Pibín caught cold coming home from the dock. That child catches everything. I hear him now coughing from the bedroom. How I worry that I will not be able to keep my vow to you!
Your Salomé
Miércoles, 8 junio 1887
Mi querido Pancho:
I could write you every day of the week, but I will not even try. The steamboat now comes only once a month. Besides, what I write this morning, no longer applies tonight. The patience and hope of dawn turn into desperation by dark.
I have started a poem about our son’s remark on the dimming of the sun after his father left. But this poem, I warn you, will not be like those old declamations of mine, which you prefer. I know you are still harboring the hope that—as you said the night before you left—I will “create something of lasting value for the generations to come.” I have, Pancho: our three sons!
Your Salomé
Domingo, 16 agosto 1887, Restoration Day
Pancho, love:
Celebrations are going on throughout the city. The children are pleading with me to let them go out and follow the marching band. But—and I don’t want to worry you—some cases of croup have been reported in the capital, and I am sick to death thinking of the danger to our little ones. I give them their pills of Clorato as they are all too young to gargle, and—pobrecitos—I keep them inside.
I myself have not felt well in a while now, as you know. The move to this damp, dark house has not helped. But Mamá could no longer accommodate our instituto. (I already have sixty-seven registered when classes start up again.) I wake up nights unable to breathe. I have been following Alfonseca’s prescription and drink the Estramonio tea at supper along with a small dose of Ipecacuana. I am also trying to follow the regimen you set out for us before you left: we take the first streetcar out to Güibia beach and are back by seven-thirty in time for me to open the school doors downstairs by eight. The sea air is good for the boys. So far I have not noticed any improvement in my own health.
The Ayuntamiento has still not paid the promised funds for last year. Federico says he will take the matter up with Lilís himself. But Federico and Hostos have enough trouble on their hands. I had better say no more. As we know, no flies can enter a closed mouth.
—¡Qué viva la patria! I hear the shouts outside my window. And our dear Pibín asks me—¿Qué es patria, Mamá?—I don’t have the heart to answer him: there is no patria with Lilís in power.
A fly buzzes in my mouth. I am glad Don Eliseo is carrying this letter by hand.
Your Salomé
Sábado, 3 diciembre 1887
Pancho:
Today is our Fran’s birthday: five years old. He holds up all the fingers of his right hand and writes his name FRAN for good luck on a little paper to put under la virgencita’s statue. (Tía Ana insists.) He is so proud of himself!
Hostos brought over his four boys and little María to celebrate. And you know how the apostle turns everything into a lesson. He taught Fran his numbers by asking him the ages of everyone present: How old is Max? Two fingers! And Pedro? Three! And Mamá? Here he gets very stumped as he hasn’t enough fingers to hold up. Hostos, by the way, was quite surprised. He did not know that I am nine years your senior.
You ask after the croup—we are all bracing ourselves for the rainy season—as there do seem to be increased instances. But I beg you, Pancho, do not threaten me as you did! I know you entrusted this treasure to me. I will do everything in my power to keep my vow to present our sons to you, happy and healthy, upon your return. But if, oh if, God forbid, something should happen to any one of them, you must not turn a desperate hand on yourself. What of our other sons? What of me?
(MUTILADA)
Viernes, 9 diciembre 1887
Pancho, dear:
Yesterday I received several of your letters, dated October 3, October 21 (thank you for your birthday wishes: thirty-seven nails in my coffin, as Don Eloy used to say), and November 3. I do wonder if some of your letters (or mine) are not getting lost. You refer to your instructions to me in an earlier letter about getting the Ayuntamiento to pay their debt to me. No such earlier letter ever arrived.
I must be more careful than ever what I say, unless a trusted individual is carrying the letters by hand—as the Llomparts are, in this instance.
Federico comes by often and unannounced. He cautions me what I should write so that you can continue in your studies without preoccupations. I wonder if some of my letters have not been held back? This one should get by the family censor, at any rate. Matilde Llompart promised not to say a word about it. She sews all correspondence into the bodice of her dress, afraid of Lilís’s spies.
Trust only the letters that come from me to you in the hands of friends.
Your Salomé
Domingo, 1 enero 1888
Pancho, dearest:
How many hopes and fears for this new year ahead of us! I tell myself: I must be strong. This whole one, and half of another one, and then you will be back.
I send you my new year’s gift: “Tristezas.” Perchance if I put my sadness in poetic form, you will allow me to say how much I miss you? It is unkind of you to chide me for complaining. Why should I not complain when you are so far away from me? I feel so alone, Pancho, so alone. Had I not made my vow to you, I believe I would succumb to melancholy.
The croup is now an epidemic. I do not let the children out of my sight. Every time they wail and I am on the point of giving in to their pleas, I recall my vow, and I remain firm.
My asthma is no better. If your theory is correct that the affliction is nervous, then I will not expect any improvement until you return.
6 enero (CONTINUACIÓN)
Today, for Three Kings, I had nothing to give the children. With the Ayuntamiento debt outstanding and with the stipend I am sending you, there is nothing left for frivolities. So, I invented a game: each one was allowed one wish. Hostos stopped by with his children and thought of an ingenious (and educational) refinement to the game: each one was to make a wish with the letter of the alphabet he called out.
—It will teach them spelling, quick thinking, vocabulary—he explained to me. I asked what wish he would want.
—It depends on the letter, he said, falling silent.
As you know, the campaign against him continues in the papers. Your brother Federico has undertaken our maestro’s defense in El Mensajero. But this merely serves to incite Lilís’s suspicions against our apostle and his ire against your brother.
Lilís has announced that he will hold elections this summer. Between the croup and the rebellions always attendant on our elections, I expect a year of trouble.
Your sons remain well. Pibín and Max suffer often from coughs. Dr. Pietri has examined them as well as Dr. Arvelo and they concur with Dr. Alfonseca, the boys are in good health. But the doctors all noted that I seem overwrought with the boys’ well-being. They do not know the vow I have made to you.
My one wish: that you were here.
Your Salomé
Miércoles, 11 julio 1888
Pancho, dear:
Some days the heart is lighter. Who can explain the mystery? Even Hostos, who is always emphasizing the rational side of things, agrees that we cannot begin to understand the deep springs of our being.
It seems your brother Federico showed him my poem “Tristezas.” Must your brother read all our correspondence? Even what I manage to get past him here, you return for his perusal.
Some good came of your brother’s indiscretion: el maestro was so concerned about my state of mind, he came by for a talk. I must admit that I have felt uplifted the rest of this day. The work we are doing, el maestro reminded me, is a seed in the ground, invisible until it flowers—unlike a poem I can hold in my hands.
You accuse me of being bold in what I write—that is not a new proclivity of mine, as you well know.
El maestro sends his regards. So do these three little grackles who must make their mark here:
Papancho,
come home soon! Your son, Fran
Papancho, bring me wood letters to complete my set, Pibín
XXXXXXXX (Max says he has written his “big name,” Maximiliano, I suppose)
And finally, your Salomé
Jueves, 6 septiembre 1888
How dare you doubt my integrity! I cannot believe your brother, who does not allow any worrisome letter of mine to get through for fear it might preoccupy you (so that I, who hate subterfuge, have had to devise this scheme of sending what letters I can in the hands of friends and acquaintances), then turns around to disturb your peace of mind with this insulting rumor.
NO MAN VISITS THE HOUSE except Federico and your countless brothers and our honorable friend Hostos. How dare you call me to account after all my sacrifices!
(ORIGINAL INCOMPLETO)
Domingo, 21 octubre 1888
My beloved husband:
We received your poem, which Federico kindly read to my students without telling them who had written it. But they all guessed you as the writer! Very pretty verses. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
I also received the lovely silk gown you purchased in Nantes. But Pancho, dearest, where am I to wear such a dress when I go out nowhere without you here? Please recall for the next time that I asked that the boys’ socks not be white as they are little ones and I have dismissed the laundry woman in order to save funds. Max, by the way, is already as large as Pibín—but these small ones will fit any number of our little nephews.
Hostos and his schools are under serious attack. My instituto, being for females, has so far escaped the blows. But Hostos’s students are harassed when they try to enter his school. We have had to line the route with supporters. True to his Henríquez name, your brother is first among them. He stands by me as I write this and protests that I must not praise him so highly.
We are all well. My asthma is improved. Elections in August were peaceful—how could they not be? Only eleven thousand voted out of one hundred thousand franchised men, and all those were in favor of Lilís. His opponents flee to Haiti, where, we hear, they are planning an invasion. Our old enemy now harbors the seeds of our future! But it remains to be seen whether our patria shall ever flower.
We are working day and night to be able to graduate the next class by the time Hostos leaves in December. Yes, el maestro has accepted an invitation from Chile to organize schools there. We lose our best men. It seems they have only two choices: destierro or entierro, exile or death. The girls come at seven and they do not leave until six. If you are wondering when I take the boys for their seaside excursion—as you ordered—the croup epidemic is at such proportions that I no longer feel safe taking the streetcar.
Only Mimí is allowed out. Can the croup be transmitted by cats? Please confer with Dieulofoy.
Federico says not to worry you, to repeat that the boys are well, that my asthma is better, and your first poem in eight years is quite fine.
25 octubre (CONTINUACÍON)
Such a touching scene, Pancho. I wished you had been a witness. Imagine my six oldest girls, bent over their diagrams of the insides of flowers (such memories, Pancho, such memories). They stay after school to finish their botany lessons so that they can graduate before el maestro leaves. Every once in a while, a sigh of weariness or wonder escapes their lips.
Suddenly, I look up to find them gathered around me, their pretty eyes moist, their faces downcast. Eva speaks up and says,
—Maestra, we all feel so sad to think you have given up your poetry to teach us.
Poor girls. For years they have been harboring this feeling of culpability.
I explain that my silence has had nothing to do with them. My country’s sufferings, its falls, and lapses are the primary cause.
—You cannot know yet—I told them—young as you are, how deeply one can love one’s country.
Tu Salomé
Lunes, 10 diciembre 1888
Pancho, dearest:
I am sending this with the Grullóns who depart next week.
Your brother is insufferable. He shows up at all hours, even at week’s end when I close off the bottom of the house. It would seem a kindness if it were not for his suspicions. Yesterday evening, Hostos dropped by to examine the girls and say goodbye. Along came Federico, snooping. Today (I had to laugh!) he heard Mimí with her new litter under my bed and insisted on checking the room, “for my own protection.”
You say you require more frequent news of your sons. But what am I to do when your brother will not permit more frequent transmissions? He says we cannot afford to be sending correspondence as often as I like.
I understand that you have passed your courses, but now there is some controversy between me and Federico about when you are to come home. My understanding is that you will be back in June once you have written your thesis: a two-year separation, remember? But no, Federico says, shaking his head with assurance. The medical degree from the University of Paris is granted after six levels and you have passed only your first two. There is at least a year or two to go.
I have felt at the point of madness hearing this.
(ORIGINAL INCOMPLETO)
Lunes, 17 diciembre 1888
Pancho:
Last Saturday we graduated my second set of teachers. It would have been a joyous occasion if it were not that we all knew that this was also a farewell to Hostos.
Lilís’s spies were as thick as flies.
And now our apostle is gone. On Thursday, a crowd of his followers accompanied him and Belinda and the four boys and little María to the docks. It might have been you leaving again—I felt such desperation—
Ay, Pancho, Pancho, life without you frightens me!
I hear Pibín calling—
Your Salomé
Lunes, 24 diciembre 1888
Noche Buena, dearest! and a good night it is, for your brother allows me an extra letter for our last packet of the year.
My gift has already come. Pibín is fully recovered! Yes, I tell you the news now, for your brother would not allow me to breathe a word of this in my earlier letter: our son succumbed to the croup and for days he was between life and death. I have aged years in this one month: Pibín’s illness, Hostos’s departure. The poem I am sending you, “Angustias,” speaks for itself.
My vow remains unbroken.
Your Salomé
Viernes, 1 marzo 1889
Pancho:
How did you catch the measles? Is there an epidemic there? I understand from your letter to Federico that you have been named our delegate to the Americanist congress and will prepare a paper on how the bones of Columbus reside here.
How unkind of you, Pancho, not to mention this to me. Every thing that affects you, affects me. And remember, such secrets always come out. The packets and letters, addressed to Federico, are as often as not delivered here. And you really don’t expect me to wait until your brother comes by to open them.
Of course, this news is upsetting to me. You have explained about the six levels that you only found out about after you got there. I have resigned myself to another year of waiting. But if the time is so short, why fill it with other distractions?
I cannot comprehend why you must move from rue Jacob, which seemed adequate, to Mazarine, where the board is more expensive, as you yourself admit. Surely not just to be close to Café Procope where Molière and Voltaire drank coffee!
(ORIGINAL ROTO)
Sábado, 7 abril 1889
Pancho, dear:
Are you quite serious about my sending Fran?
We had a conference about it—all of us—and I’m afraid we’re evenly divided as to what to do. Tía Ana and Federico both think it would be a fortifying experience for our young son to go. His bad behavior, his tantrums, his violence are cause for alarm. Ramona and Mamá (“Mon and Manina”—the boys rename everyone!) both say that it is unpardonable to ship a six-year-old child across an ocean, even if he will be accompanied by our good friend Don Eugenio.
I myself
vacillate horribly.
The child is quite determined that he wants to go to Paris and see his father and the bears. Why he thinks that there are bears in Paris, I don’t know. The things of children! But just his saying so reminds me that he is a child. He has been behaving much better so as not to ruin his chances of getting to go on a ship. He no longer hits my little girls or disrupts my classes with his violent Achillean tantrums.
Pancho, I will let myself be guided by your opinion.
Your Salomé
Lunes, 17 junio 1889
Dearest Pancho:
This missive goes pinned to the coat of our dear one as amulet and admission that I am sending him, our love child, to keep myself in your heart. On my darkest nights I have feared that another muse has captured your imagination and that is why you delay your return and write so seldom. I know I must not trouble you as you have so much on your mind. But my own imagination works on your absence as if it were a blank sheet of paper.
Fran leaves tomorrow. Don Eugenio promises me that he will not let our boy out of his sight during the crossing. Twenty-four days at sea! I try to anticipate the desperation I will feel when I see his beribboned sailor cap grow smaller and smaller as the ship leaves the dock.
Did I tell you I have a reverie I allow myself in low moments? I picture myself sailing across the sky until I am above you in Paris as you walk to your dissection classes or your hospital rounds at Necker. I hope Doctor Dielafouy will like the cigars I am sending with our Fran. Please tell him that I have appreciated all his consejos about how to treat my asthma. But between us, my dear, I will gladly drink all the papaya juice I can get my hands on, but I draw the line on enemas of sulphur gas. Where, for one thing, am I to get sulfur gas in our little capital? Por Dios, Pancho, this is not Paris!
Do take into account our oldest’s violent temper, which has only grown worse since your departure. The attention of a father will no doubt improve his character. He prefers café con leche to water with chocolate as he wants to be a little man. (I prepare mostly hot milk with a dash of coffee.) He does wet his bed on occasion, so be sure to remind him to empty his bladder, and if perchance, you share a bed with him, take precautions.