Translator’s Note: These five letters and one telegram were written in 1951 and 1952 by Rosario Castellanos. Castellanos wrote these letters to Ricardo Guerra Tejada while traveling from Mexico City to La Concordia, Chiapas and to Chapatengo, the ranch that she inherited along with her half-brother, Raúl Castellanos, located southwest of Comitán. The previous summer, she had returned from a postdoctoral year in Madrid. In these remarkable letters, Castellanos writes of her dedication to her literary career. The reader can witness her struggle, as she writes, to define herself in direct conflict with societal expectations.
Tuxtla, December 11, 1951
My dearest Ricardo:
I arrived yesterday morning. The trip was full of mishaps, and I had to spend the night in Tehuantepec, in a hotel full of spiders and bugs. At first my brother received me somewhat suspiciously, but after five minutes he was very sweet and loving. So far, everything is going well. The day after tomorrow we leave for Chapatengo. Hopefully things will continue like this.
I have so many things to tell you. Everything I see or anything that happens to me makes me think of you. It’s obsessive. I’ve been carefully going over our situation, and I’ve come to realize that I’ve been a terrible egoist and that you must really love me very much to put up with me, the way I am and all the things that I do. I want to change everything, I want to be how you want me to be, I make a thousand resolutions to improve but then when I remember that you can’t say the least thing to me without me flying into a rage, I fly into a rage.
I love you, as much as I can love, more than I’ve ever loved anybody. But I love you very badly; I don’t know, it’s like a desperate possessiveness, a thirst for you, a desire to become completely a part of you, a pain of being separated even when we’re together, an inexpressible jealousy, a constant fear. I don’t want to analyze this anymore. In Puebla, I was very happy, especially the last night. I would have liked, like Faust, to have held on to that moment, the most beautiful, the fullest of my life. Both of us abandoned ourselves (at least that’s how I experienced it), let go of our reserve and gave ourselves fully to each other. The terrible thing is that the day and life are made up of innumerable moments when each one of us is ourselves and scarcely recognizes, when he sees the other, this being who he loves and in whom his solitude is extinguished. But it’s necessary that this moment of fulfillment permeates all the others and outlasts and overcomes them.
Don’t forget that I love you; I entrust myself to you. Don’t be excessively unfaithful, try to restrain yourself a little and love me also a little bit.
Your Rosario
TELEGRAM
Tuxtla Gutiérrez, December 12, 1951
Ricardo Guerra Tejada
Xola 715
Del Valle, D.F.
Arrived safely. Sent letter. I love you.
Rosario Castellanos
Tuxtla, December 12, 1951
My dearest Ricardo:
I tried to mail you the letter I wrote yesterday but, since Guadalupe Day is almost a national holiday here, the post office was closed. This filled me with a metaphysical anguish and that’s why I sent you a telegram, to calm myself down. It’s terrible that you know me so well. In Puebla, you predicted that as our absence grew, so would our love. You were right but you can’t imagine by how much. I’m sad, desperate, I can’t stay calm anywhere. When I’m not with you I feel a physical unease. It’s as if your presence intoxicated me. I need you the way I’d need a drug. It’s not healthy. To put myself at ease I must change my way of thinking. But I can’t. Now that I’m not with you, I miss Lolita. If it weren’t for this total feeling of absence, your absence, I would be happy. Because my brother has been very loving and I feel very comfortable with him. There’s no tension between us. All day long we’re together and we don’t say a word. Then we’re both overcome with feelings of tenderness and we hug each other and we play cards and I always win. This worries me a lot. Lucky in cards… I catch myself trying to not talk too loudly, to not ask for the food before he’s ready, to not always answer when someone asks something. He stares at me, startled. My meekness frightens him.
How have you been? Have you had any more headaches? Are you still giving yourself injections? I want so much, so very much for you to be well, and for you to stay well. Have you been going out much? How many Lupes1 have you congratulated? Don’t answer me, villain.
Did you take the things to Laura? Have you read M. Luisa Algarra’s collected works? I’m reading The Plague by Camus and yesterday I read If I Were You by Julius Green. Worse than Leviathan. It seems highly implausible.
Early tomorrow we leave for La Concordia. Will I be able to stand it? I’m on the verge of hysteria: sad, agitated, and I can’t find “a center or a respite.” I want to do something, to have a fit or cut my veins, so that instead of going to La Concordia they would take me to Mexico City. And there I would see you and hug you and fight with you and love you frenetically, like I do now.
Rosario
My dearest Ricardo:
It’s the same day, the twelfth, but after midnight. And as I promised to write you daily… It’s really a sophism, but it serves its purpose because in this way I have permission to write you.
Tuxtla is an incredible place, and I almost agree with you that Chiapas doesn’t exist. Picture it: its capital consists of a cultural center, several archeological museums, a university, a relief map of the state, a well-fed zoo, the most important botanical gardens in the country, a society for friends of the orchid, etc. And with all this you can get a fairly good idea of what it’s like; if you want to keep this idea, don’t come. You would find a place with unpaved streets, no drains, no houses, with only one lonely and pathetic movie theater and with a Hotel Jardín that’s like something completely out of the past, like the magazine América.
For example: they give you a room with two beds and only one towel. If you complain they lecture you for wanting to bathe too often. Or they paint all the doors and don’t warn you. And when you get all covered in paint and you get angry they tell you that you’re the tenth person that it’s happened to. They’re only worried about statistics. And if at night you want to rest and sleep you can’t, because in the courtyard there’s marimba and a dance. And if you complain, they tell you that you’re old and you don’t know how to have any fun. It’s lovely. Grrrrrr.
We’ve gone to the movies. We saw Fierecilla with Rosita Arenas and Flor de sangre with Esther Fernández. Nobody’s been able to console me for not being able to see La marquesa del barrio.
And you, what have you been up to? When are you going to write? You know where: at La Concordia. I absolutely need to hear from you. Don’t be miserly, please.
Are you going to Acapulco? Tell me, tell me everything.
And now, mi vida, good night. I would like to be close to you, to kiss you. Do you know what I like a lot more now than before I left? Why say, you don’t? You wouldn’t be projecting? No, please, no. I need you to be attracted to me as I am to you. I like you. I miss you very much. I don’t want to fight with you anymore and even if we do fight it doesn’t matter. I love you, above and beyond anything you or I say, words don’t have as much strength. Love has its own conviction.
Write me soon. Love me also a little.
Rosario
Chapatengo, December 15, 1951
My dearest Ricardo:
The first legible2 letter since we’ve been separated. To tell you that I’m sad and that I’m sad and what else can I say? There are many other things; but I would like to get a letter from you, a long, long letter, saying many things, explaining everything. It goes without saying that you’re not going to write me this letter. And so you’ll not allow me to write a beautiful and long and explicit letter in return. But what is it that you want? You’ve been so insistent that I cease my monologue, and now when I’m demanding a dialogue it’s precisely when there’s no one there.
But enough vague and sibylline allusions. Let’s be abstract and objective. I made the trip, happily. From Tuxtla to La Concordia by plane, no unexpected movement, no treacherous air pockets—below us a river, not moving, and microscopic trees and animals that must be down there but were impossible to make out. Then the forced landing. La Concordia, wide, with its whitewashed walls, its sandy streets. The sky so blue, implacably blue. And then, in stark relief, a palm tree. We were there for several hours, staying in the only guest house where travelers can rest. Falling asleep, walking so we didn’t get too sluggish. We played Chinese checkers, first I played with my brother. I beat him. Then with the owner of the house. I beat him. Lastly with a man who had some very funny theories, which would all be very well, if they were applied to chess, but in checkers were useless. I beat him. And I was very glad because he was conceited and angry. But I’m alarmed. This streak of good luck in cards. The champion of Chinese checkers. That’s all I need.
We left from there in the afternoon. They gave me the only horse that I can ride. I wish it had a romantic or mythical name. But it’s called, modestly and ridiculously, Barril.3 It has a smooth gait. It’s “a walker” as they say here. As we rode, night fell. The moon took a while to come out. Meanwhile, my horse was tripping and falling over everything. I suspect it’s more near-sighted than me. I went along singing so as to keep my fear at bay and to convince myself that I wasn’t getting tired. And I didn’t get tired. But as soon as I was near a bed I threw myself down and fell fast asleep.
I didn’t bring any books. My brother’s sending the ones I had to Comitán. The radio’s broken. There’s absolutely nothing to do. You wake up early because the chickens and the hogs and the cows cluck, groan and moo, and conjugate all these verbs so it’s impossible to ever know exactly to whom they correspond. You drink a cup of coffee and eat some bread and stay in bed a while longer until the sun comes up. Then you straighten up the room, you fix some imperfection that occurred sometime during the night, you have lunch, and then you enter into the tunnel of several hours when you can’t even use the hammock because it’s in the sun. Today, to entertain ourselves, we came up with a fun activity that kept us busy all morning. Raúl shaved my head. First with a pair of scissors; zap, off with the long pieces, then with some smaller scissors, leaving it very short. Lastly, with the razor. He left my head shining, smooth, polished. We had a great time. And, besides, like this I can’t leave, even though I want to, until it grows, my hair, even if it’s only a centimeter. Hmm. I wonder what we’ll think up for tomorrow.
In the morning, a young girl, who I didn’t recognize, came to see me; she brought me some eggs as a gift. I asked her who she was, how long she’d been here. Only for a little while. It was only four days ago that her mother got together with one of the vaqueros. And she says it so calmly. She must be used to it. When I listened, I felt something like a chill. Today for the first time I was tempted to use curse words. Those I know; the ones I’ve been hearing since coming here. Here it’s the only way to express yourself. Saying a bad word is like fanning yourself. It’s refreshing. And even though it’s not hot right now, on the contrary, it’s getting cold. Especially at night. You have to use a ton of blankets. Everybody has malaria.
As for my relationship with Raúl, we get along better than ever; I feel very good, very content when I’m with him. He has a package with all the letters I’ve sent him. Except for the last two: the one where I told him I wanted to get married and the one with my answer to his answer to that letter. It seems strange that he didn’t keep those two letters, don’t you think? Now he’s more settled, more confident, calmer than before. I’m very pleased. I don’t think he’s happy. But I don’t think he suffers as much as he used to. And to think that only two years ago I was in a state of despair thinking that anything that you did with him was useless. Now he’s conscious of his worth and his abilities. On the ranch, they respect him, they take him seriously and they acknowledge his abilities. And he feels very good about himself. I’m very, very happy, truly. Today he gave me some silk handkerchiefs. His name is embroidered on them. A girl gave them to him but he hasn’t wanted to use them. He also asked me if I wanted him to mail my letter knowing it was for you. I sighed a sigh of relief. He didn’t really like the gift that I brought him from Spain. What can I do? Anyway, we’re happy.
Did you read the collected works of María Luisa Algarra? What did you think? Tell me. Write me, please, I have a crazy need to hear from you. Give me the chance to tell you so many things. Tell me how you’ve been feeling; if you’ve been back to see Cabrera, tell me if you’ve seen Lolita, if you ever did the errands for Laura Beatriz, if you’re going to Acapulco for the holiday, if you’ve been invited to a lot of Christmas parties. I’ve decided to no longer wind my watch, to not look at the calendar. It’s the most radical experiment of solitude I’ve ever tried. Let me see what happens. If I burst, or if I get used to it, or if I write my complete works.
Do you think of me sometimes? How? Please tell me. Another day when I am less literary than today I’ll send you a letter where I’ll tell you how much I love you. Now I only want you to know, like this, simply, I love you.
Rosario
Chapatengo, December 22, 1951
My dearest Ricardo:
Everyday I’ve been writing you and tearing up the letters. Not one seemed satisfactory. Because I have something important to tell you and I’m not finding the right way to say it. Because I’m afraid of not being precise and that you’ll misinterpret me. For this reason I want to say, before anything else, I love you. But something has come up that absolutely must be said. And I don’t have any option but to respect that.
Life is full of surprises. Do you remember in what frame of mind I came to Chapatengo? I was expecting to find here an ogre, a thorn, one more problem that would make everything intolerable, not to mention difficult for sentimental reasons. I remember, with much bitterness and with the urge to flee, episodes from my past trips; the horse that acted up, medicines denied to me, attacks of rage, etc. All in all, I was very afraid because, faced with such situations, the only way I know how to defend myself is by disappearing. And I come here and I find a brother who’s confident and mature. And last Sunday in an intimate conversation I find out that he knows me better than any other person, that he judges everything knowing the depths of my defects and, so marvelously, he accepts me as I am and he loves me. Ever since the tension between us has evaporated. I feel completely at home and I trust him implicitly. I feel very, very happy. But I can’t give myself any credit for the fact that our relationship has been so good. It’s him, even through all our difficulties, who has found the thread and has untangled the knots. I would have continued for years and years with my mistaken attitude. That consisted, as you know so well, of unadulterated drama. Because always when I’m in front of another person, I put myself in their place, and I look at myself as I imagine they are looking at me and I immediately begin to act according to this look. In superficial relationships with people I don’t need to see very often or with whom I’m not very close, it doesn’t really matter. The farce can continue. But when the relationships are of another kind, the farce, whatever it may be, simply cannot be sustained. With my brother I had scripted for myself an extremely uncomfortable role. I was the strong woman. My heart, an unshakeable rock. My convictions, my projects, clear and steady. And, not to mention, I was an Amazon able to withstand eight and a half hours on horseback without showing the least sign of fatigue, able to help out with the branding without blinking an eyelash (the suffocating heat, those clouds of smoke, the enormous number of biting insects). And, not to mention, savvy in business, capable of getting the ranch back on its feet. When I look at all this now, it makes me laugh. Where did I get such an extravagant image? From Rómulo Gallegos’s Doña Bárbara, at the very least. But it was a role that was too big for me and demanded an enormous effort. All day long I had to be on my guard. I needed to pretend that ten minutes after I got on a horse I didn’t need to pee and sit down and cry from exhaustion; that at branding I didn’t become bored stiff; that I understood anything about the price, the age or the size of the cattle when I’ve never even been able to tell the difference between a bull and a cow. When I’ve never been able to recognize any of the pastures or corrals. I’ve always needed to be on my guard, watching myself very carefully. But I knew that despite everything my act wasn’t very convincing and that everywhere the fake ear was easily discerned.4 For this reason I got very annoyed (more like alarmed) when my brother told me I was near-sighted. A blind Amazon? It’s inconceivable. It’s completely antithetical. But I didn’t want to admit defeat and I kept trying to keep up pretenses. But the effort it required to hide my true self paid its due. So, our relationship was a disaster. Now he, without hurting me, shows me what I truly am. A weak person, who isn’t the least bit mature, voluble, inconsistent because she doesn’t know what she wants nor what she should do nor what she can do. For instance, how on a ranch, she needs to be sitting nicely inside while the men do the men’s work. And how she has the right to sleep if she wants to sleep, to write if she needs to and she doesn’t need to understand anything about the ranch even though people are always explaining it to her. And he tells me this, not as a reproach, but so that there’s nothing that comes between us and so that we can feel comfortable with each other. How happy I am. To be able to go to the river and not go in a certain part because I’m afraid; to go to the corral for a while to watch them vaccinate the calves, but, as soon as I get bored, to go back to the house. To stretch myself out in the hammock and to spend hours not doing anything, simply thinking, to write without the need to go around hiding myself, to get up late, to listen to the radio until I’m tired, to use his typewriter whenever I want, to read his magazines without the need to ask permission, to play cards and beat him and not feel offensively happy or ridiculously guilty and to lose and not take it as a personal offense. I’m near-sighted? Great. I’ve never felt so good with anybody. I compare this relationship to all my others. Why are they so problematic, and why do I consider their foundation so precarious and in danger of being broken? Because I am, in all of them, playing a role, making an effort that extracts from me, naturally, minor acts of revenge, very inconvenient for everyone. Why do I do it? Because of my desire to please, because I think nobody is going to accept me as I am. My intentions are good, but the results couldn’t be any worse. Because I don’t fool anybody, and I only manage to make myself and everybody feel as though we’re walking on eggshells. And I’m always trying to find a graceful exit from situations whose root is the anguish of the question. If they realize who I really am, what will happen? And I can’t expect that everybody and everyone with whom I have a difficult relationship should dedicate themselves, on their own initiative, to investigating who I am and, once this is discovered, a miracle will occur and they’ll feel very kindly towards me and tell me that it doesn’t matter, that they love me anyway. So I’ve personally decided, no matter how hard, no matter how painful and humiliating it may be, no matter how fearful this makes me, to unmask myself.
The first mask which I had to get rid of (because this one modifies all the others) was the one I had made for Wilberto. For three years I’ve been leaning up to him as if he were a mirror in which I could contemplate a reflection that pleased me very much; I was an exceptional human being, completely detached from the earth, ready to listen to the first summons to take flight. And I allowed everyone to believe (and I even allowed myself to believe) that the face that I showed them was that of a being who suffered a pure love, unselfish, constant, and, ay, impossible. This lent me great romantic prestige. But if this homemade being and this love had been real, it would have manifested itself in acts, and not in just letters (that can be confused with a simple predilection to cultivate a certain literary style) and from time to time with an unexpected and brief meeting. But at the hour of the cocolazas, what’s happened? Nothing. Anything that would prevent our romantic romance from materializing. And previously I would be full of remorse for my refusals. But now I’m sure that Wilberto was as scared as me that at some time we would take our flirtations to a more serious level. But now that I’ve decided to become a serious person and to throw out any skeletons; no matter how old, I’ve screwed up my courage (I should also mention that I’ve consumed a steak for sustenance) and I wrote Wilberto a letter, a very long letter, describing, from my point of view, our situation. I don’t know what he’ll think. I think that he’ll be in for a mild shock. I don’t want to hurt him, but I was very direct. When he gets this letter, he’ll know that there’s no point in ever mentioning the word marriage. Friendship, yes. I’m very fond of him. And it hurts me very much to destroy myself in front of him in such an inexorable way. But it was necessary, absolutely necessary. Only by acting like this can I aspire to not completely hate myself.
And now it’s necessary, Ricardo, that before you, I strip off another mask. I don’t know how you see me. How was I to know? I needed to concentrate on you, on what you think, on what you want. And this I’ve never done. And know that you see me, putting myself in your place, and through your eyes, as a woman so feminine, so tender, so sweet, so loyal, so faithful, so discreet and so much in love.
From what romance novel did I get this type? I don’t know. The only thing I can tell you (and this isn’t news to you) is that I’m not like this. I’m very different and I don’t say this with pride and by shrugging my shoulders so as to imply, so what? But with humility along with a very well-founded suspicion that I can’t change.
Let’s take it slowly, we’ll start at the beginning. So feminine… Well, not really. It could be that I am (I don’t have any special interest in denying it), it could be that I am… But together with this and as much as this, I’m an asexual being who simply believes, with a certain ferocity and deep intensity, in her vocation. And that this vocation is neither maternal nor amorous but literary. And up until now, when both these qualities have come into conflict, the first one ends up being completely “knocked out.” So tender… Well, if I’m going to concede this one it will have to be with the qualification that only at times. Most of the time, sarcastic and obstinate. So sweet… Really? So loyal. Inasmuch as loyalty is compatible with a morbidly acute sense of criticism. So faithful. Physically yes, irreproachably so. I’m intact. Nobody has touched me except for you. But let’s not forget that I’ve had dreams (I couldn’t help it, how could I?). I write letters and, on occasion, receive them. So discreet: But sometimes I have a very strong desire to confide in someone. And Lolita is so close and is my most intimate friend. (But neither am I very demanding when it comes to finding a listener when I need to get something off my chest and this is always the case when I feel remorse and I always feel full of remorse, I tell everything to the first person I meet, I’m completely incapable of keeping any secret.) And so in love… I admit it on the days when we get along… I doubt it or deny it the rest of the time.
I know that someone like me can’t be a very satisfactory girlfriend, she is very far from what one needs, one desires, what one wishes for, especially for you, who more than needing to love, needs people to love you. For this reason, I’ve tried to be different, at least to seem to be. Before going away this seemed relatively easy and possible. Not because I loved you more than I do now (on the contrary) but because you were less demanding. I saw right away that my efforts were successful and I felt encouraged to continue. But now, no matter what I do, I can’t get anywhere. You always realize my faults. And if only it was your astuteness that I so feared. It’s also your lack of interest, your desperation. You reproach my egoism, my fault of attention, my stubbornness, callousness. I swear to you that I try to destroy them. It’s useless. And then I feel like a wall that people are hitting to extract some blood that it just doesn’t possess. It’s awful discovering that at every moment I lack the least little bit of generosity, that my whole exterior is a barrier that neither your deeds nor your voice can penetrate. I invent you to keep you at a distance, I don’t see you, I don’t listen to you. And instead of admitting the obvious, I come back with a very feminine logic, against you. I reproach you to justify my own shortcomings. Which, according to you, can be reduced to one only: I don’t love you enough.
But the worst thing is that, inside this monstrosity that is Rosario, I love you. But it’s a love that, if I could describe it to you, would seem like an insult for its stinginess and for how different it is from the love that you want, that you need. I am ashamed to love in this way (I’m so proud that I feel obligated to do everything perfectly) and I start to perform a series of acts that are what other people do when they fall in love. But you can see through these acts and see that there’s something else which, if it were left to be free, would express itself in another way.
It’s not that I’m not trying. As much as I can love, I love you. As much as a person can be to my liking, you are. With all my heart I want us to get along well. But if this is not enough for you, it would be pointlessly sad for us to keep trying and hurting ourselves and each other. Look at me closely, think about it carefully. And without trusting that I can change with time, and our time together and the good advice that you give me, think if I seem satisfactory. If not, I prefer that you tell me now. (If this is the case, I’d indefinitely prolong my stay in Chiapas.) If you want me, I’ll come back very happily and we’ll try to negotiate our future.
How have you been? Are you still giving yourself injections? Are you finally going to go to Acapulco? Did Emilia go to Europe? What happened with Morelia? I’m bursting with questions. Your answers must cover everything. I send you millions of happy wishes for Christmas and the New Year. And all, all of my love.
Rosario
P.S. Tell Jorge that I have the words for “Modesto Ayala.” I’ll send them to him soon. Right now, I’m very tired.
Tell Archie and Lucinda that I’ve dreamt about them twice. My hair has grown a quarter of a centimeter. I’m writing theater, in verse!
Chapatengo, January 10, 1952
My dearest Ricardo:
Really, I believe there wasn’t any need to write this letter. It would have been enough to prolong the silence. But unclear situations upset me and I prefer to end this once and for all.
I don’t want to make a list of my merits, but I do want to say that I did all that was in my power to prolong a love that you never bothered to respect. I won’t deny that when I came here from Mexico City, I was already very disillusioned. But, out of loyalty, I still wrote you a few letters and I didn’t show you how bad things were with me until I was sure that I wasn’t going to use my liberty to marry someone else, because, to me, this wouldn’t seem right no matter who was involved and I just couldn’t do it. In all the time I’ve been here, I haven’t gotten one letter from you. I must interpret your silence, now without any appeal, as a complete lack of interest and love. And now that I no longer find those two things, where before I always could, in me, I really don’t know what game we’re playing.
I also don’t want to blame you for anything. What I feel for you is much more like friendship than love. And this is what I offer you. But as I doubt you are interested in something that you have such an abundance of everywhere, I won’t insist.
I beg you to give Lolita, if you haven’t already given them to their owner, the books by María Luisa Algarra. Also, the letters you have which were sent to me in Spain.
Give my regards to your mamá. Tell her I got her very kind note and I’ll reply with pleasure and, as I don’t know how to say good-bye to you, I’ll say good-bye by simply saying adiós.
Rosario
Translated by Nancy Jean Ross
Original title: Cartas a Ricardo, by Rosario Castellanos, pp. 169-179 & 181
© Gabriel Guerra Castellanos
1 Lupe is a girl’s name, short for Guadalupe. Castellanos is referring to the saint’s day, which in Mexico is celebrated like a birthday.
2 It is likely that Castellanos is referring to the fact that she now has access to a typewriter, while she wrote her previous letters by hand.
3 “Barrel”
4 Possibly a reference to Charles Perrault’s fairy tale, “Peau d’Âne” (Donkey Skin), in which a princess with the help of a fairy godmother disguises herself with a donkey skin so as to escape her father’s attention.
Photo: Mexican writer Rosario Castellanos, 1925-1974.
