[On board the SS Mascotte] May 15, 1894
Dear Mother,
You are still suffering from your eye trouble, and I, from this silence of mine, which comes from my shyness in expressing great affection and from my way of complaining against the misfortune that takes you from me and as vengeance against this fatal necessity of saying and writing so much about public things, against this ever more stubborn and anxious passion of mine of withdrawing into myself.
But, as long as there is work to be done, an honest man has no right to rest. Each man should render the service he can, without anyone’s chiding him for not doing so. From whom did I get my integrity and rebelliousness, from whom could I inherit them, but my father and mother?
Now Mother, I am going to Key West for a few days and, from there, will continue my work — purer than a newborn child, shining as a star, without any stains of ambition, intrigue or hatred. So, you see — how many times haven’t I told you this? — why I can’t write you.
To others, I can speak of other things. With you, I pour out my soul, even though you don’t approve of what I do with all the affection I’d wish for and I can’t write you in that unhappy land where you live without indiscretion or without lies. My pen runs on with my truth; I must either say what is in me or remain silent. Later, there is this ugly, irritating business of speaking about oneself. For the good of others, let me calmly call up all of the pity and order there is in me. And believe, because it is true, that your son couldn’t be better employed in anything else. Moreover, nothing else, even selfishness, could have better put to rest my savage, interminable grief. It gnaws and gnaws at me, and I cannot remove it from my side.
I hear constantly about you, more than I would wish you to hear about me, because all that can reach you is anguish. Carmen doesn’t learn — or is it that her goodness makes her suffer? Will I arrive in time to make the household a little happier?
My future is like that of white coal, which burns itself up to cast light on those around it. I feel that my struggles will never end. The private man is dead and beyond all resurrection, which would be that of the warmth of a happy home — an impossibility for me — wherein lies the only human happiness, or at least the root of all happiness. But the vigilant and compassionate man is still alive in me, like a skeleton that has emerged from its tomb, and I know that only conflicts and grief in men’s battle await him and that it is absolutely necessary to enter it to console and improve them. I can be at peace only with those unhappy souls who attain power seldom and with too much anger. Death or isolation will be my only reward — and, if I live, the authority of my integrity in good people and work, from which I will always be able to save a crumb for my sister Carmen.
There I leave Carmita in Central Valley, a basket of hills where in summer, at least, you can live in happy poverty. I spent a few days there with Gómez’s son, who is like a son to me, and I won’t return there for some time. The mother and daughters arrived alone, in a bad snow storm, but the apple and cherry trees have already blossomed, and they have their chickens and their acre of vegetable garden. Never before have I encountered anyone as meek and honest as Carmita. Now, I will see Manuel, who has stopped walking on air and is learning to be a cigar maker, to be trained in the brotherhood of man and the dignity of work. How are the gallant Oscar, whom I would like to have with me; the founding Mario, who should help me to create a pretty town in the countryside; and the patient Alfredo, the loyal manager? If I go on remembering, my soul will become anguished and be troubled and bloodied when it tackles the work it must do tonight. So, enough.
Yes, I would like everybody to write me and send the letters on the steam ship to Tampa, where I can be reached care of Ramón Rivero y Rivero, Ibor Factory.
Write without embarrassment, as if you were seeing me every day. I see you constantly: my romantic Chata, my worthy Carmen, my sad Amelia and my wise Antonia; I never stop seeing you, even for an instant. Lightning once struck a man dumb; you don’t want that to have happened to me, do you?
I cannot chide you, Mother. I love you and have made you suffer too much for that.
All the truth and sadness of your son.
José