Rosalía de Castro was looking over her writing, thinking which pieces she might send to the States. As she did this, an immense feeling of uncertainly took hold of her again. It shouldn’t have, and she was well aware of this, but she always felt she was likely to not be understood at all, or would be profoundly misunderstood.
[Editor’s Note: Rosalía was correct in sensing she would be misunderstood, because both during her lifetime and for decades, even a century afterward, she would be seen as a ‘poetess’ who ‘felt the peasants’ pain’. She would never have wanted to be called ‘Santa Rosalía’. What she couldn’t imagine was what would start to emerge around the time of the immense event commemorating the hundredth anniversary of her death in 1885.]
Since she had been corresponding with the American women, however, she had been encouraged by the things she felt they had in common. Not everything, of course, but some common elements had kept them writing and she had found others with similar ideas. Rosalía was incredibly curious and very intelligent; she also read everything she could get her hands on. She could read French well.
[Editor’s Note: Some critics insisted Rosalía couldn’t possibly know French, being a woman and Galician. These critics, mostly men from Galicia, obviously didn’t know a thing about the multilingualism that was characteristic of educated women in numerous countries, including the translations of classical and contemporary texts done by women in Europe and America.
It’s quite possible that Rosalía acquired a decent knowledge of English through the translations sent to her from the distant shores.
We also suspect that there are still extant translations of texts sent by the Grimké sisters and numerous other women, for translation into Galician. After all, the correspondence was collaborative. Perhaps not all the writings sent to Galicia were addressed to Rosalía? Where else can we search?]
[Lavinia’s Note: I know this is true! I saw some of the things women sent. This is my part of the story!]
On this occasion, Rosalía was looking at her first novel and wondering if she should send it chapter by chapter or all at once. La hija del mar [Daughter of the Sea] had been published in 1859. She was 22 years old, married, her first child was born in May, seven months after marrying Manuel, about whom little will be said. A lot of people don’t pay much attention to introductions to books, but they should. She had put her heart into this one, and had taken a risk. Had she camouflaged or confused her intentions well enough to get away with it?
[Editor’s Note: She camouflaged it well enough so readers and critics of the novel passed it off as a romantic, outdated story of the wild Galician coast with a pirate character. A pirate whose effect on the women he knew was devastating.]
The author thought she would send this brief presentation of Daughter of the Sea, which would be translated into English years later. She wanted her distant friends to know that she had always wanted to write about important things, not the romantic, local custom pieces that were circulating at the time.
[Translator’s Note: The translations below are my own. There may be slight variations from the published English version, but the ones below are close enough.]
La hija del mar
Antes de escribir la primera página de mi libro, permítase a la mujer disculparse de lo que para muchos será un pecado inmenso e indigno de perdón, una falta de que es preciso que se sincere.
[Before writing the first page of my book, allow a woman to ask forgiveness for what many might think is a terrible sin, unworthy of pardon, an error about which the truth must be told.]
Bien pudiera, en verdad, citar aquí algunos textos de hombres célebres que, como el profundo Malebranche y nuestro sabio y venerado Feijoo, sostuvieron que la mujer era apta para el estudio de las ciencias, de las artes y de la literatura.
[To tell the truth, I could certainly quote here from some texts by illustrious men who, like the wise Malebranche and our learned and venerated Feijoo, declared that women are capable of studying the sciences, the arts, and literature.]
Posible me sería añadir que mujeres como madame Roland, cuyo genio fomentó y dirigió la Revolución francesa en sus días de gloria; madame Staël, tan gran política como filósofa y poeta; Rosa Bonheur, la pintora de paisajes sin rival hasta ahora; Jorge Sand, la novelista profunda, la que está llamada a compartir la gloria de Balzac y Walter Scott; Santa Teresa de Jesús, ese espíritu ardiente cuya mirada penetró en los más intrincados laberintos de la teología mística; Safo, Catalina de Rusia, Juana de Arco, María Teresa, y tantas otras, cuyos nombres la historia, no mucho más imparcial que los hombres, registra en sus páginas, protestaron eternamente contra la vulgar idea de que la mujer sólo sirve para las labores domésticas y que aquella que, obedeciendo tal vez a una fuerza irresistible, se aparta de esa vida pacífica y se lanza a las revueltas ondas de los tumultos del mundo, es una mujer digna de la execración general.
[I could also add that women like Madame Roland, whose intelligence encouraged and led the French Revolution during its days of glory; Madame Staël, as great a politician as she was a philosopher and a poet; Rosa Bonheur, painter of the loveliest scenes from nature to this day; George Sand, the profound novelist who is destined to share the glory of Balzac and Walter Scott; Saint Teresa de Jesús, that ardent spirit whose gaze penetrated the most intricate labyrinths of mysticism; Sappho, Catherine of Russia, Joan of Arc, María Teresa, and so many other women whose names history, not much less impartial than men, includes in its pages, have forever protested against the vulgar idea that women are only good for doing domestic chores and that the woman who, perhaps obeying an irresistible urge, leaves that sheltered life and throws herself into the pounding waves of the tumultuous world, deserves to be curse by all.]
No quiero decir que no, porque quizá la que esto escribe es de la misma opinión.
[I don’t want to disagree, because perhaps the woman writing this is of the same opinion.]
Pasados aquellos tiempos en que se discutía formalmente si la mujer tenía alma y si podía pensar -¿se escribieron acaso páginas más bellas y profundas, al frente de las obras de Rousseau que las de la autora de Lelia?- se nos permite ya optar a la corona de la inmortalidad, y se nos hace el regalo de creer que podemos escribir algunos libros, porque hoy, nuevos Lázaros, hemos recogido estas migajas de libertad al pie de la mesa del rico, que se llama siglo XIX.
[Now that the time has passed when there were formal discussions of whether woman had a soul and if she could think - were the pages that began the works of Rousseau any more beautiful and profound than those written by the author of Lelia? - we are permitted to opt for the crown of immortality, and we are given the gift of being allowed to believe we can write a few books, because today, new Lazaruses, we have dined on these crumbs of freedom beside the table of the rich man, who is the nineteenth century.].
Rosalía didn’t think she needed to put notes with the references to the writers, although Father Feijoo wasn’t likely to have readers from so far away. She wondered how much the Americans knew about Sand and Bonheur, or even about Joan of Arc. Did they know all of these women, for different reasons, had been cross-dressers? Maybe, but should she clarify that for them? Women had been wearing men’s clothing for centuries, for a whole range of reasons. They were all understandable, given the limitations on women’s freedom. What about women who weren’t from Europe? They must have done the same thing. Did they also disguise themselves as men in order to better observe society and participate in it? They must have, and there must be some now.
Women had been slaves for too long. Things needed to change. She was going to see to it. She had a plan. A good plan.
Rosalía closed her journal and locked it away. She was going out, to a café near the Toural. When she left, she took her largest market bag, which fortunately was also very dark and did not attract attention. The café had a modest amount of people sitting calmly or in heated argument. Nobody noticed when she slipped inside, followed the wall with its chestnut wainscoting around to the left and all the way to the back. There was a small space for customers to use when necessary and she slipped inside, her bag hanging from one hand.
The door to the tiny vestibule or whatever it was opened after about ten minutes, and a figure appeared. It was completely unlike the one that had entered, and the bag was tightly folded to resemble a briefcase or other, similar item. Nobody noticed this time, either, but sooner or later they would. Even if they hadn’t noticed how The Daughter of the Sea had ended, how three women coincided on a Galician beach. A Praia do Rostro.
[Translator’s note: A Praia do Rostro means ‘the beach with a face’ or ‘the beach that has a face’. It’s an untranslatable name, and its origin is unknown, but it is the site where the women in the novel earn a place in the world by assuming their true identity. See introduction, above.]
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Intricate planning.
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