Selected Writings (Dario, Ruben) (61 page)

I leave the Secession delighted to have found a true temple of art in times when temples of art are in the hands of the merchants, the insincere, the second-rate, the histrionic. And I salute that generous effort, with the hope that in our lands of nascent art the individual energies of the pure, the uncontaminated may come together to make something similar, far from the shoddiness of the schools of limitation and atrophy and the vain fashions that have nothing to do with the eternity of beauty.

BUDAPEST

Budapest . . . the king . . . Maria Teresa . . . the blue Danube . . . paprika . . . Tokay wine . . . and an old operetta that delighted the years of my childhood,
The Magyars,
in which a chorus sang:

 

And the colorful apparel with its bright loop-and-button fastenings, its galloons and braid, and the little lay-brother in the convent:

 

And I was enthralled with the dashing city (or rather the twins, the two cities joined by magnificent bridges), its climate, its flowers, its walks, its elegant, modern neighborhood in which almost all the new buildings are
art nouveau,
or Secession, whimsical mansions belonging to the grand aristocracy and the proprietors of huge tracts of the lucrative
puszta.
¹¹¹
It is delightful to stroll through the
kiralyi var,
¹¹²
and to admire the city’s palaces and greenery beside the blue waters of the burbling river. There are splendid edifices, such as the magnificent Parliament building, which is reflected in the Danube. The city’s broad squares, streets, and avenues, and, above all, the most beautiful women in the world make this place seem an earthly paradise. Oh! every country has lovely places and beautiful women, but the city of love and loveliness, believe me, is Budapest. There is one spot, in a suburb of the city of Pest, which is called Ó Buda Vára
¹¹³
—garden, walks, an evening fair filled with attractions, little theaters, kiosks selling all manner of things, glowing castles, flowers, perfumes, national songs, picturesque apparel—and there, I have seen a collection of beauties that would have set King Solomon himself (a man known for his exquisite taste) to meditating.

There has been one particular moment of national mourning—or more than mourning, glorification, apotheosis: the death of Jokai. Filled with the enchantments of this fascinating city, I attended the funeral ceremonies for its poet, its novelist, its national philosopher. The funeral cars laden with wreaths of flowers passed down Andrassy, on which the poet had, in life, resided; the cortége was solemn and magnificent. Representatives of the government attended the ceremony at which the memory of the old revolutionary was honored; colorful, picturesque uniforms of all types—military, university, heraldic—filed by in strict and rigorous procession. And on the balconies above, adorned with black crepe, there stood a multitude, with divine faces out of which gleamed marvelous Hungarian eyes. And at that splendor, that wonder of feminine beauty, when the coach with the freshest wreaths passed by—sent by the city’s students—I bought a bunch of roses from a flower seller and, unknown poet from a distant land, with beating heart, in a shiver of emotion, I, too, tossed my offering to old Jokai.

APPENDIX SELECTED LETTERS

(1885) To Dr. Gerónimo Ramírez

 

My dear friend:

I dedicate this little poem to you, a person who takes such pleasure in things of the mysterious Orient, a friend of all things luxurious and imaginative, someone who is so fond of that style in Zorrilla’s legends that is half pearls and half honey and flowers, to you, my dear Dr., since you are so benevolent with all that comes from my poor pen. You may remember when you suggested that I write something along the lines of the piece I have enclosed. Here it is. I am sorry that it did not turn out as I had hoped, but, unfortunately, I have been unable to find any of Theophile Gautier’s hashish anywhere. What are we to do!

Yours always,

RUBÉN DARÍO

 

(Managua), May 12, 1886

 

Rosario:

This is the last letter I will write you. Soon I’ll be taking the steamer to a very distant country and I don’t know if I’ll return. Before we’re separated, perhaps forever, I take my leave of you with this letter.

I met you, perhaps, to my great misfortune. I loved you and I still love you a great deal. Our personalities are opposites and despite how much I have loved you, it is necessary that our love come to an end. And since it would not be possible for me to stop loving you if I saw you all the time and knew how you suffer and how you have suffered, I have made the resolution to leave. It will be very difficult for me to forget you. If you were me, you would understand how I suffer, too. But my trip is arranged and soon I will say farewell to Nicaragua. I always wanted to fulfill our dreams. My conscience is clear, because, as an honest man, I never imagined that I could stain the purity of the woman whom I dreamed of making my wife. God grant that if you come to love another man you will have the same feelings.

I don’t know whether I’ll be back. I may never return. Who knows? I might die in that foreign land! I go, loving you the same as always. I forgive you for your childishness, that little girl in you, your groundless jealousy. I forgive you for the fact that you have come to doubt how much I have always loved you. If you were to remain as you are now, by moderating your character and your frivolousness, if you could continue in the same way as we did while we were first in love, I would return. I would return to fulfill our desires. You loved me a great deal, but I don’t know whether you still love me. Girls and butterflies are so fickle! . . .

If you love another, you will remember me. You’ll see. I have no desire but that you be happy.

If, while I am so far away, I were to receive news that you are living peacefully, happily, married to an honest man who loved you, I would be filled with joy and I would remember you sweetly. But if, in Santiago, Chile, I were to hear something to the contrary, some news that, even if I were to imagine it, would make my blood boil, if some friend were to write and say that you couldn’t bear to look into my eyes as we once did. . . . I would be ashamed of having placed my love in a woman unworthy of it. But this will not happen, I’m sure.

As God is my witness, I swear to you that the first person I kissed in love was you. . . .

I hope that we can see each other again with the same tenderness as always, remembering how much I loved you and still love you. Good-bye, then, Rosario.

RUBÉN DARÍO

Buenos Aires, February, 1896

 

Román Mayorga Rivas San Salvador

 

... And, to be honest, do I have anything to return to? No. Family? Have I by chance ever had a family among all those people with my surname that is mine alone today?

... I have a son and a sacred memory: that is my family. “Friends?” you might ask. Well, yes, my childhood friends are the only ones, but they’re gone, too. Some have died, others have distanced themselves. Some, when I see them, look at me as if I were a foreigner: they have treated me without the intimacy of our early years. I have discovered a new generation that was still in its infancy when I left.

So, each time I have returned to the land where I was born, I have suffered. Oh, Román, you know about the emotional sadness of my childhood, the sorrows of my youth: you also know, my dear friend, about the painful things that affect me as a man today . . . !

What else can I tell you about myself? That my life is my work. That I have given the press, especially
La Nación,
enough material over the last three years for three or four books. That I continue and will continue in the struggle . . .

RUBÉN DARÍO

 

Buenos Aires, (early 1896)

 

To Luis Berisso
Conchera de las Flores,
Gualeguay, Entre Ríos [Argentina]

 

My dear friend:

It was only a question of time before misfortune struck. The rosy part of life had repeated itself too much. Then came the gray or black part, the continuous parties that caused countless physical ailments and emotional sorrow. From the last time we saw each other until today, my brain has been on the verge of exploding, my blood nearly paralyzed; pain, fainting spells, a disaster. Then the immense disgust that considers death itself a refuge.

And then, bad news, and betrayal, and again my life grew dark at a time when it was beginning to brighten a little. Today, I was unable to eat with Doctor Iraizos because I was too sick. I have been alone, completely alone, at a time when this was least advisable. And letters that arrive, bringing terrible news, and things that I regret, and rumors and bad things!

Tomorrow, Sunday, some conversation with you would do me good. I have thought about priests, I have thought about dying—it would be for the best!—and I have gone through some horrible hours.

I need to go to some spot in nature, and not breathe this atmosphere. Come early if you can. The letters are the least of my worries; but they are a symptom. I have deceived myself, and when I least expect it, my enemies descend upon me, worse than what happened to Lugones, and I don’t even have Lugones’ enthusiasm or years of experience.

And then, some lines by Bartrina:

 

I will not go to the Ateneo. I will wait for you in my room. Good night! I will get over this somehow. It will be the third night of insomnia and black ideas. God willing, I will see you tomorrow.

RUBÉN DARÍO

 

To Miguel de Unamuno
Madrid, April 21, 1899

 

My distinguished friend:

Your letter and then your article found me in bed and so sick that the worst was expected; but, fortunately, this was absurd, and I am back on my feet and happy again.

I believe that our ways of thinking are joined in spite of differences in terms of means and methods. Insofar as Hispanic-American literature is concerned, I am of the opinion, of course, that
there is nothing there,
or at least very little, but what little there is deserves respect. What
there is
is unknown here. Here, what is known is a ridiculous and stupid bulk of work; but there does exist a small, worthwhile core.

With regard to myself, I appreciate your kind judgments, but I think I am still unknown to you just the same. I will confess to you that I do not consider myself a Latin-American writer. I wrote about this in an article I was obliged to write when Groussac honored me by writing a critical piece about my work. Prof. Rodó, from the University of Montevideo, has developed this idea more fully than I have. I am including this piece. But I am even less Castillian. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I do not think in Castillian Spanish. Rather, I think in French! Or, better still, I think
ideographically,
which is why my work is not “pure.” I am referring to my most recent books. My first works, up to
Azul
. . . , come from an undeniably Spanish stock, at least in their form.

We will speak at greater length in the near future if I follow through on my resolve to visit you in that centuries-old city that attracts me like an ancient grandmother with many stories to tell me.

Sincerely, your friend,

RUBÉN DARÍO

 

P. S. Your beautiful gift is even now on its way to Buenos Aires.

 

To Juan Ramón Jiménez
Paris, November 20, 1903

 

My very dear poet:

Each letter from you is a pleasure. And as one who has lost many sympathies and gained enemies for not writing letters, I write to you most willingly. Because, disgusted as I am with men of letters and with all the nastiness of the so-called literary life, I see in you a true poet with a healthy heart. You see far and fly high, you live in your dream of beauty. For a long time, I have seen up close, to my misfortune, only opportunists, elegant men of malice, fraudulent art, falseness disguised as friendship.

That is why your letters filled with fragrant ideas and pure sentiments are such a comfort to me.

I hope to God that disillusion comes to you as late in life as possible—for it can prove fatal.

I always like your poetry and your prose, your prose and your poetry.
Helios
is full of mental distinction; may your seriousness last and may harmful elements or mediocre things that are simply useful not find their way into your life. One must maintain the greatest orthodoxy in the most ample spirit of freedom. No pink pigs and whoring!

I’m leaving for Barcelona, finally, on the 30th, and from there I will travel to Málaga. I won’t pass through Madrid on my way back, but if you want, we can meet in Granada. That would be beautiful and most welcome.

Many thanks to Martínez Sierra, whose progress I have followed with pleasure. Give him my affectionate regards.

And to you, my dear poet, my complete
cariño.

RUBÉN DARÍO

 

To Miguel de Unamuno
Paris, September 5, 1907

 

My dear friend:

First of all, my response to an allusion you made. I am writing you with a quill [
pluma
] that I pluck out from under my hat.
¹¹⁴
And the first thing I do is complain about not having received your latest book. There might be mental differences between you and me, but it will never be said that I don’t recognize in you—especially after reading your most recent work—one of the most powerful minds, not just in Spain, but in the world.