, o haslo usurpado tu a otro, que le pertenecia, trayendo pleitos co[n] falsas relaciones y gastando la plata de los Indios, para quedar con el Cacicazgo?” 27. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 34. 28. Ibid., 40. 29. Nathan Wachtel, The Vision of the Vanquished: The Spanish Conquest of Peru through Indian Eyes, 105. 30. Confessionario, 230. 31. Spalding, De indio a campesino, 39. 32. Ibid., 40–42. 33. Ibid., 43. 34. Confessionario, 227. 35. Steve Stern comments on archives from 1570 to 1640 in which are found asientos (an individual contract between Spanish master and indigenous apprentice) signed by individual Indians. In eighty-­nine contracts for the region of Huamanga, he notes that the Spaniards not only paid for labor, but also provided for indigenous subsistence, health care, and apprenticeship to a trade, a system of “attached dependent labor.” See Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 144–145. 36. Confessionario, 222. 37. Ibid.; my emphasis. 38. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 282.

264  Notes to Pages 196–204

39. Mannheim, The Language of the Inka, 91. 40. John Rowe, “Inca Policies and Institutions Relating to the Cultural Unification of the Empire,” 100. 41. Confessionario, 228. 42. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 325. 43. Tercero cathecismo, 661. 44. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 255. 45. Tercero cathecismo, 660. 46. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 308. 47. Spalding, Huarochirí, 220. 48. Confessionario, 226. 49. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 307. 50. Itier, “Las cartas en quechua,” 56; original emphasis. 51. Ibid. The Quechua transcription is provided by César Itier (58, 60), who has also written a Spanish translation (59, 61; original emphasis): “Si cumples mis órdenes seremos amigos. Si no cumples mis órdenes y te pones hostil, yo también me pondré hostil. Aun en los tiempos antiguos, cuando el señor ordenaba diciendo ‘piensa en la muerte’, los que decían ‘sí’ se guardaban de cualquier daño.” My English translation is derived from the Quechua and differs slightly from Itier’s. 52. Ibid., 72. 53. Ibid., 58. 54. Ibid. The Quechua transcription on p. 58 has been written by César Itier, who has also written a Spanish translation (59, 61; original emphasis): “Yo tu señor, te ordeno y nombro: en esta mita irás de capitán. Para eso eres principal. El ser principal no es solo un título de que jactarse. Ser principal también significa muchas obligaciones. . . . yo encargaré a alguien para el servicio de tu casa y de tu chacra. No te preocupes de eso.” 55. Ibid., 66. Spanish translation by Itier (67; original emphasis): “Hermanos, traigan en dinero la tasa que les falta pagar. Ya saben lo que les falta. Cuando quieran pagar, traigan maíz, trigo, llamas, ropa, gallinas, todo completo.” 56. Karen Spalding, “Exploitation as an Economic System: The State and the Extraction of Surplus in Colonial Peru,” 329. 57. Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples, 81. 58. Spalding, “Exploitation,” 337. 59. Itier, “Las cartas en quechua,” 72. 60. Ibid., 64. 61. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 227. 62. Ibid., 309. 63. Álvarez, De las costumbres, 358. 64. Rowe, “Inca Culture,” 2:325. 65. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 309. 66. Rowe, “Inca Culture,” 2:325. 67. Ibid. See González Holguín, Vocabulario, 309, for the definition. 68. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 316. 69. D’Altroy, The Incas, 247. 70. James Lockhart mentions the use of cacao beans in the Mesoamerican region as

Notes to Pages 205–210 265

an abstract standard for something of equal value measured by the same standard. Yet, the word for chocolate beans did not become the word for medium of exchange. The word for the Spanish coin tomín was used to denote cash and money as early as 1548. See James Lockhart, The Nahuas after the Conquest: A Social and Cultural History of the Indians of Central Mexico, Sixteenth through Eighteenth Centuries, 178–179. 71. Álvarez, De las costumbres, 375. 72. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 321. Runcu also denotes “basket” in the 1586 dictionary, but the 1560 dictionary lists yssanca as basket. Basket units were also used to measure out ají chili peppers. 73. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 316. 74. Ibid., 316–317. 75. Enrique Tandeter, Vilma Milletich, María Matilde Ollier, and Beatriz Ruibal. “Indians in Late Colonial Markets: Sources and Numbers,” 199. 76. “Descripción de la villa y minas de Potosí [1603],” 373. 77. Ibid., 379. 78. Ibid., 377. 79. Ibid. 80. Ibid., 379. 81. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 320. 82. See Hanks, Converting Words, for comments on this religious brotherhood for Mesoamerica. 83. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 281. 84. Ibid., 311. 85. Ibid., 313. 86. Ibid., 312. 87. González Holguín, Vocabulario, 278. 88. Ibid., 323. 89. Ibid., 283. 90. Ibid., 262. Spanish text: “Eres catera? que vendes en el catu? quanto tie[m]po a que eres catera, ó que oficio tienes? en que te ocupas?” 91. Ibid., 294. 92. Pedro Matheos, folio 121r, cited by John V. Murra, “La correspondencia entre ‘un capitán de la mita’ y su apoderado en Potosí,” 226. 93. Jane E. Mangan’s study of Potosí also indicates the involvement of women in all aspects of commerce; see Trading Roles: Gender, Ethnicity, and the Urban Economy in Colonial Potosí. 94. Luis Capoche, Relación general del asiento y Villa Imperial de Potosí, 161. 95. Mangan, Trading Roles, 52. 96. Ibid. 97. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 330. 98. Enrique Tandeter, “The Mining Industry,” 1:321. 99. Larson, Cochabamba, 44. 100. Tandeter, “The Mining Industry,” 1:322. 101. Peter Bakewell, Miners of the Red Mountain: Indian Labor in Potosí, 1545–1650, 78. Bakewell gives the first date for fixed wages in Potosí as 1573. 102. Larson, Cochabamba, 62.

266  Notes to Pages 211–223

103. Capoche, Relación general, 166–167. 104. Larson, Cochabamba, 61. 105. Capoche, Relación general, 109. 106. Bakewell, Miners of the Red Mountain, 123. 107. Capoche, Relación general, 109. 108. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 329. 109. Ibid., 327–328. 110. Bakewell, Miners of the Red Mountain, 21–23. 111. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 330. 112. Ibid., 332. 113. Ibid., 328. 114. Jeffrey A. Cole, The Potosí Mita, 1573–1700: Compulsory Indian Labor in the Andes, 14. 115. Carlos Sempat Assadourian, “La producción de la mercancía dinero en la formación del mercado interno colonial: El caso del espacio peruano, siglo XVI,” 268. 116. Capoche, Relación general, 150. 117. Ibid., 150–151. 118. Josep P. Barnadas, “Una polémica colonial: Potosí, 1579–1584,” 22. 119. Ibid., 57. 120. Ibid., 58. 121. Ibid. 122. Ibid., 59. 123. Ibid., 62. 124. Capoche, Relación general, 156. 125. Ibid. 126. Barnadas, “Una polémica,” 64. 127. Ibid., 67. 128. Ibid., 65. 129. Ibid., 68. 130. Capoche, Relación general, 155. 131. Ibid., 165–166. Barnadas also understands the implications of this statement and cites this comment; see “Una polémica,” 28. Conclusion 1. Tercero cathecismo, 666. 2. Slater, “Restitution.” 3. Tercero cathecismo, 667. 4. Ibid., 665: “Sabed hermanos mios que quando uno ha hurtado o engañado o tomado algo del otro o hechole daño no le perdone Dios aunque se arrepie[n]ta, y se confiesse sino torna el carnero que hurto, o la ropa o plata, o otro que valga tanto.” 5. Parker, Ayacucho Quechua Grammar, 67, 71. 6. Tercero cathecismo, 665. 7. Ibid., 668. 8. Ibid.; my emphasis. It is interesting to note that penccay (also spelled pencay) is used in a context of uttermost shame, as often this lexeme is used to denote genital

Notes to Pages 223–229 267

parts. Consult González Holguín’s Vocabulario, 283, where penccay is defined as the genitals of an animal or a human. 9. Confessionario, 249. 10. Oré, Symbolo catholico, 449. 11. Torres Rubio, “Confessionario,” 8v. 12. Diego de Torres Rubio and Juan de Figueredo, Arte de la lengua quichua, 108r. The Quechua text: “Pacayllama[n]ta, çuascayquicta mana yachanampac” ([Do it] secretly, so that no one knows the stolen item is from you). The more explicit Spanish version: “Esso que hurtaste (o el precio de ello) enteniendo posible, buelvelo a su dueño secretamente, o por mano de otro; porque el dueño no sepa que tu lo hurtaste” (What you stole [or the value of it] being possible to send, return it to its owner secretly, or through someone else; so that the owner does not know that you stole it). 13. Prado, Directorio espiritual, 106v. 14. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 292. 15. Ibid., 293. 16. See González Holguín, Vocabulario, 279, for this definition. 17. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 293; my emphasis. 18. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 421. 19. Ibid., 434. Quechua text: “Chai Religiosop, tucuicosuscaiquicta, paipa iman huacaichascaiquictahuampas, cutichinaiquim, yachacun Apunman; manari conuentonman, mana paipa cascanraicu, camman manatac, conanyachacupusca[n]raicu. Chai hahuamanta ñatacmi. Cossuncaiquipac hinantin runamanta vscacuscanmi, mañacuscanme. Cai limosna mañacuscanri, checan huacchacunamanta, quechupuscanmi. Camca, mapa manalli ñijquihuan, campa hinactaña huacaichacunqui.” 20. Ibid., 421. 21. Confessionario, 223. 22. Carlos M. N. Eire, From Madrid to Purgatory: The Art and Craft of Dying in Sixteenth-­Century Spain, 23. 23. Confessionario, 293–294. 24. Kathryn Burns, Into the Archive: Writing and Power in Colonial Peru, 3, 25–27. 25. Ibid., 207. I thank Karen Graubart for calling to my attention that in Lima and Trujillo indigenous records were not separated in this fashion. 26. Charles, Allies at Odds, 168. 27. Ramos, Death and Conversion, 120–121. 28. Pérez Bocanegra, Ritual formulario, 544. 29. Ibid., 317. 30. Ibid., 318. 31. Ibid., 277–278. “As hecho algun testamento falso? hizistelo porque te lo mandó el Padre, o el Corregidor . . . ? The Quechua: “Llulla testamentocta, quellcacchucanqui? Padrep, patachacpa, . . . camachijninmantachu, quellcarcanqui?” (ibid., 317). 32. Ibid., 279. The Spanish: “Pagandote tu tassa la comunidad, . . . as lleuado dineros, ropa, carneros, ò otras cosas?” The Quechua: “Llactantin tassaiquicta coptin, cairi, . . . collquecta, pachacta llamacta, imallactapas, apacchu mañacchu canqui?” (ibid., 319). 33. Ibid., 317. 34. Ibid., 320. 35. Ibid., 318–319. The Spanish: “Escriuiste de manera el testamento, que por no lo

268  Notes to Pages 230–234

saber escreuir, o por no saber escreuir lo que el testador dezia, se siguieron unos pleytos, en q[ue] gastaron los herederos su plata o les vino algun daño? qua[n]tos testamentos hiziste desta suerte?” (Spanish text on 279). 36. Álvarez, De las costumbres, 268–269. 37. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 828. The Spanish text: “En el nombre de la Santicima Trinidad hago el testamento de don Pedro.” 38. Sarah Cline, “Fray Alonso de Molina’s Model Testament and Antecedents to Indigenous Wills in Spanish America,” 14. James Lockhart also does an excellent close reading of this model testament in The Nahuas, 468–474. 39. Cline, “Fray Alonso de Molina’s Model,” 28. 40. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 631. John Charles, Allies at Odds (172), notes that Practica civil y criminal appears in Guaman Poma. Kathryn Burns gives extensive references to Monterroso in her indexed entries. 41. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 694. Guaman Poma includes numerous references regarding this leader from the high Andes; see esp. 498–502, two illustrations on 499 and 500, and 944 and 990. However, he does not hold Cristóbal de León in high regard at the end of his manuscript; see 1107 and 1119. 42. Ibid., 518. 43. Ibid., 518–519. 44. These items are denoted by “]” markers in the crowded sentences on the written page. 45. Ramos, Death and Conversion, 70. 46. Karen Graubart, With Our Labor and Sweat: Indigenous Women and the Formation of Colonial Society in Peru, 1550–1700, 81, states that these solares were quarter-­ block plots radiating out from the central plaza with enough space for a house and a garden plot. 47. If we accept the transcription as rukri, then the meaning given by González Holguín is useful for translation: “lugar desmontado para casa, o chacra” (a place that has been cleared for fields); see Vocabulario, 319. 48. Ibid., 347. Murra notes that the tupu (alternate spelling, topo) serves as a measure of land for redistribution, yet he admits there is little extensive research to support his argument; see “Derechos,” 301. 49. See Cline’s translation of folio 60 of Fray Medina, “Fray Alonso de Molina’s Model,” 23. 50. Paul Charney’s wonderfully detailed “ ‘For My Necessities’: The Wills of Andean Commoners and Nobles in the Valley of Lima, 1596–1607,” explains inheritance: “The four-­fifths to forced heirs did not have to be divided equally; a third of that part, the mejora, could be given to a favored child. In the absence of legitimate heirs, hijos naturales (natural or illegitimate children) could get everything if so desired by the father or mother. Those produced by adultery or incest—hijos bastardos—were limited to one-­fifth” (347n12). I thank Karen Graubart for this reference. 51. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 519. 52. Ibid., 831. 53. Ibid.: “Que descargue su consencia y declare todo a su boluntad el testador cin que nadie le estorue.” 54. Joanne Rappaport and Thomas Cummins, Beyond the Lettered City: Indige-

Notes to Pages 234–235 269

nous Literacies in the Andes, 130. The authors use the term “quasi-­sacramental act” for the writing of testaments; it is suitable for my argument regarding confessional texts. 55. See Rolena Adorno, “Court and Chronicle.” 56. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 831. 57. Graubart, With Our Labor and Sweat, 23. For additional cultural analysis of indigenous wills in the Andes, the studies by Frank Salomon (“Indian Women of Early Colonial Quito As Seen Through Their Testaments”), Ana María Presta (“Undressing the Coya and Dressing the Indian Woman: Market Economy, Clothing, and Identities in the Colonial Andes, La Plata (Charcas), Late Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries”), and Karen V. Powers (“A Battle of Wills: Inventing Chiefly Legitimacy in the Colonial North Andes”) are important sources. 58. Guaman Poma de Ayala, El primer nueva corónica, 519. 59. Catherine J. Allen, “Body and Soul in Quechua Thought,” 186.

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Index

Glossary terms are in italic: N = Nahuatl; Q = Quechua; S = Spanish. Page numbers ending in “f ” and “t” indicate material in figures and tables. aauilnemiliztli (N, meaning ‘lust’), 118 Abercrombie, Thomas A., 42, 47, 241n26 abortion, 65 absolution: authority to grant, 5, 7, 26; for conquistadors, 26–28; for encomenderos, 25–27; not needed for venial sins, 6–7; through restitution in wills, 45–49 acculturation as civilization, 83 acllas (Q, sacred women), 127 Acosta, José de: on non-­Christian confession practices, 50–51, 56–57; on non-­Christian prayer practices, 72; on non-­European scripts, 87; on number of native languages, 88; on right to corpa/corpu sales in markets, 216–218 Adam and Eve, 186 affirmative suffixes in Quechua, 122 afterlife beliefs of Andeans, 94, 110–114 age grades in Quechua, 69–70, 112, 124 Agüero, Diego de, 46 Aho, James, 10 Alaudán, Juan Batista, 142 Albó, Xavier, 72, 112 Albornoz, Cristóbal de, 128 Alcalá, Luis de, 11 alcaldes (S, local officials), 188

Aldana, Lorenzo de, 46 alfaqueques (merchants, as used by the Spanish), 176 Alfonso X, 230 Aliaga, Jerónimo de, 40 Allen, Catherine, 113 Almagro, Diego de, 29 Almaraz, Juan de, 61 almoneda (S, auction), 157 Alonso, Bartolomé, 216 Álvarez, Bartolomé: on Andean afterlife beliefs, 111–112; on Andean confessional rites, 58–59; on Andean transvestism, 149–150; on clergy needing to become natives, 75; on false weights, 203–204; on indigenous sins, 101; on natives gaining legal expertise, 230–231; on translating Christian concepts, 106 “Annotaciones” to 1584 Doctrina christiana, 108–110 apo (Q, “God”), 21, 69 appo/apu (Q, “gran señor”/deity/sacred mountain), 17–18, 69, 199, 201–202, 246n57 appodiospa randincac (Q, priest or “God’s stand-­in”), 70 Aquinas, Thomas, 171–172

296  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

Aristotle, 9–10, 171 Arte de la lengua aymara (Torres Rubio, 1616), 64, 93 Arte de la lengua quichua (Torres Rubio, 1603, 1619), 64; “Confessionario breve en quichua” section in, 119, 137–138, 146, 223; dictionary section in, 93; use of confessacuni, 72 asiento (S, contract between master and apprentice), 263n35 Assadourian, Carlos Sempat, 165 Atahuallpa, 86–87 Aucay Pata plaza, 162 auctions, 158, 183 auguries, 67 Augustine, Saint, 5 Augustinians, 52 Avendaño, Fernando, 101; sermon on the pregnant penitent, 120–125 Ávila, Francisco D’, 76, 166 Ávila, Juan de, 8 Avisos breves (Loayza), 34–35 Avisos y reglas (Las Casas), 25–26, 28, 34, 45 ayap huacin (Q, burial space), 206 aycha (Q, meat), 93, 109–110, 113; Spanish gloss as ‘flesh’ as contrast with ‘soul,’ 110, 113 ayllu (Q, an Andean indigenous lineage-­ based ethnic group), 100, 189, 199 Aymara: Arte de la lengua aymara (Torres Rubio, 1616), 64, 93; attitudes and vocabulary regarding money, 259n32; catechisms translated into, 56, 61; sermons in, 12; translation of “sin” into, 95 ayni (Q, a term for reciprocal relationships, often used in labor exchange), 164, 189–190, 196, 263n12 Azpilcueta, Martín de, 11 bad confession (from Nueva corónica, Guaman Poma), 115, 116f Baena, Diego de, 215–216 Bakewell, Peter, 212 Balboa, Juan de, 61, 89, 108, 149 baptism(s): baptized vs. nonbaptized

natives, 14; minimal requirements for, 55; numbers of reported, 53 barter, 161, 166, 169–171 Barzana, Alonso, 61 Bataillon, Marcel, 36 Bedón, Pedro, 61, 108 “belief,” translation of, 109 Benavente, Toribio de [Motolinía], 28, 118 Benino, Nicolás de, 178–179 Bernand, Carmen, 96, 102 bestiality: linked with homosexuality, 146; penance for, 4; persecution of in Europe, 258n162; in Tercero cathecismo, 144 Betanzos, Juan de, 61, 107, 160–163 Beyersdorff, Margot, 97 bodily substance, translating concept of, 94 “body,” translation of, 110, 113 booths, confessional, 8, 141 Borromeo, Charles, 8, 141 Bossy, John, 6, 9 Brevísima relación . . ./Tears of the Indians (Las Casas), 148 Bry, Théodore de, 50, 51f, 56 Burgos, Cristóbal de, 46 burial, 206, 227, 232 Burkhart, Louise, 118, 132 Burns, Kathryn, 227 business practices, ethical Christian, 9–10 caciques. See kurakas caimi huchai (Q), meaning of, 122–123 cama-­/kama- (Q, to be obligated, to divinely shape), 97–98, 112; contrast with hucha, 95, 97–100, 112; with Spanish gloss as ‘to sin,’ 95, 99–100 camaquen (Q), definition of, 105, 106, 112–114, 253n125 camelids, 93, 140, 145, 252n87 Campo, Gonzalo de, 14 canticles, 64 Cantú, Francesca, 240n6 capac Dios (Q, God), 93 Capoche, Luis, 214, 218–219

Index 297

Carangas peoples, 30 Carbon plaza, 205 Cárdenas, Bernardino de, 79–80 Carranza de Miranda, Bartolomé, 42 Carrasco, Francisco, 61, 108 Carro, Antonio de, 238n32 cartillas (S, religious primers), 56, 60 Castañeda, Ana de, 140 Castille. See Spain/Castille Castillo, Cristóbal, 199–202 Castro, Daniel, 44 catechisms. See confessional manuals and catechisms catechizing native peoples, 54–56; in group settings, 67–68; official guides for, 56, 60–61 Catecismo breve, 62 Catecismo mayor, 62 Catecismo romano, 61–62 cateras/gateras (S, female vendors), 208 Catholic Church: changing views toward work, 186; Council of Trent, 7, 12, 117, 132, 141; and the Inquisition, 2, 8, 140–141, 149; Lateran Councils, 2, 5; structure of, 53 catu- (Q, to exchange): contrast with ranti-­, 158–160, 163–164, 163t, 166– 167, 172–174; Spanish gloss as ‘to sell,’ 160 catucu- (Q, to market food in the catu), 174 ceremonial sites, destruction of, 56 chácara/chacra (Q, a cultivable plot of land), 33, 92 Charles, John, 44, 227 Charles V, 42, 43 Charney, Paul, 268n50 Chaupis Yauri, Andrés: accusation against Ricariy, 102–103; on Andean confessionary rites, 59–60 chaynioc (Q, stolen item), 223 checa chanin (Q, “true worth”), 182 chicha (S, beverage), 79, 209 china (Q, female animal/young servant girl), 93, 147 Choquesaca, Cristóbal, 76–77 chuño (Q, freeze-­dried potatoes), 183

church officials, confession questions for, 206 Cicero, 154 Cieza de León, Pedro, 46 “civilizing” Andeans as “second conquest,” 83 clergy, terms for, 142 Cline, Sarah, 230 Coben, Lawrence S., 165–166 Cobo, Bernabé, 160; on Andeans and resurrection concept, 110; observing Andean market on fiesta day, 168– 171, 208–209 coca as medium of exchange, 204–205 cofradías (S, lay brotherhoods), 206–207 Collasuyo region, confession practices in, 57 Colloc, Francisca, 227 collqas (Q, storage complexes), 165 collque (Q, money, silver ore), 185 Coloquios de la verdad (Quiroga), 54–55 Columbus, Christopher, 51, 86 commandments. See Ten Commandments commerce: Andean reaction to monetary economy, 174; anthropological studies of Andean exchange, 164– 167; as channel of knowledge, 154– 155; Cobo’s observation of Andean barter system, 169–171; confession questions for craftsmen, merchants, 202–203, 206; defining “market,” 165–166; European concepts of, 165– 166, 171; fraud in, 172, 182–184; at Inca local and state levels, 164–165; long-­distance trading, 165; natural law and, 153–154; in pre-­Hispanic Andes, 168; as sign of enlightenment, 154; Spanish terms and concepts for, 157–158; use of Spanish minted coins in, 185; vocabulary of, 92–93. See also qhatu/catu “commutative justice,” 171 “complexity of meanings” in historical dictionaries, 90–91 concubines, 133, 135 concupiscence, 139

298  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

confessacu- (Q, to confess), 71–72, 73, 86 Confessio generalis brevis et utilis, 4 “confessional” economics, 155–156 confessional manuals, Spanish-­Quechua by date: (1560) by Santo Tomás, 98–99; (1585) Confessionario para los curas de indios, 57, 63–64, 70, 74–76, 98–101, 119–120, 139, 144–145, 225; (1598) “Confessionario breve para las ordinarias confessiones de los Indios” by Oré, 64, 119; (1619) “Confessionario breve en quichua” by Torres Rubio, 64–65; (1631) Ritual formulario by Pérez Bocanegra, 66, 119, 132–134, 146–147, 182–183, 198, 202– 213, 227–230; (1650) “Confessionario breue” by Prado, 66–68, 139, 147 confessional manuals and catechisms, 60–68; on acceptable business practices, 9–11; normalization of, 6; proliferation of, 11; questions tailored to status, profession, 188–189 confessional practices in the native Andes, 57–58, 71–72 Confessionario para los curas de indios (1585), 119–120; copied in 1603, 119; on defamation and murmuring, 225; outline of, 63; Polo de Ondegardo “Instruction” included with, 57, 100– 101; “Proemio” (foreword) to, 74; on questions regarding auguries, 67; on questions regarding love potions, 139; on sodomy and bestiality, 144–145; and use of force to compel confession, 75–76; use of Quechua vocabulary in, 63–64, 98–99; villa- as to confess, 70; vocabulary in, 119–120 confessors: confessional booth for, 8, 9; distinguishing mortal from venial sins, 6–7; indigenous, 57–59, 72, 99–105, 188; manuals for, 4–5, 19, 24f, 25; Motolinía disagreeing with Las Casas on, 28; needing “street” knowledge, 155, 175; seal of confidentiality, 76, 138; sharing penitent’s punishment for unconfessed sins, 27–28, 32, 36

Confiteor (general confession), 5, 68–69, 246n57 conquest: Las Casas on sins of, 34–35, 42–43; legality/morality of the, 34, 37; Santo Tomás on false, 30 conquistadors: absolution for, 26–28; and accusations of unjust war, 31, 34–36, 43, 47; civil wars among, 29; and Law of Inheritance, 26; restitution required of, 33; wills of, 45 conversions of indigenous Andeans, 52– 53; cultural, 18; determining success of, 21, 73–75, 77, 121; differing from European model, 12; as duty for encomenderos, 35, 41; exaggerated claims regarding, 52–53; by force, 75; God supplanting not joining pantheon, 77; Lima councils on, 55, 64; mass, 73; as path to heaven for priests, 28; by religious orders, 52–53; superficiality of, 54; Toledo and, 39, 54; use of native languages for, 71–72, 88–89, 94–95, 107–108, 151–153 copu-­/co- (Q, to give, to restitute), 223–224 corn in Andean confessionary rites, 59–60 Corónica. See Primer nueva corónica (Guaman Poma) corpa/corpu (Q, ore that indigenous miners were legally permitted to carry from the mines), 211–212, 214– 218; controversy regarding this legislation, 215–218 corregidores (S, district officials appointed by the Spanish Crown), 80, 197–199, 201, 215, 217–218, 228, 234, 267n31 Council of the Indies, 29, 39, 88–89 Council of Trent: codifying mortal and venial sins, 7; influence on program for conversion of Andeans, 12; on sacrament of penance, 7–8; tempering “nakedness” of sexual discussion, 117, 132; use of grille during confession, 141 Counter-­Reformation, 9

Index 299

Covarrubias, Sebastián de: describing sites of commerce, 157; dictionary of (1611), 143, 156–158, 160, 175, 258n1; on rescate, 175 credit, selling on, 177–180 “creed,” Inca, 20 crosses, replacing idols with, 14 çupay (Q, “the devil”), 93. See also supai/ supay/çupay curers. See hechicero cuscachay (Q, justice), 108–109 Cusihuamán, Antonio, 131, 181, 192 cutichipu- (Q, to restitute), 222–224 cutirpa (Q, reseller, wholesaler), 183 cutirpacu- (Q, to resell), 174 Cuxipata/Cusipata Cato, 161–162 Cuzco region: language of the, 94, 108; notebooks of registro de indios, 227; plaza(s) in, 160–162; setting prices for goods, 175 death, sin of desiring, 65 deathbed confession, 4 debt to society, hucha as, 96 “deceitful trade,” 177 Decolonizing the Sodomite (Horswell), 148–149 Dedenbach-­Salazar Sáenz, Sabine, 72, 90, 91, 123, 254n21 De las costumbres y conversión de los indios del Perú (Álvarez), 58–59 delocutive verbs, 252n015 “De los indios” (Vitoria), 153–155 devil, the. See Satan/the devil Díaz, Alonso, 61, 108 dictionaries, generally: “complexity of meanings” in, 90–91; cultural bias in, 90 dictionaries of Aymara: Arte de la lengua aymara (Torres Rubio, 1616), 64, 93; of Ludovico Bertonio (1603), 95 dictionaries of Spanish, Covarrubias (1611), 143, 156–158, 160, 175, 258n1 dictionaries of Spanish-­Latin, Dictionarium latino-­hispanicum (Nebrija), 90 dictionaries of Spanish-­Quechua: Arte

de la lengua quichua (Torres Rubio, 1603, 1619), 90, 93, 95; Lexicon (Santo Tomás, 1560), 91–92; Vocabulario (González Holguín, 1608), 90, 93–95; Vocabulario y phrasis (1586), 92–93, 134 “Dios” (God) as untranslatable, 21–22 Diospa yana (Q, God’s helpers, saints and angels), 70 Diosta mañapayaquenchic (Q, Lord’s Prayer), 184 Directorio espiritual (Prado, 1650), 119; on love potions, 139; printing and popularity of, 66–67; on sodomy and bestiality, 147 “dirty” acts and thoughts, 3–4, 132, 138– 139, 146, 147, 224 divination among Andean natives, 59–60, 102 Divine Being, translating concept of, 94 doctrina (S, a proto-­parish of indigenous converts), 33, 52, 55 doctrina (S, Christian doctrine), 55 Doctrina christiana (1584), 56, 60–62, 97–98, 110, 119 Dominicans, 52, 68, 70 doncella (S), translation of, 120, 124–125 dreams, sexual, 139 drunkenness, sin of, 79–80 Dumézil, Georges, 189–190 Durán, José Guillermo, 62 Durston, Alan, 72, 109, 247n82, 261n76 Duviols, Pierre, 55–56 economic morality, 10–11; Incan barter and reciprocity system, 20–21, 168– 171; requiring business savvy of confessors, 155; unfair labor practices, 37; and usury, 4, 9–10, 156. See also restitution economic terminology in Quechua, 93 “economy,” defined, 167 ejaculation, 135–136, 138–139 encomenderos (S, Spanish lords in encomienda system): abuses by, 31–32, 175–176; campaigning for grants of perpetuity, 26, 29, 40–44; confession

300  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

questions for, 34; duty to convert natives, 31, 33–35, 41; evangelization project required of, 35–36, 38–39, 41; native pledge to king to counter offer from, 41; New Laws and, 25–26, 29, 40; restitution requirements of, 26–27, 31–33, 47–48, 241n26 encomienda (S, a royal grant entitling a Spaniard to the labor and tribute of an indigenous community), 240n5 Erasmus, 8 escribanos públicos, escribanos reales (S, notaries), 227 estate, spiritual and material, 227 Estenssoro Fuchs, Juan Carlos, 60, 68, 102, 111 Estete, Gaspar, 8 Estete, Miguel de, 160, 168 estrupo (sex with virgins), 129 evidential markers in Quechua, 123 exagoreusis, 3 exchange value vs. use value, 185 “Exhortacion para ayudar a bien morir,” 226–227 Falcón, Francisco, 43–44 ferias (S, European marketplaces), 157 fiar (S, to enter into a loan contract earning more than the just return on the loan), Hispanic concept of, 177 Fillmore, Charles, 163–164, 163t Final Judgment Day, 111–114 Fioravante, Antoinette, 190 fire, cleansing of sins by, 57 First Lima Provincial Council, 75 Flanders, 157–158 “flesh,” translation of, 109–110 forced confessions, 8, 75–76 foremen: calpisques, 27; in Quechua, sayapayas, 33, 37 fornication, 118, 127–129 Foucault, Michel, 1–2, 4, 117, 132 Fourth Lateran Council (1215), 186 Franciscans, 52, 67–68 Francisci, Erasmus, 187f Freiburg, John of, 188

frequency of confession, 5, 8, 238n38 Friede, Juan, 25, 26 Frye, David, 176 Fuentes, Miguel de, 141 García de Loyola, Martín, 215 Garcilaso, El Inca, 12–13, 149, 160–163, 245n36 gateras/cateras (S, female vendors), 208 gender terms in Quechua, 133 general confession (Confiteor), 6, 68–69, 246n57 genitals, Quechua vs. Christian feelings regarding, 132 Gibson, Charles, 25 Gobierno del Perú (Matienzo), 152f God: “Dios” as untranslatable, 21–22; distinguishing from native deities, 74–75; naming of, 69; translated as capac Dios, 93 González, Lorenzo, 61, 108 González Holguín, Diego: on age and class terms, 124; confessacuni loan word, 71; noting concepts lacking in Quechua, 93–94; on Quechuan words for sex, 130–131; on sodomy, 147; translating apo, 69; translating cama, 95, 98; translating huaca, 14; translating hucha, 96–97; translating prostitution as huñicuk huarmi, 144; translating ranacu-­, 173; translating “work,” 191; translating ychhuchini, 71 “good death,” 225–226 good faith, acting in as exculpatory, 33 Graubart, Karen, 234–235 Greek as perfect language, 106–107 Greek sex practices, 148–149 Gruzinski, Serge, 117–118 guachucu- (Q, to commit adultery), 130 guadoi (Moorish ceremonies of confession), 57 Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe: advocating native literacy, 234; on Andean sexual ethics, 126–127; calling for restitution, 48–49; confusing categories of sexual sin, 128–130; on

Index 301

mestizo children of priests, 142–143; opposing land transfers to Spanish, 235; on Quechua rules of emphasis, 122; on rescate transactions, 176; on rules of inheritance, 232–234; on sexual misconduct by/with priests, 141–143. See also Primer nueva corónica (Guaman Poma) Guaraz, Juan, 103–104 Guaynacapac, 36, 43 guinea pigs, 17–18, 63, 252n87 Haliczer, Stephen, 6, 8, 238n38 Haren, Michael, 9 Harris, Olivia, 174 hechicero (S, shaman-­priests/curers): confessants pressured to expose, 76–77, 225; confession questions for, 63, 188; as main adversary of Christianity, 65–66, 71, 104–105; pre-­conquest confessionary rites of, 58–59; seventeenth-­century prayer excerpt, 99–100; using Christian elements in traditional ceremonies, 17–18, 74–75; using toads for spells, 81 Heloise and Abelard, 3 herbal potions and sexual enhancers, 139–141 hichuni/ychucuni/ichuni (Q, to confess with straw, with shaman), 57, 71–72 Hirth, Kenneth, 165 Historia natural y moral de las Indias (Acosta), 56–57 History of Sexuality, The (Foucault), 117 hochallicu- (Q, to sin), 146 homosexuality, 145–146 honor, European codes of, 19–20 Hopkins, Diane, 66 Horswell, Michael, 148–149 huaca/guaca/waka (Q, a sacred object or landscape endowed with spiritual power): confessing to worship of, 63, 65, 77, 84; as defined by Garcilaso, 12–13; lacking bodies after mummy burnings, 111; persistence of belief in, 15–17, 85f; resuscitation of (1565), 111; secrets of revealed by Choquesaca,

76–77; Spanish understanding of, 13–15, 75; traditional rites involving, 58–60, 72, 100–101, 104–105, 125 huacangui (Q, a powerful substance to enhance physical attraction), 20, 139–140 huachoc (Q, fornicator, adulterer), 130 Huánaco region, 195 Huarochirí region, 96, 131–132, 166 huassa/huaça/hucha/huaçana (Q, the flanks, backside), 93, 144, 145–147; Spanish gloss as ‘sin’ (sodomy, sex en retro), 147 hucha/hocha/ucha (Q, failure to perform an obligation, a fault): contrast with cama-­, 95–96; as debt to society, 96; empoverishment of term, 114; as failure to perform ceremonial obligation, 15, 96; huahua hucha (venial sin), 98; huañuy hucha (mortal sin), 98; millai hucha (“fearful” sin/sodomy), 144, 147; Spanish transformative gloss as ‘to sin,’ 15, 20, 86, 95–100, 120, 123; and world out of balance, 102 huchallicu-­/huchalliku- (Q, to transgress, to be lacking in an obligation): contrast with cama-­, 95; as fornication, 128; as fornication with a priest, 130; as sexual intercourse, 132; Spanish gloss as “illicit sex,” 20, 125, 128, 132; Spanish transformative gloss as ‘to sin,’ 125, 128; as unfulfilled ritual obligation, 150 Huerta, Alonso de, 89 “hybrid” religious beliefs, 17, 20 ichuni/hichuni/ychucuni (Q, to confess with straw, with shaman), 57, 71–72 idolatry: Andean culture as, 12–15; idols destroyed during evangelization, 14, 53; traditional objects found around shrines, 19. See also huaca/guaca/ waka illegitimate children and inheritance, 232–233, 268n50 illness as punishment for not confessing, 81

302  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

Inca Yupanque, 161 indigenous confession practices, 57–60, 71–72, 82–83 indulgences, purchase of, 46 inheritance, laws of, 26, 232–233, 268n50 “inheritance,” translation of, 92 Innocent III, 5 Inquisition, Spanish, 8, 140–141, 149 “Instrucción para curas de indios” (Loayza), 55–56 “Instrucción para los confesores . . .” (Santo Tomás?), 33–34 “Instrucion” (Polo de Ondegardo), 57 intent, sin based on, 10 interest on loans, 10. See also usury interpreters banned from confession, 71 Irish monks and origins of lay confession, 3 Isadore of Seville, 118 Itier, César, 72, 199, 262n112 Japanese confession, 50, 51f Jesuits: accused of favoring the rich, 215–216; arrival of in Andes, 52; given charge of Andahualillas, 66; sexual misdeeds of, 141; teaching methods of, 68 Juaja, 168 Judgment Day, 111–114 Julí parish, 67–68 just and unjust war: accusations against conquistadors, 31, 34–37, 43, 47, 242n59; native sodomy as justification, 148; right to commerce as justification, 153; tied to right to corpa/ corpu, 218–219; Vitoria on, 153 “just price,” 10, 171–174, 178, 182 Kaye, Joel, 11 khipu/khipo/quipo (Q, indigenous recording/accounting device constructed of colored strings and knots), viii, 47, 82, 96, 185 kin obligations and poverty, 197 kinship terms, 133–134 Klor de Alva, J. Jorge, 19 Koranic business law, 10

ku (Quechua reflexive/passive), 173 kukuchi (Q, deceased sinner who committed incest), 113 kurakas (Q, native Andean leaders), 56; confession questions for, 193, 195–199; exempted from tribute requirements, 193; means of succession for, 193–194; permitted to act independently, 195; and pre-­conquest reciprocal system, 20; privileges of, 195; punishment for avoiding confession, 75; relationship of with encomenderos, 41–42, 175, 195; responsible for collecting tribute, 174–176, 194–195, 198–202; rights of, 240n81; sermons directed toward, 197; tribute owed to, 37 labor: associated with the Fall, 186; “work” in Quechua, 189–193 “La buena y la mala muerte,” 2f “La ‘conquista de los cuerpos’ ” (Gru‑ zinski), 117–118 La Cruz, Francisco de, 38–39 La Gasca, Pedro de, 30, 34, 40, 194 land: annual redistribution of, 22; communal, 22; repartimientos (land grant districts), 23, 36–38, 41, 44, 194; restitution of, 23, 32–33, 36–38, 41, 44; ritual swearing on, 103; transfer of in wills, 235; worship of, 66. See also encomienda language(s): Amerindian, as rational constructs, 87; as companion of empire, 89–90; European theories of, 86; Greek and Latin as perfect, 106–107; promotion of Spanish over Quechua, 88–89; Spanish words with no Quechua equivalent, 91–92 Lartaún, Sebastián de, 107 Las Casas, Bartolomé de: campaigning against encomiendas in perpetuity, 26, 40–44; on confession for merchants of war, 27; debating Sepúlveda, 148, 153; denied absolution himself, 25; guide for confessors, 24f; last will and testament of, 43; memorandum on behalf of Peruvian Indians by,

Index 303

40–41; scholarship on, 44; on sins of conquest, 34–35, 42–43; on sodomy in New and Old World, 148–149; urging restitution by Spanish, 25–27, 45–46, 219, 222; using confession to enact justice, 23. See also Avisos y reglas (Las Casas) Last Judgment Day, 111–114 Lateran councils, 2, 5 Latin: fitting Quechua to, 114; as perfect language, 106–107 Lavrin, Asunción, 117, 146 Law of Inheritance, 26 law of nations, 153–154 lay confession, origins of, 3 “lechery” (luxuria), 118 Lenten season priestly workload, 5 León, Cristóbal de, 231–232 León, Luis de, 107 Lessegue, Juan Bautista, 199 Lexicon (Santo Tomás), 91–92, 110 Lima Provincial Councils, 53, 55–56; First Lima Provincial Council, 75; Second Lima Provincial Council, 44, 71; Third Lima Provincial Council, 62, 64, 77–78 llamas: and bestiality, 145–147; caravans of, 183; Llama Creator, 166. See also camelids llamca-­/llamcca- (Q, to work): compared to mink’a-­/minca-­, 189, 191–193, 196; compared to mit’a-­, 192–193 llicu- (Q, acquire the characteristics of ), 131 llullahuahuasonco (Q, childish stage of consciousness), 112 Loayza, Jerónimo de, 29–30, 35–36, 46 Lobo Guerrero, Bartolomé, 14, 89 Lockhart, James, 264n70 Lohmann Villena, Guillermo, 45 López, Luis, 141 Lord’s Prayer, 183–184 love potions and sexual enhancers, 20, 139–140 Loyola, Ignacio de, 52 Luther, Martin, 7–8 luxuria, 118

MacCormack, Sabine, 44 Magnus, Albertus, 136–137 maña- (Q, to be obligated to repay a loan), 22; Christian gloss as ‘to intercede for,’ 22, 184; compared with manu-­, 179–180; land worked for community, 22; used in a relationship of trust, 179, 184; used in repayment of borrowed commodities, 180–181 mañay (Q, betrothal), 181–182 Mangan, Jane E., 209 Mannheim, Bruce, 94, 109, 189 manu- (Q, to be obligated to repay a monetary loan): as Christian gloss, 180, 184; compared with maña-­, 179–181; as monetary transactions (debt), 179–181; to lend on credit, 179–182, 184 market. See commerce; qhatu/catu market collusion, 185 marriage, fitting indigenous practices to Catholic, 117–118 Martínez, Alonso, 61, 108 Martínez, Juan, 89 Martínez Vegaso, Lucas, 47 masi/maci (Q, close friend, equal, of the same class), 163, 179. See also yawarmasin mass conversions, 73 masturbation, 129; discretion in ask‑ ing about, 137; penance for, 4, 139; questions for men and women, 138– 139 Matienzo, Juan de, 77, 152f, 177–178 measuring, native means of, 204–205 Medina, Alonso de, 230–231 “Memorial” to Council of the Indies (Vega), 36–37 Méndez, Alonso, 40 Mendieta, Lope de, 30, 45–46 Mendoza, Antonio de, 28 mercado (S, marketplace), 157 Mercado, Tomás de, 11, 155, 158, 177, 182 Mercedarians, 52 merchants: confession for, 27, 33; increasing acceptance of by Church,

304  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

188; mindalaes, 165; pre-­Hispanic accounts of, 168 mercury, 212–213 Messía Vanegas, Alfonso, 183 mestizo children of priests, 142–143 metal markets, 209 millai hucha (Q, “fearful” sin/sodomy), 144, 147 mindalaes (Q, long-­distance merchants), 165 Miners of the Red Mountain (Bakewell), 212 minga (S, indigenous free wage worker in the colonial period), 211, 214, 218 mining/miners, 27, 30, 187f, 209–213 mink’a-­/minka-­/minca- (Q, to work in a system of trusted relationships, often not monetary): compare with ayni, 189–190; compare with llamca-­, 191–193; compare with mit’a-­, 192– 193; and Inca work practice, 190; and rental contracting, 191–192; scholarship on meaning of, 190; transformation by the Spanish to hired wage-­ earning worker, 190, 211, 214 “missionary position,” 136 mit’a (Q, to work in a rotational labor system): changing meaning of under Spanish, 194, 201, 210–211; compare with ayni, 189; compare with llamca-­, 192–193; compare with mink’a-­, 192– 193; in confession, 198; Juan Puma and, 200; litigation regarding, 199; transformation by the Spanish to mitayo, 210–211; as used by the Incas, 165, 189, 192–193 mitayos (S, mit’a workers as glossed by the Spanish), 183, 192, 200, 210–211, 214 mocha-­, mucha- (Q, gesture of reverence), 72, 83, 136 money: coca used as, 204–205, 264n70; given to church in model will, 235; introduction of, 185, 190; Spanish patacón as, 232, 235–236; Spanish tomín as, 264n70; tribute paid partly in, 200–201

“money markets,” 157 monopolies, 182–183 Monterroso y Alvarado, Gabriel de, 230–231 Montibus, William de, 6 Moors, 57, 77, 149, 175–176 mortal and venial sins, 6–7, 129–130 Motolinía, 28, 118 mountains, sacred nature of, 14–16, 65, 69, 105 mullu shells (Q), 20, 165 mummies/malquis (Q), 19, 103, 105–106, 111 Mungui region, 199, 201 Murra, John V., 246n85, 260n51, 265n92, 268n48 Murray, David, 167 Murúa, Martín de, 57, 161–163 Myers, W. David, 5, 9 Nahuas, sexual norms of, 118 Nebrija, Antonio de, 89–91, 107 New Laws (1542), 25–26, 29, 40 nonmarket trade, 166 nonvaginal intercourse, 137 notaries/scribes, indigenous: confession questions for, 206, 228–230; depicted by Guaman Poma, 221f, 230, 231; Las Casas on, 26; use of in confessions, 26, 28; writing up wills, 227 Núñez Bazán, Diego, 215 Núñez Vela, Blasco, 36 objects, confiscation and destruction of, 14–15 occupations/trades, 143, 193, 202, 205–207 ollo (Q, penis), 131 On Confession (Luther), 7 “Opinion” (San Martín), 30–31 oral confession, origin of, 4 orco (Q, male animal), 147 Ordenanza de Patronazgo, 53 ordination prohibited for natives, mestizos, 53 Oré, Luis Jerónimo de: “Confessionario breve para los ordinarias confessiones

Index 305

de los Indios,” 64; on defamation and murmuring, 225; reference to male homosexuality, 145; on restitution of stolen goods, 223; Symbolo catholico indiano (1598), 64, 68, 119, 138 Oré, Pedro de, 218 original sin, 186 Orlove, Benjamin, 163 Osorio, Alejandra, 126–127, 143 paçca- (Q, untie/let go, absolution), 224 Pacha Camac deity, 97–98 ‘pagan’ beliefs in competition with Catholicism, 12–15 Pagden, Anthony, 87, 154–155 p’aki- (Q, “deflowering”), 120, 130 paltanacu- (Q, pile one thing on another, fornicate), 130 pampacha- (Q, covering over, absolution of sins), 184 pantanacu (Q, trial marriage), 124–125, 127, 134 Parish, Helen Rand, 44, 242n47 Patiño, Francisco, 16 Paucarmanya, Domingo, 105–106 Paul of Hungary, 129 Payer, Pierre J., 115, 118 paylla- (Q, to work for food, beverage), 189, 196 pecado (S), translated as hucha, 95–96 Pedro Martyr, 149 Peña Montenegro, Alonso de la, 82–83, 149, 242n59 penance, early system of canonical, 3–4 pencay/penccay, pencai (Q, utmost shame), 138; Spanish gloss as genitalia, 131, 135–136, 138 Penitential of Vinnian, 3 penitentials, 4 Penitus cito (Montibus), 6 Pérez Bocanegra, Juan, 21; on bestiality, 146–147; on confessants sharing khipus, 82; on deviating from government-­regulated prices, 175; on discretion in sexual questioning, 137– 138; on love potions and enhancements, 140; on native weights

and measures, 204–205; on reason for questioning about sexual sins, 147–148; on restitution for theft, 223–224; retranslating “belief,” 109; on sodomy, 144; and terms of commerce, 173–174, 181. See also Ritual formulario (Pérez Bocanegra, 1631) Philip II, 42, 89 Philip IV, 89 Pino, Diego del, 46 Pizarro, Francisco de, 29, 45 Pizarro, Gonzalo, 29, 34, 36, 40 Pizarro, María, 141 planting rites, 58–59 Platica (Santo Tomás), 110 Platt, Tristan, 259n32 plaza: colonial, 152f, 205; pre-­Hispanic functions of, 160–161. See also qhatu/ catu pleytos (S, lawsuits), 199 “plunder economy,” 176 Polo de Ondegardo, Juan, 14, 16, 48; attempting to abolish native ceremonies, 77; on Cuzco plaza ritual, 160; death and will of, 48; on Indian admission of sinful nature, 150; kurakas and response to, 41; listing Andean worship objects, 14; listing transgressions in Inca society, 100–101, 123–124; on pre-­conquest confession practices, 57; reporting Andean objections to God, 15–16 Potosí region: miners falling into debt, 177–178; native discovery of ore in, 219; sales of fermented manioc and ground corn prohibited in, 79. See also mining/miners Practica civil y criminal (Monterroso y Alvarado), 230 Prado, Pablo de, 66–67, 119, 139, 147 Preguntas para los confesores de encomenderos (Santo Tomás), 33–34 premarital cohabitation, 124 preservation of social order, 9 price-­fixing, 182 priests: committing mortal sin through error in absolution, 27–28; commit-

306  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

ting violence during confession, 115, 116f; governance of religious orders, 53; having sex with native Andeans, 141–143 Primer nueva corónica (Guaman Poma): calling for restitution for native Andeans, 48–49; illustrations from, 84–85f, 115–116f, 221f, 230; on indigenous scribes/notaries, 221f, 230–231; model will, 230–236; sexual mortal and venial sins on, 129–130 private property, 21 profession, confessions according to, 186–187 prostitution, 129, 143–144, 206 Protector of the Indians (Núñez Bazán), 215 public declarations of sin, 4 puclla- (Q, to play, play around, to have sex), 128 Puma, Juan, 199–202 punishments for avoiding confession, 75 puñu- (Q, to sleep with), 131, 132 puri- (Q, to walk with, to fornicate), 130 “quasi-­confession,” will as, 234 qhatu/catu (Q, place for exchange of goods): aycha catu (meat market), 93; confessions regarding, 156–157, 208; female vendors in, 208; often designated gato, 215, 216–218; ore sales in, 214, 216–218; re-­semanticized by the Spanish as marketplace, 157–158, 160–162; zara catu (corn market), 93 Quechua: affirmative suffixes, 122; Christian concepts untranslatable to, 92; confessionarios in, 63–65, 67; cultural bias in dictionaries of, 90; Doctrina christiana translated into, 56; evidential markers, 123; forced into Catholic frame, 114; incorporated into Christian discourse, 15–17; laws forbidding, 89; regional differences within, 91; reportative speech, 122, 254n21; rules of emphasis, 122; semantics of confession in, 68–72; sermons in, 12; Spanish words untrans-

latable to, 91–92; words for “work” in, 189–193 Questions for Confessors of Encomenderos (Santo Tomás), 33–34 Quiroga, Pedro de, 54–55 raca (Q, vagina), 131, 136 Rafael, Vicente, 21, 107 Ramírez, Susan, 168 Ramos, Gabriela, 113, 227 Ramos Gavilán, Alonso, 57–58 ranacu- (Q, to market food in the catu), 173–174 ranti- (Q, to exchange), 158–160; compared to catu-­, 158–160, 163–164, 163t, 166, 172–174; and concept of just price, 172–174; shifting meaning of, 15, 21, 166–167, 176, 185; Spanish gloss as “to buy,” 167 ranticu- (Q, to exchange, to sell), 167, 172–174, 181 rape-­abduction, 129 rationality of Andeans, 114 Razonar rimacuni (Q, to reason, speak), 88 reciprocity in Andean exchange: as pervasive theme, 189; pre-­conquest system, 20, 164–165; transition to European tribute, 194; vocabulary for, 191–192 refineries, ore, 212 regatonas (S, fierce bargainers), 209 Reina, Casiodoro de, 238n32 religious orders, governance of, 52–53 reparation as restitution, 222 repartimientos (S, land grant districts), 23, 36–38, 41, 44, 194 reportative speech in Quechua, 122, 254n21 “Representación” (Falcón), 43–44 rescate (S), meaning of, 175–176 Resines, Luis, 11 restitution: anonymous, 222–223; for different forms of sin, 23; for failure to convert Andeans, 43; funds for after-­death, 25, 45; Las Casas on, 23, 25–27, 31–33, 45–46, 219, 222; and

Index 307

native Andean rights, 39–44; not possible in full, 37–38; obligations of encomenderos, 26–27, 31–33, 47–48, 241n26; reparation of stolen goods, 222; San Martín on, 30–32; Santo Tomás on, 30; for unfair pricing, 171–173 resurrection and immortality, 110–113 Ribera, Antonio de la, 40 Ribera, Nicolás de, 46–47 Ricariy, Alonso, 105 right of discovery, 153 right of passage/travel, 153–154 Ripalda, Jerónimo de, 8 ritual, vocabulary of, 93 ritual celebrations, sex during, 127, 133 ritual chants, 66 “ritual diglossia” (Albó), 72 Ritual formulario (Pérez Bocanegra, 1631): publishing of, 66; questions regarding laborers and market, 202– 209; questions regarding price-­fixing, 182–183; questions regarding sexual conduct, 132–134, 146–147; questions to ask of indigenous notaries, 228–230; questions to ask of kurakas, 198, 202; questions to ask of miners, 209–213; thoroughness of, 119, 206; on wills and restitution, 227–228 Roman Catechism (1566), 9 Roman sex practices, 148–149 Rostworowski de Diez Canseco, María, 165 Rowe, John, 196 sacred sites, destruction of, 56 sacrifice, vocabulary of, 93 sacrilege, 129–130 Salomon, Frank, 97, 132, 165, 167 Sánchez, Baltazar, 216 San Martín, Tomás de: catechism by, 61; correspondence with Las Casas, 30–33, 45–46; on encomenderos forcing unfair trade, 175; on perpetuity for encomiendas, 40; working with Las Casas, 29 San Pedro de Mama restitution case, 44

Santiago, Bartolomé de, 61, 108 Santo Tomás, Domingo de: confession example in Quechua, 61, 68–69; on indigenous tribute, 29–30; Lexicon, 91–92; memorandum on behalf of indigenous Andeans by, 40–41; on native adaption of introduced verbs, 73; praising Quechuan language, 87–88, 151; on Quechua as trade language, 151; Quechua-­Spanish dictionary of, 91–92; on restitution by encomenderos, 29; on sodomy in Andean religious ceremonies, 149; translation of hucha, 96; translation of sipas, 125; translations using terms of native Andean confession, 71 sapsi (Q, community goods and lands), 176 Saravia de la Calle, Luis, 11 Satan/the devil: çupay/supai interpreted as, 15, 93, 98; false worship seen as work of, 78–79, 102; teaching natives false confession, 50, 56–57; worship of both Jesus and, 17. See also supai/ supay/çupay saya- (Q, presence), 94–95 scribes, 206–207, 221f, 227, 229–231 Second Lima Provincial Council, 44, 71 seduction, restitution for, 23 self-­examination: confession engendering, 1–2; inducing self-­consciousness, 20; for sins of thought, 80 semantics of confession, 68–72 semen, 135–136, 138–139 Seneca, 154 Sepúlveda, Juan Ginés de, 42, 148, 153 sexual enhancers. See herbal potions and sexual enhancers sexual matters: Catholic view of, 150; concubines, 133, 135; confessions oriented toward male, 132; definitions of sexual experience, 124, 126; desire while watching animals copulate, 139; donning colorful clothing to seduce women, 139; ejaculation, 135– 136, 138–139; erotic touching, 126; gradations of sin of lust, 4; incest

308  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

and kukuchis, 113, 129; marital intercourse good but desire bad, 115–116; native norms on, 104; native norms redefined as sinful, 20; pre-­Christian views on virginity, 124; putting of into discourse, 117; Quechua terms for, 92, 93, 145–146; relationships with relatives, 126; restitution from sins of, 23; ritual celebrations, 133; sexual misconduct by priests, 141; sexual positions, 136–137; sexual thoughts, 126, 146; terms regarding female chastity, 120–125 shaman-­priests. See hechicero -­shi (Quechua evidential marker), 123 shrines, native, 19 Siete partidas (Alfonso X), 230 Silva, Jerónimo de, 46 Silverblatt, Irene, 83, 140 sins: confessing of non-­Catholic, 82–83; cultural categories of, 100–106; indigenous examples of, 82–83, 101– 104; mismanagement of the church, 206; mortal and venial, 6–7, 129–130; native lack of precision in confessing, 82; systems to aid memory of, viii, 5–6, 82, 96; of thought, 68–69, 80–81, 101; translation of concept into Quechua, 95–98, 106 sipas (Q, sexually active young woman), 125, 130 sirvinakuy (Q, trial marriage), 134 slavery, 25–27, 36, 153 sleeping together “like piglets,” 134 social order, preservation of, 9 sodomy: among boys, 150; in confession manuals, 4, 118, 144–145; expansive colonial definitions of, 144; as justification for conquest, 148; in native rituals, 149; in the Old World, 148–149; Quechua nomenclature for, 145–146; thoughts during, 146; and transvestism, 149–150 solicitation, 142 soltera (S): compared to doncella, 120; translation of, 120

sonqo/songo (Q, heart, liver), shifting translations of, 112, 253n128 sora (Q, corn beverage), 79 Soto, Martín de, 61, 108 “soul”: vs. Quechua “deindividualized” spirit, 235; resurrection and immortality of, 110–113; translating from Spanish, 86, 110, 112–113, 235. See also camaquen space, Inca concepts of, 63, 109, 161, 164, 173 Spain/Castille: as recipient of illegal tribute, 29–30, 38–39; rulings on making Spanish compulsory, 89 Spalding, Karen, 175, 176, 195, 201, 240n81 Spanish foods, consumption of as sin, 104–105 Spanish terms and concepts for commerce, 157–158 Stanish, Charles, 165–166 Stern, Steve, 174, 193, 263n35 stones in Andean confessionary rites, 59 straws in Andean confessionary rites, 59–60, 71, 247n90 stuprum, 118, 129 Summa Astesana (1317), 186–188 summa penientiae (containing the summa confessionis and the summae confessorum), 4–5 Sunday, selling on, 188 Sun Deity, Inca, 57 supai/supay/çupay (Q, an Andean indigenous spiritual essence, not necessarily malevolent), 15, 22; with Christian gloss as the Devil, 15, 22, 93, 98, 222 Symbolo catholico indiano (Oré, 1598), 64, 67, 132; confessional in, 64; example of Franciscan-­led services, 67–68; on “just price,” 172–173; questions for kurakas, 189; questions on labor, 192–193 symmetric reciprocity, 189 syncretism of ancient forms and new meanings, 18, 74

Index 309

taça/tasa (S, tribute), 30, 198, 200 taitas (Q, clergy), 141 Taki Oncoy movement, 12–13 Talmudic business law, 10 “tariffs,” 1, 4 Taylor, Gerald, 69, 96–98; on cama, 112, 253n123; on sonqo, 112 tazqui/tasqui (Q, children 6 to 13 years old), 69, 93, 124, 130, 247n82 Ten Commandments: commandment one, 18–19, 66, 119; command‑ ment five, 65, 79–80, 119; commandment six, 19, 119, 127, 224–225; commandment seven, 25, 156, 188, 202, 212, 220–221, 224–225; use of for confession, 18–20 Tentler, Thomas, 4, 6 Tercero cathecismo, 63; on confidentiality of confession, 76; explaining fair trade in the marketplace, 179–180; listing forbidden objects of worship, 78–79; on sodomy, 144 testamentary restitution, 45–48 “third gender ritual subjectivity,” 149 Third Lima Provincial Council, 62, 64, 77–78 thoughts as sinful, 3, 132, 138–139, 146, 147, 224 tianguez (N, word for native market), 156 tincunacuspa (Q, trial marriage), 134 toads, sins assuming form of, 81 Toledo, Francisco de: banning sales of fermented manioc and ground corn, 79; confiscating unapproved catechisms, 56; letter by to Council of the Indies, 39; reforms of, 54; regulating tribute, wages, 174, 176, 201, 210; relationship of with Jesuits, 52; right of corpa/corpu, 214–216 topo/tupu (Q, an Incan measurement of land, usually enough to support a family), 202, 236; compared to a Spanish league, 232 Toribio Medina, José, 141 Torrero, Alfredo, 91 Torres, Luis de, 86

Torres Rubio, Diego de: changes to confession by, 65; “Confessionario breve,” 64–65; “Confiteor” (1700 addition), 246n57; Quechua dictionary by (1603), 90, 93, 95; on restitution, 223; skill in Quechua, 64. See also Arte de la lengua aymara (Torres Rubio, 1616); Arte de la lengua quichua (Torres Rubio, 1603, 1619) Torres y Portugal, Hernando de, 89, 214–215 trading in Andes, local and long-­ distance, 163, 165–166 translation into Aymara, 56, 61 translation into Quechua, 56, 68–72; attempts to fit into Latin patterns, 113–114; dealing with Andean regional differences, 108; “Dios” (God) as untranslatable, 21; disagreements among translators, 107–110 translators banned from confession, 71 transvestism, 148–149 Tratado de las doce dudas (Las Casas), 37–38 trial marriage, 124–126, 134–135 tribute: Castille as recipient of illegal, 29–30, 38–39; excessive, 41, 47–48; inappropriate items of, 36–37; inappropriate use of, 30; kurakas exempt from, 193; kurakas responsible for collecting, 174–176, 194–195, 198– 202; mestizos exempt from, 143; paid partly in money, 200–201; reduction in, 30; rules for collection of, 34; Santo Tomás on, 29–30; setting amount of for encomiendas, 174–176, 194; suggestion of replacing encomienda with annual tribute, 42; taça, tasa as, 30, 198, 200; Vega on, 36–37 Turks, conquistadors as equivalent to, 32–33, 38 twins, birth of, 13, 125 ucha. See hucha/hocha/ucha ucu (Q, body and soul), 110, 113; vcun aichan (Q, inner flesh, genitals), 135

310  Sin and Confession in Colonial Peru

unconfessed sins as toads, 81 “universe of reference,” 15 Urbain, Jean-­Didier, 190 Urioste, Jorge (George), 132, 167 Ur-­Sprache, translation as return to, 106–107 Urton, Gary, 97 use value vs. exchange value, 185 usury, 4, 9–10, 156 Valençuela, Juan de, 217–218 Valera, Blas, 61, 108 Valera, Cipriano de, 238n32 Van Vleet, Krista E., 181–182 Vázquez, Francisco, 216 Vega, Bartolomé de la, 36–37 Vela, Hernán, 47–48 venial and mortal sins, 6–7, 98 vernacular catechisms, 8 verticality in Andean exchange, 164–165 viceroys, powers of, 53–54 Vilar, Pierre, 155 Villagómez, Pedro de, 14 Villalón, Cristóbal de, 11 Villar, Conde de (Torres y Portugal), 89, 214–215 violence against penitents, 115, 116f Viracocha, 57 Virgin Mary, translating into Quechua, 69–70 “vitae communicatione,” 155 Vitoria, Francisco de, 153–155 Vocabulario de la lengua general (González Holguín, 1608), 90, 93–94, 96 Vocabulario y phrasis (1586), 92–93, 134 von Staupitz, Johan, 7 vows of celibacy, 8 Wachtel, Nathan, 194 wachuq, huachoc (Q, sinful copulation, adulterer), 131 water, cleansing of sins by, 57 wayna (Q, sexually active male of marriageable age), 130

weights and measures, use of in barter and sales, 203–205 wholesalers, 158 whores, 143–144 Williams, Raymond, 90–91 wills: as confession, 26, 28, 45, 225–230; importance of native scribes for, 230; restitution in, 45–48 women: in Andean confessionary rites, 59; in metal markets, 209; questions about homosexual acts, 146; questions about masturbation, 138–139; terms regarding female chastity, 120– 125; as vendors, 168–170, 208–209; wives of encomenderos, 241–242n38 wool monopoly in Spain, 182 “wordiness” of divine creation, 106 “work” in Quechua, 189–193 yachachi- (Q, as price-­fixing), 183 yanacuna/yanacona (Q, a special class of workers attached to an elite household), 33; attached to kurakas, 196– 197; attached to Spanish, 210; problem of credit extended to, 177–178; restitution to after death, 48; Spanish designation as ‘indigenous persons linked in service to private individuals,’ 197 Yaranga Valderrama, A., 190 yawarmasin (Q, blood relative), 129– 130 ychucuni/ichuni/hichuni (Q, to confess with straw), 57, 71–72 ychu/ichu (Q, straw), 15, 71, 86 ychuri (Q, native shaman-­confessor), 57, 188 yñini (Q, to believe/to feel), 109 yoco-­/yoccu-­/yucu-­/yuqu- (Q, sperm/ sexual fluid), 132, 138 yumani (Q, insemination), 93 Zuidema, R. T., 96 Zúñiga, Antonio de, 88