Selected Writings of César Vallejo. César Vallejo
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those countries. Beyond that, we shall see, we shall see, not just yet …” (The pain and genius of Verlaine, Poe, and Baudelaire, unrecognized by their century, passes through my mind.) “And in Trujillo?” Eguren asks me with lively interest.
I’m caught off guard by this question and, without a way out, I shuffle and reposition myself on the divan, until finally, as if suddenly pushed forward by a memory, I reply, “In Trujillo—” Eguren interrupts and talks about those writers, friends of mine, to whom he dedicates phrases of enthusiastic praise.
“What’s more,” he rounds off his words with fine gallantry, “Trujillo is a comely city in my opinion, and I believe it possesses quite a bit of culture. I’m fond of it.”
When I said good-bye, the day had flown by.
On the way home, I look at Barranco, with its straight streets, lined with poplars, arborescent ferns, and pines. The chalets, in the most varied of styles, flaunt gardens of beautiful elegance, and vestibules open to the evening breeze—luxurious residences of bourgeois comfort.
The hour virgilian, turquoise, energetic green. And the sea rich in silver.
[La Semana (Trujillo), no. 2, March 30, 1918]
[JM]
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ABRAHAM VALDELOMAR HAS DIED
“Abraham Valdelomar has died,” it says on the chalkboard of La Prensa.
At four in the afternoon I read these incomprehensible syllables, and even right now they refuse to stay in my heart. Gastón Roger has said it too and can’t resign to accepting such news. Weeping, however, I cross the street where I walked so many times with Abraham, and overwhelmed by anguish and desperation, I reach my house and quickly sit down to write these lines like a madman.
Abraham Valdelomar has died. By this time the news is flying. But can it be? Oh, this is terrible!
“Brother in pain and beauty, brother in God,” Abraham, you cannot have left forever; it’s impossible, only “like when you were traveling, brother, you’re missing.”26 Yes, that’s all, you’ve been missing since the rainy morning when you left on a train that will bring you back. Yes, you’re traveling, brother, that’s all. And you’ll come back, Abraham, very soon. Your mother awaits you; we your brothers await you too. You’ll come back to realize all your dreams of love, beauty, bounty in life, and because you have so much pain that you’ve gathered on your latest sojourns from the land which you’ll immortalize by dint of and thanks to your immense heart of a brilliant creator and artist. That’s why you’ll come back, my dear friend. Thus I feel and desire in this spring twilight with the sad pink ink that I use to write this now. And I shall see you again and wrap my arms around you, like always, with all my soul, with all my heart. Isn’t that right? At supper tonight, at the family table, when your mother, who might wish to say a word, sees the empty seat and bursts into tears … at supper tonight, we’ll tell her that you’ll come back soon, very soon, to the arms of your mother, that they’ll sing the tender and melancholic a-rro-rrO of your early poems.
But what’s come over me? Am I weeping? Why is my chest so tight? Oh, detestable chalkboard of La Prensa.
Abraham Valdelomar has died.
[La Prensa (Lima), November 4, 1919]
[JM]
Letters
TO ÓSCAR IMAÑA
Lima, January 29, 1918
Dear Óscar,
Only today have I been able to reply to your affectionate card. I’ve already told you: here, I don’t know why, the hours and days go by so quickly. Excuse me. Well? … You already know how much I care for you and how many reasons I have to remember you every instant.
Seemingly or effectively, there’s a peculiar yet powerful pain in all the letters you guys write to me. Every time I read one, my heart aches mysteriously. It might be that our missing bohemian brothers are more bohemian by the day, or it might be that I love you more from a distance. One month has passed since I embraced you on board the Ucayali, where we parted ways, and in my spirit I feel that an unknown sentimental construction has been built, one that I never foresaw. Now, I’m living my life—what can I say! I don’t know how to pin it down into any expression, but what I do know is that I’m very peaceful, filled with laughter. The sentimentality of bygone days shall never again return. I feel beautiful, lucid, crystal clear, strong, upright, olympic—come on! What do you say? Are you happy I feel this way? Very well. Such is my kingdom within!
And you? As I write this morning, I recall so many faraway things we shared. The unhealthy, stupid days of December, full of tedium; the arrogant idiotic examinations, with our bloodshot eyes, anointed with ether and pain; the Vegas Zanabrias, the Chavarrys … Oh, the horror! … I wish I didn’t remember! My tooth is going to ache, and I’m going fall into disgrace for staining this whole brotherly-love-lit letter with such dark and fateful shadows … I’d better not! As I was saying, this pleasant morning, I recall our most recent emotions from Trujillo. But, come on! Some detestable image always must surface, some heroic silhouette of Hoyos and Vinent, some deluxe memory of blind flesh that comes at a price!
As I was saying, all those long nights the two of us spent endlessly talking, all those expressions of complete, noble, spiritual comprehension between two friends, two brothers, they flow through this hour in which I’m far away from so many evil people. And, in a shirt, worked up, my mane now longer, my solitary room, full of suffering, I seem to see you approach me, affectionate, solicitous, startled, nervous, like in the good ole days, and I believe that I see you start to sigh, to smile, telling me, No, man! Go on, and you believe that! … And then, you lie down on your bed with your old coat and start reading in silence some marvelous line of French poetry … But, shoo! … Here in Lima, far from you, I revive another César, another unrest, another kind of anxiety, another life, another warmth of friendship, less spontaneous, less true, less lyrical, less great, less blue! And it makes me want to cry … What do you have to tell me about the state of your soul? Your loves, your nervous crisis, your metaphysical tortures, your lesser concerns, your urbane sensations, and the countless idiots there are in life.
Tell me, Osquitar, don’t stay silent, don’t keep quiet. I wish that your confidence, your emotions, your heartbeats always were my own.
Your little girl by now must be big and intelligent and pretty, with her select expression of goodness and spiritual distinction. Even though I haven’t made her acquaintance, you know how much sympathy your affection for her fostered in me. Give her my regards with my most devoted sign of respect. I likewise send my best for your younger sister, María.
And the two-bit girls? Lolita always with restrained desires? Marina always frivolously passionate and never without a man? Zoila Rosa, they write to me, already has another guy, blond haired and a very good friend of mine! Is it true? Will she then be suffering again that sweet desire to cry over what Benavente is telling us? Is Isabel still obviously smitten by Clark and his fox trots? And Virginia? Nice and smooth, always smooth and always nice? (Hold on … who else? who else? Hold on … Ah …) How is poor María getting on? Poor little thing, no?
Send Concepción my highest regards; and to all the girls I’ve mentioned, a fond memory.
And Muñoz? And Benjamín? And Espejo? And Federico? And? … A stupendous, immortal, noisy, troglodytic, buffoon’s embrace, without limits, without shame … (Come on, by dint of not and not and not knotting a shameless note).27 Well. It doesn’t matter. Now you see, terrible nonsense. So what?
Over here, Lima. What can I say? Valdelomar, González Prada, Eguren, Mariátegui, Félix del Valle, Belmonte, Camacho, Zapata López, Julio Hernández, Góngora.
All just literary pouting. Because you must know that the phenomenon is also of letters or rather of the man of letters. You’ll see what will become of this false, tacky stuff. I’ve not yet become friends with Clemente Palma, much less Gálvez. Do