The Selected Prose of Fernando Pessoa (21 page)

Let’s look more closely at the problem. Concentration is at the heart of the will, and the only concentration I have is intellectual—in my reasoning, that is. When I reason, I’m in absolute control: no emotion, no outside idea and no development that’s incidental to my reasoning can disturb its calm and steady progress. But every other kind of concentration is difficult if not impossible for me.

Thus it’s only by a centrifugal application of this centripetal will that I can manage, usually, to act with continuity. But this procedure only works, of course, for certain kinds of action. Suppose I need to write a long letter, a complicated business letter. As the director of foreign transactions for a Portuguese firm, this is something I have to do almost every day, and the only way I can do it is by mentally classifying the contents of the letter, by rationally allocating the information to be conveyed. I perform the procedure quickly, and in a case like this it’s the best one there is, for the resulting letter is clearer and more convincing. But imagine trying to apply this method to an action that’s sheer action and not—like writing a letter—purely literary! The result would be absurd if it weren’t simply nonexistent, for in this case the mental act of coordinating is completely inhibitory, and the resulting action is not to act at all. There is no strategy for performing small actions; the reality of daily life isn’t a chess game.

The import of these observations should not be exaggerated. I’m not just a conscious cadaver. But my active will is insufficient, particularly when compared to my inhibitory will.

This state of mind, or rather, of temperament, is (need I say it?) eminently antimagnetic. My psychological life is like a course in demagnetism. So now you see why I’m writing you and why I’ve subjected you to these long and tedious considerations. I would like to strengthen my active will, but without giving my emotion or my intelligence any cause for complaint. As far as I know, the only method for strengthening the will without crushing the emotions and undermining the intelligence is to develop one’s animal magnetism.

[draft ends here]

Pessoa had one romantic relationship, with two chapters, but whether he was ever in love is an open and probably unanswerable question. In the fifty-one letters he wrote to Ophelia Queiroz over a nine-month period in
1920
and a four-month period in 1929–30, Pessoa declares his ardent affection and physical desire in strong enough terms to convince us (at least in the earlier letters) that he was smitten. Less clear is whether the Cupid who did the smiting belonged to the world of human passions or to the literary garden of Pessoa’s multiplied, mythologized self
.

The letters from the first phase reveal a man with some talent in the art of seduction, though it’s hard to say what he wanted in the relationship. In the second phase the writer sometimes seems to be drunk, often claims to be mad, and reads like a man who’s groping—but not for Ophelia Queiroz. Although the two phases are equally represented here, with eight letters from each, about three quarters of Pessoa’s love letters were written in
1920.
Both phases of the relationship were thwarted by a jealous Alvaro de Campos, who at one point wrote an entire letter telling Ophelia to forget about his friend Fernando, and so there was definitely—on Pessoa’s side—some high literary sport going on. Ophelia was not amused, but she was willing to play the game, writing a letter of reply to Alvaro in care of Fernando. The liaison was not only epistolary, for the two paramours did take walks, ride the streetcar together, and talk on the telephone, but Fernando refused to be presented to Ophelia’s family, he never mentioned her to his family, and intimate physical contact seems to have been limited to stolen kisses
.

Ophelia Queiroz was nineteen years old when, toward the end of
1919,
she was hired as a secretary at Felix, Valladas & Freitas, one of the Lisbon firms where Pessoa made his living by drafting letters in English and French. Almost immediately, she and Pessoa, who was thirty-one years old, began trading glances, followed by little notes and playful verses. Piecing together information from Ophelia’s letters to Pessoa and from an interview she gave when already in her seventies, we know that their first kiss occurred on January 22
, 1920,
during a power shortage after every-one else had left the office to go home. Ophelia was putting on her coat, when Pessoa, carrying a candle, approached and dramatically declared his love with words borrowed from Hamlet, after which he kissed her with passion, “like a madman” (she told the interviewer). In the weeks following, Pessoa’s behavior toward Ophelia was ambivalent, sometimes expressing strong affection—through words and perhaps more kisses—but at other times bordering on aloofness. Ophelia, bewildered, wrote a letter on February 28, asking Pessoa for a written statement of his intentions, for she wasn’t sure his declared love was “usincere and strong enough (...) to merit the sacrifice” she was making of a relationship with a much younger man who was actively courting her and promised her a future. And so began their correspondence
.

1 March 1920

Ophelia:

You could have shown me your contempt, or at least your supreme indifference, without the see-through masquerade of such a lengthy treatise and without your written “reasons,” which are as insincere as they are unconvincing. You could have just told me. This way I understand you no less, but it hurts me more.

It’s only natural that you’re very fond of the young man who’s been chasing you, so why should I hold it against you if you prefer
him to me? You’re entitled to prefer whom you want and are under no obligation, as I see it, to love me. And there’s certainly no need (unless it’s for your own amusement) to pretend you do.

Those who really love don’t write letters that read like lawyers’ petitions. Love doesn’t examine things so closely, and it doesn’t treat others like defendants on trial.

Why can’t you be frank with me? Why must you torment a man who never did any harm to you (or to anybody else) and whose sad and solitary life is already a heavy enough burden to bear, without someone adding to it by giving him false hopes and declaring feigned affections? What do you get out of it besides the dubious pleasure of making fun of me?

I realize that all this is comical, and that the most comical part of it is me.

I myself would think it was funny, if I didn’t love you so much, and if I had the time to think of anything besides the suffering you enjoy inflicting on me, although I’ve done nothing to deserve it except love you, which doesn’t seem to me like reason enough. At any rate ...

Here’s the “written document” you requested. The notary Eugénio Silva can validate my signature.

Fernando Pessoa

19 March 1920
at 4
A.M.

My dear darling Baby:

It’s almost four in the morning, and I’ve just given up trying to fall asleep, even though my aching body badly needs rest. This is the third night in a row this has happened, but tonight was one of the worst nights of my life. Luckily for you, darling, you can’t imagine what it was like. It wasn’t just my sore throat and the idiotic need to spit every two minutes that kept me from sleeping. I was also delirious,
though I had no fever, and I felt like I was going mad, I wanted to scream, to moan at the top of my lungs, to do a thousand crazy things. It’s not only my physical illness that put me in such a state but the fact I spent all day yesterday fretting over the things that still need to be done before my family arrives.* And to top it off my cousin came by at half past seven with more than a little bad news, which I won’t go into now, darling, because fortunately none of it concerns you in the least.

Just my luck to be sick right when there are so many urgent things to do—things that no one but I can do.

See the state of mind I’ve been in lately, especially during the last two days? And you’e no idea, my adorable Baby, how constantly and insanely I’ve missed you. Your absence always makes me suffer, darling, even when it’s just from one day to the next, so think how I must feel after not having seen you for almost three days!

Tell me one thing, love: Why do you sound so depressed in your second letter—the one you sent yesterday by Osorio?* I can understand you missing me, just like I miss you, but you sounded so anxious, sad and dejected that it pained me to read your letter and feel how much you’re suffering. What happened to you, darling, besides us being separated? Something worse? Why do you speak in such a desperate tone about my love, as if you doubted it, when you have no reason to?

I’m all alone—I really am. The people in this building have treated me very well, but they’re not close to me at all. During the day they bring me soup, milk, or medicine, but they don’t ever keep me company, which I certainly wouldn’t expect. And at this hour of the night, I feel like I’m in a desert. I’m thirsty and have no one to give me a drink. I’m going crazy from this sense of isolation and have no one to soothe me, just by being near, as I try to go to sleep.

I’m cold. I’m going to lie down and pretend to rest. I don’t know when I’ll mail this letter or if I’ll add anything to it.

Ah my love, my doll, my precious Baby, if only you were here! Lots and lots and lots of kisses from your always very own

Fernando

19 March 1920, at 9
A.M.

My dear sweet love:

Writing you the above worked like a magic potion. I went back to bed, not at all expecting to sleep, but I slept for 3 or 4 hours straight—not a lot, but what a world of difference! I feel much better, and, although my throat still aches and is swollen, the fact my general condition has so improved must mean that my sickness is on its way out.

If it goes away quick enough, I may stop briefly by the office, in which case I’ll give you this letter myself.

I hope I can make it. There are some urgent matters I could take care of there (without having to go do them in person) but that I can’t do anything about here.

So long, sweet angel. Kisses and more kisses for the baby I miss, from your always devoted, always very own

Fernando

22 March 1920

Dear Baby angel:

I don’t have much time to write, naughty darling, or even that much to say that I can’t explain more clearly tomorrow, face to face, during our pitifully short walk from the Rua do Arsenal* to your sister’s place.

I don’t want you to be upset. I want you to be happy, the way you are by nature. Will you promise not to get upset, or to try your best not to? You have no reason at all to be upset, I assure you.

Listen, Baby ... In your votive offerings I want you to ask for something that always seemed unlikely, given my bad luck, but that now seems much more possible. Pray that Mr. Crosse* will win one of the grand prizes—a thousand pounds—that he’s competing for. What a difference it would make for us if this happened! In the English newspaper that came today, I saw that he’s already up to
one
pound
(and it was a contest where he wasn’t even that witty), which means that anything’s possible. He’s now
number 12
out of about 20,000 (twenty thousand) contestants. Who knows, he just may one day reach first place. Just think if that were to happen, love, and if it were for one of the grand prizes (a thousand pounds, and not just three hundred, which wouldn’t do the trick)! Can you imagine?

I just came from Estrela, where I went to see the 4th floor apartment that’s going for 70,000 reals. (What I actually saw, since there’s no one on the 4th floor, was the 3rd floor, which has the same layout.) I’ve decided to make the switch. It’s a fantastic place! There’s more than enough room for my mother, brothers and sister, the nurse, my aunt, and me too. (But there’s more to say about this, which I’ll tell you tomorrow.)

Bye, darling. Don’t forget about Mr. Crosse! He’s very much
our friend
and can be very useful to
us
.

Tons of kisses, big and small, from your always very own

Fernando

5 April 1920

Dear naughty little Baby:

Here I am at home* alone, except for the intellectual who’s hanging paper on the walls (as if he could hang it on the floor or ceiling!), and he doesn’t count. As promised, I’m going to write my Baby, if only to tell her that she’s a very bad girl except in one thing, the art of pretending, and in that she’s a master.

By the way—although I’m writing you,
I’m not thinking about you
. I’m thinking about how I miss the days
when I used to hunt pigeons
, which is something you obviously have nothing to do with ...

We had a nice walk today, don’t you think? You were in a good mood, I was in a good mood, and the day was in a good mood. (My friend A. A. Crosse was not in a good mood. But his health is okay-one pound sterling of health for now, which is enough to keep him from catching cold.)

You’re probably wondering why my handwriting’s so strange. For two reasons. The first is that this paper (all I have at the moment) is extremely smooth, and so my pen glides right over it. The second is that I found, here in the apartment, some splendid Port, a bottle of which I opened, and I’ve already drunk half. The third reason is that there are only two reasons, and hence no third reason at all. (Álvaro de Campos, Engineer.)

When can we be somewhere together, darling—just the two of us? My mouth feels odd from having gone so long without any kisses ... Little Baby who sits on my lap! Little Baby who gives me love bites! Little Baby who ... (and then Baby’s bad and hits me ...). I called you “body of sweet temptations,” and that’s what you’ll always be, but far away from me.

Come here, Baby. Come over to Nininho.* Come into Nininho’s arms. Put your tiny mouth against Nininho’s mouth ... Come ... I’m so lonely,
so lonely for kisses
...