[Prison] November 10 [1869]
Mother,
I wrote you two days ago, sending the letter with a Frenchman who comes to see the Domínguezes (not the one who went there), and he told me that he hasn’t been able to take the letter. He promised he would. Tell me if he does.
I also wrote you the day before yesterday, but I haven’t found anyone to send the letters with, and I don’t want to sent them out in the food carrier. Since I’m writing you today, I’m tearing up the letter I wrote the day before yesterday.
The prosecutor was here yesterday, and he seemed quite interested in asking about my case and how it was coming. I told him what he knew; but it’s quite strange that the person who will be trying me should be asking me why I’m in jail. I’ve been told that somebody spoke to him about me. The Domínguezes and Sellén will finally be released, and I’ll still be locked up. Prison doesn’t frighten me very much, but I can’t stand being in prison for a long time. This is the only thing I ask: act quickly, because nothing should be done to one who hasn’t done anything. At least, they can’t make any accusations that I am unable to disprove.
I’m very sorry to be behind bars, but I’m getting a lot out of prison. It has taught me many lessons that will be useful in my life — which I predict will be short — and I won’t fail to make use of them. I am 16, yet many old people have told me I seem old. And they’re right, in a way, because while I have all the recklessness and excitement of youth, I also have a small — and wounded — heart. Really, you suffer a lot, but I suffer more. God grant that, someday when I am happy, I may tell you of the problems in my life!
I am in prison, and that is the unvarnished truth, but I don’t need anything, except for some small change for coffee every so often, and this is the first time I’ve wanted any. When you don’t see your family or anyone else you love for some time, it isn’t hard to get through a day without drinking coffee. Papa gave me five or six coins on Monday. I gave two or three away and lent two.
Bring one of the girls with you on Sunday.
This is an ugly school, because, even though some decent women come here, so do some others who aren’t — four of them every day. Thank God, the bodies of women don’t move me. Their souls are the important thing, and, if their souls are ugly, they can offer their attractions elsewhere. Prison can do just about anything except change my views on this.
While here, I haven’t written any poetry. In one sense, I’m glad, because you know what kind of verses I write.
Everybody here talks to me about Mr. Mendive, and that makes me happy. Send me some books of poetry and a big one called El Museo Universal (The Universal Museum).
Your blessing on your son.
Pepe